“Nor less,” he said, “when looking forth, I view yon empress of the North Sit on her hilly throne; Her palace’s imperial bowers, Her castle, proof to hostile powers, Her stately halls and holy towers— Nor less,” he said, “I moan, To think what woe mischance may bring, And how these merry bells may ring The death-dirge of our gallant king; Or with the ’larum call The burghers forth to watch and ward, ’Gainst Southern sack and fires to guard Dunedin’s leaguered wall. But not for my presaging thought, Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought! Lord Marmion, I say nay: God is the guider of the field, He breaks the champion’s spear and shield— But thou thyself shalt say, When joins yon host in deadly stowre, That England’s dames must weep in bower, Her monks the death-mass sing; For never saw’st thou such a power Led on by such a king.” And now, down winding to the plain, The barriers of the camp they gain, And there they made a stay. There stays the minstrel, till he fling His hand o’er every Border string, And fit his harp the pomp to sing, Of Scotland’s ancient court and king, In the succeeding lay. INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH. TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ. _Edinburgh_. WHEN dark December glooms the day, And takes our autumn joys away; When short and scant the sunbeam throws, Upon the weary waste of snows, A cold and profitless regard, Like patron on a needy bard, When silvan occupation’s done, And o’er the chimney rests the gun, And hang, in idle trophy, near, The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; When wiry terrier, rough and grim, And greyhound, with his length of limb, And pointer, now employed no more, Cumber our parlour’s narrow floor; When in his stall the impatient steed Is long condemned to rest and feed; When from our snow-encircled home, Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam, Since path is none, save that to bring The needful water from the spring; When wrinkled news-page, thrice conned o’er, Beguiles the dreary hour no more, And darkling politican, crossed Inveighs against the lingering post, And answering housewife sore complains Of carriers’ snow-impeded wains; When such the country cheer, I come, Well pleased, to seek our city home; For converse, and for books, to change The Forest’s melancholy range, And welcome, with renewed delight, The busy day and social night. Not here need my desponding rhyme Lament the ravages of time, As erst by Newark’s riven towers, And Ettrick stripped of forest bowers. True—Caledonia’s Queen is changed, Since on her dusky summit ranged, Within its steepy limits pent, By bulwark, line, and battlement, And flanking towers, and laky flood,