Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed, For fairer scene he ne’er surveyed. When sated with the martial show That peopled all the plain below, The wandering eye could o’er it go, And mark the distant city glow With gloomy splendour red; For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow, That round her sable turrets flow, The morning beams were shed, And tinged them with a lustre proud, Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. Such dusky grandeur clothed the height, Where the huge castle holds its state, And all the steep slope down, Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, Piled deep and massy, close and high, Mine own romantic town! But northward far, with purer blaze, On Ochil mountains fell the rays, And as each heathy top they kissed, It gleamed a purple amethyst. Yonder the shores of Fife you saw; Here Preston Bay and Berwick Law: And, broad between them rolled, The gallant Frith the eye might note, Whose islands on its bosom float, Like emeralds chased in gold. Fitz Eustace’ heart felt closely pent; As if to give his rapture vent, The spur he to his charger lent, And raised his bridle hand, And making demivolte in air, Cried, “Where’s the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land!” The Lindesay smiled his joy to see; Nor Marmion’s frown repressed his glee. XXXI. Thus while they looked, a flourish proud, Where mingled trump and clarion loud, And fife and kettle-drum, And sackbut deep, and psaltery, And war-pipe with discordant cry, And cymbal clattering to the sky, Making wild music bold and high, Did up the mountain come; The whilst the bells, with distant chime, Merrily tolled the hour of prime, And thus the Lindesay spoke: “Thus clamour still the war-notes when The King to mass his way has ta’en, Or to St. Katharine’s of Sienne, Or chapel of Saint Rocque. To you they speak of martial fame; But me remind of peaceful game, When blither was their cheer, Thrilling in Falkland woods the air, In signal none his steed should spare, But strive which foremost might repair To the downfall of the deer. XXXII.