Volume 99 — "SEPARATISTS."

"But DOUGLAS round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:— * * * * * 'The hand of DOUGLAS is his own, And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as MARMION clasp.'" * * * * *

"The hand of such as MARMION!" Ay! Great Singer of the knightly lay, Thy tale of Flodden field Is darkened by unknightly stain. That slackened arm and burdened brain Of him found low among the slain, Constrained at last to yield To a mere "base marauder's lance;" He, firm of front and cold of glance, The dark, the dauntless MARMION.— The days of chivalry are gone, Dispraisers of the present say, Yet men arm still for party fray As fierce as foray old; And mail is donned, and steel is drawn, And champions challenging at dawn Ere night lie still and cold. Two champions here 'midst loud applause, Have led the lists in a joint cause On many a tourney morn, Have fought to vanward in the field Full many an hour, and, sternly steeled, One banner forward borne. And now—ah, well, as DOUGLAS old On MARMION looked sternly cold, So looks this Chieftain grey On his old comrade, though the fight Is forward now, and many a knight Is arming for the fray. As "the demeanour changed and cold Of DOUGLAS fretted MARMION bold," Has this old greyhaired Chieftain's chill Fretted that man of icy will? Who knows—or cares to know? At least he "has to learn ere long That constant mind, and hate of wrong" Than steely pride are yet more strong; That shame can strike a blow At comradeship more fatal far Than any chance of fateful war When faction howled with Cerberus throat, When falsehood struck a felon stroke, When forgery did its worst To pull its hated quarry down, To dim, disarm, degrade, discrown. Against the array accurst That ancient chief made gallant head, Dismayed not, nor disquieted At rancour's rude assault. He shared opprobrium undeserved, But not for that had courage swerved, Or loyalty made default. But now? The hand that reared hath razed; And as old ANGUS stood amazed At WILTON's shameful tale, So fealty here must bend the brow, And faith, though sorely tried, till now Surviving, faint and fail; As DOUGLAS round him drew his cloak, So, saddened by unknightly stroke, The ancient chief must draw; Nor in mere pharisaic scorn, But in the name of faith foresworn And honour's broken law. "'Tis pity of him, too!" 'Twas so, The half-relenting ANGUS, low Spake in his snowy beard. "Bold can he speak, and fairly ride: I warrant him a warrior tried." A foeman to be feared, A leader to be trusted, seemed This dark, cold chief, and few had dreamed Of such strange severance. And any not ignoble eye In sorrow more than mockery Aside will gladly glance. 'Tis pity of it! Right or wrong, The Cause needs champions true as strong, And blameless as they're bold. "A sinful heart makes feeble hand," Cried MARMION, his "failing brand" Cursing with lips grown cold. Let vulgar venom triumph here, And hate, itself from shame not clear, Make haste to hurl the stone; A nobler foe will stand aside, And more in sorrow than in pride, Not hot to harry or deride, Like DOUGLAS in his halls abide, But keep his hand—his own!