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High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid,
Then loudly rung the trumpet call ;
And shook the Scottish shore;
And hid its turrets hoar;
END OF CANTO FIRST.
THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT, M. A.
Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. The scenes are desert now, and bare, Where flourished once a forest fair, When these waste glens with copse were lined, And peopled with the hart and hind. Yon thom-perchance whose prickly spears Have fenced him for three hundred years, While fell around his green compeers. Yon lonely thorn, would he could tell The changes of his parent dell, Since he, so gray and stubborn now, Waved in each breeze a sapling bough; Would he could tell how deep the shade, A thousand mingled branches made; How broad the shadows of the oak, How clung the rowan* to the rock, And through the foliage showed his head, With narrow leaves, and berries red; What pines on every mountain sprung, O’er every dell what birches hung,
in every breeze what aspens shook, What alders shaded every brook.
“ Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say,