Tirante by name, yclep’d the White. 
At either’s feet a trusty squire,
Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,
Jealous, each other’s motions view’d, 175
And scarce suppress’d their ancient feud. 
The laverock whistled from the cloud;
The stream was lively, but not loud;
From the white thorn the May-flower shed
Its dewy fragrance round our head:  180
Not Ariel lived more merrily
Under the blossom’d bough, than we.

And blithesome nights, too, have been ours,
When Winter stript the summer’s bowers. 
Careless we heard, what now I hear, 185
The wild blast sighing deep and drear,
When fires were bright, and lamps beam’d gay,
And ladies tuned the lovely lay;
And he was held a laggard soul,
Who shunn’d to quaff the sparkling bowl. 190
Then he, whose absence we deplore,
Who breathes the gales of Devon’s shore,
The longer miss’d, bewail’d the more;
And thou, and I, and dear-loved R—­,
And one whose name I may not say,—­ 195
For not Mimosa’s tender tree
Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,—­
In merry chorus well combined,
With laughter drown’d the whistling wind. 
Mirth was within; and care without 200
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. 
Not but amid the buxom scene
Some grave discourse might intervene—­
Of the good horse that bore him best,
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest:  205
For, like mad Tom’s, our chiefest care,
Was horse to ride, and weapon wear. 
Such nights we’ve had; and, though the game
Of manhood be more sober tame,
And though the field-day, or the drill, 210
Seem less important now—­yet still
Such may we hope to share again. 
The sprightly thought inspires my strain! 
And mark, how, like a horseman true,
Lord Marmion’s march I thus renew. 215

CANTO FOURTH.

The camp.

Eustace, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the merry lark. 
The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion’s bugles blew,
And with their light and lively call, 5
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall. 
  Whistling they came, and free of heart,
    But soon their mood was changed;
  Complaint was heard on every part,
    Of something disarranged. 10
Some clamour’d loud for armour lost;
Some brawl’d and wrangled with the host;
‘By Becket’s bones,’ cried one, ’I fear,
That some false Scot has stolen my spear!’—­
Young Blount, Lord Marmion’s second squire, 15
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire;
Although the rated horse-boy sware,
Last night he dress’d him sleek and fair.