The westland wind is husht and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye Bears those sweet hues that once it bore; Though Evening, with her richest dye, With listless look along the plain, I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the treeAre they still sweet as once they were, Or is the dreary change in me? Alas! the warp'd and broken board, How can it bear the painter's dye? To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby, or Eden's bowers, Were barren as this moorland hill. THEY parted, and alone he lay; Clare drew her from the sight away, Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, And half he murmur'd,-"Is there none, Of all my halls have nurst, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water from the spring, To slake my dying thirst?" O Woman! in our hours of ease, By the light quivering aspen made; Scarce were the piteous accents said, When, with the Baron's casque, the maid To the nigh streamlet ran: Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears- She stoop'd her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountains wide, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where water, clear as diamond-spark, Above, some half-worn letters say, Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink. and . pray. She fill'd the helm, and back she hied, A Monk supporting Marmion's head- SOON murkier clouds the Hall enfold, Smoth'ring and blindfold grows the fight- 'Mid cries, and clashing arms, there came New horrors on the tumult dire Doubtful, if chance had cast the brand, From the dim casements gusts of smoke. But ceas'd not yet, the Hall within, Till bursting lattices give proof The flames have caught the rafter'd roof. Th' alarm is caught-the drawbridge falls- |