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Fly from our country pastimes, fly,
Come, serene looks,
Clear as the crystal brooks,
Peace and a secure mind,
Here are no entrapping baits
Unless it be
The fond credulity
Nor envy, 'less among
Abused mortals ! did
Go, let the diving negro seek
We all pearls scorn
Save what the dewy morn
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass ;
Save what the yellow Ceres bears.
Blest silent groves, 0, may you be,
Forever, mirth's best nursery !
May pure contents
Forever pitch their tents
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these Two harmless lambs are butting one the other,
mountains ! Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother; And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, And wounds are never found,
Which we may every year
SIR HENRY WOTTON.
The rock An a out And,
rook how he untouched sleep but amay her soft broon tai
The stav of love now shines alore,
[The ruinous castle of Norham (anciently called Ubbanford) is situated on the southern bank of the Tweed, about six miles above Berwick, and where that river is still the boundary between Eng. land and Scotlandi. The extent of its ruins, as well as its historical importance, shows it to have been a place of magnificence as well as strength, Edward I. resided there when he was created umpire of the dispute concerning the Scottish succession. It was repeat. edly taken and retaken during the wars between England and Scotland, and, in iced, scarce any happened in which it had not a principal share. Norham Castle is situated on a steep bank. which overhangs the river. The ruins of the castle are al present considerable, as well as picturesque. They consist of a large shattered tower, with many vaults, and fragments of other edifices, Enclosed within an outward wall of great circuit. )
A horseman, darting from the crowd,
Before the dark array.
His bugle-horn he blew ;
For well the blast he knew ; And joyfully that knight did call To sewer, equire, and seneschal.
Day set on Norham's castled steep,
And Cheviot's mountains lone :
In yellow lustre shone.
Seemed forms of giant height;
In lines of dazzling light.
“Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,
Bring pasties of the doe,
And all our trumpets blow ;
Lord Marmion waits below." Then to the castle's lower ward
Sped forty yeomen tall, The iron-studded gates un barred, Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, The lofty palisade unsparred,
And let the drawbridge fall.
St. George's banner, broad and gay,
Less bright, and less, was flung ; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower,
So heavily it hung. The scouts had parted on their search,
The castle gates were barred ; Above the gloomy portal arch, Timing his footsteps to a march,
The warder kept his guard ; Low humming, as he paced along, Some ancient Border gathering-song.
Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode,
But more through toil than age;
A distant trampling sound he hears ; He looks abroad, and soon appears, O'er Horncliff hill, a plump of spears,
Beneath a pennon gay ;'