May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dew-drop’s weight reclining;
I’ve seen an eye of lovelier blue,
More sweet through wat’ry lustre shining.
The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
No longer in my false love’s eye
Remain’d the tear of parting sorrow.
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I.
The mountain path the Palmer showed,By glen and streamlet winded still,Where stunted birches hid the rill.They might not choose the lowland road,For the Merse forayers were abroad,Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey,Had scarcely failed to bar their way.Oft on the trampling band, from crownOf some tall cliff, the deer looked down;On wing of…
Next morn the Baron climb’d the tower,
Encamp’d on Flodden edge:The white pavilions made a show,Like remnants of the winter snow,Along the dusky ridge.Long Marmion look’d:–at length his eyeUnusual movement might descryAmid the shifting lines:The Scottish host drawn out appears,For, flashing on the hedge of spearsThe eastern sunbeam shines.Their front now deepening, now extending;Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending,Now drawing back, and now…
The baron of Smaylho’me rose with day,
Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,That leads to Brotherstone.He went not with the bold Buccleuch,His banner broad to rear;He went not ‘gainst the English yew,To lift the Scottish spear.Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced,And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,Full ten pound…
Late, when the Autumn evening fell
The lake return’d, in chasten’d gleam,The purple cloud, the golden beam:Reflected in the crystal pool,Headland and bank lay fair and cool;The weather-tinted rock and tower,Each drooping tree, each fairy flower,So true, so soft, the mirror gave,As if there lay beneath the wave,Secure from trouble, toil, and care,A world than earthly world more fair.But distant winds…
When dark December glooms the day,
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…
The scenes are desert now, and bare,
When these waste glens with copse were lined,And peopled with the hart and hind.Yon thorn-perchance whose prickly spearsHave fenced him for three hundred years,While fell around his green compeers –Yon lonely thorn, would he could tellThe changes of his parent dell,Since he, so grey and stubborn now,Waved in each breeze a sapling bough:Would he could…