Such general superstition may Excuse for old Pitscottie say; 205 Whose gossip history has given My song the messenger from Heaven, That warn'd, in Lithgow, Scotland's King, Nor less the infernal summoning; May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, 210 Whose Demon fought in Gothic mail; May pardon plead for Fordun grave, Who told of Gifford's Goblin-Cave. But why such instances to you, Who, in an instant, can renew 215 Your treasured hoards of various lore, And furnish twenty thousand more? Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest, While gripple owners still refuse 220 To others what they cannot use; Give them the priest's whole century, They shall not spell you letters three; Their pleasure in the books the same The magpie takes in pilfer'd gem. 225 Thy volumes, open as thy heart, Delight, amusement, science, art, To every ear and eye impart; Yet who, of all who thus employ them, Can like the owner's self enjoy them?-- 230 But, hark! I hear the distant drum! The day of Flodden Field is come.-- Adieu, dear Heber! life and health, And store of literary wealth. CANTO SIXTH. THE BATTLE. While great events were on the gale, And each hour brought a varying tale, And the demeanour, changed and cold, Of Douglas, fretted Marmion bold, And, like the impatient steed of war, 5 He snuff'd the battle from afar; And hopes were none, that back again Herald should come from Terouenne, Where England's King in leaguer lay, Before decisive battle-day; 10 Whilst these things were, the mournful Clare Did in the Dame's devotions share: For the good Countess ceaseless pray'd To Heaven and Saints, her sons to aid. And, with short interval, did pass 15 From prayer to book, from book to mass, And all in high Baronial pride,-- A life both dull and dignified;-- Yet as Lord Marmion nothing press'd Upon her intervals of rest, 20 Dejected Clara well could bear The formal state, the lengthen'd prayer, Though dearest to her wounded heart The hours that she might spend apart. II.