Trust fate of arms once more ?

And is there not a humble glen,

Where we, content and poor,
Might build a cottage in the shade,

A shepherd thou, and I to aid

Thy task on dale and moor ?—

That reddening brow!-too well I know,

Not even thy Clare can peace bestow
While falsehood stains thy name :

Go then to fight! Clare bids thee go!
Clare can a warrior's feelings know,

And weep a warrior's shame ;

Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel,

Buckle the spurs upon thy heel,

And belt thee with thy brand of steel,

And send thee forth to fame!"

XI.

That night, upon the rocks and bay,

The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay,

And poured its silver light, and pure,

Through loop-hole, and through embrazure,

Upon Tantallon tower and hall ;

But chief where arched windows wide

Illuminate the chapel's pride,

The sober glances fall.

Much was there need; though, seamed with scars,

Two veterans of the Douglas' wars'

Though two grey priests were there,

And each a blazing torch held high,

You could not by their blaze descry

The chapel's carving fair.

Amid that dim and smoky light,

Chequering the silvery moon-shine bright,

A Bishop by the altar stood,

A noble lord of Douglas blood,

With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.

Yet shewed his meek and thoughtful eye

But little pride of prelacy;

More pleased that, in a barbarous age,

He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page,

1

PUBLISHED APRIL 1810, br. CASIBLE&C EDINBURGH

Than that beneath his rule he held

The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.

Beside him ancient Angus stood,

Doffed his furred gown, and sable hood:

O'er his huge form, and visage pale,
He wore a cap and shirt of mail;

And leaned his large and wrinkled hand
Upon the huge and sweeping brand,
Which wont, of yore, in battle fray,
His foeman's limbs to shred away,
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.
He seemed as, from the tombs around

Rising at judgment-day,

Some giant Douglas may be found

In all his old array ;

So pale his face, so huge his limb,

So old his arms, his look so grim.

XII.

Then at the altar Wilton kneels,

And Clare the spurs bound on his heels;