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 ^T^^: 
 
 
 LADY OF THE"!jAKE 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 XI.L<USXRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 WORTHINGTON CO., 747 BROADWAY 
 
 1888 
 
7^ r^o ^ 
 
 i3Y TRAl^Ki'j^iv 
 DEC 18^509 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Life of Sir Walter Scott. By William Chambers, LL.D. v 
 
 V The Lady of the Lake 1 
 
 /the Vision of Don Roderick 69 
 
 Marmion 87 
 
 (/ The Lay of the Last Minstrel ...... 167 
 
 . ROKEBY 311 
 
 I/The Bridal of Tuermain « 376 
 
LIFE OP 
 
 SIK WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 BT 
 
 "WILLIAM CHAMBEBS, LL.D. 
 
 SiE Walteb Scott, the fourth child of "Walter Scott, Writer to the 
 Signet in Edinburgh, was born in that city on the 15th of August, 1771. 
 He came of the old Border family, the Scotts of Harden, an offshoot 
 from the house of Buccleuch. Though he matured into a man of ro- 
 bust health, and of strength nearly herculean, as a child he was 
 feeble tnd sickly, and very early he was smitten with a lameness which 
 remained with him through life. His childhood was passed for the 
 most part at Sandyknowe, the farm of his grandfather, in Roxburgh- 
 shire. Here the foundations of his mind were laid; and his early 
 and delighted familiarity with the ballads and legends then floating 
 over all that part of the country, probably did more than any other 
 influence to determine the sphere and modes of his future literary 
 activity. Between the years 1779 and 1783 he attended the High 
 School of Edinburgh, where, despite occasional flashes of talent, he 
 shone considerably more on the playground as a bold, high-spirited 
 and indomitable little fellow, with an odd turn for story-telling, than 
 within he did as a student. In 1783 he went to the University, and 
 for three years he remained there, as it seemed, not greatly to his ad- 
 vantage. Afterwards, in the height of his fame, he was wont to speak 
 with deep regret of his neglect of his early opportunities. But though 
 leaving college but scantly furnished with the knowledge formally 
 taught there, in a desultory way of his own he had been hiving up 
 stores of valuable, though unassorted information. 
 
 From his earliest childhood onward, he was a ravenous and insatia- 
 ble reader; his memory was of extraordinary range and tenacity, and 
 
vi LIFE OF SIR WALTEB SCOTT. 
 
 of what he either read or observed he seems to have forgot almost 
 nothing. Of Latin he knew little; of Greek, less; but a serviceable, 
 if somewhat inexact knowledge of French, Italian, Spanish and Ger- 
 man he had acquired, and he continued to retain. On the whole, for 
 his special purposes, his education was perhaps as available as if he 
 had been the pride of all his preceptors. In 1786 he was articled ap- 
 prentice to his father, in whose office he worked as a clerk till 1792, 
 in which year he was called to the bar. In his profession he had fair 
 success, and in 1797 he was married to Charlotte Margaret Carpenter, 
 a lady of French birth and parentage. Towards the end of 1799, 
 through the interest of his friends, Lord Melville and the Duke of 
 Buccleuch, he was made sheriff-depute of Selkirkshire, an appoint- 
 ment which brought him £300 a year, with not very much to do for it. 
 Meantime, in a tentative and intermittent way, his leisure had been 
 occupied with literature, which more and more distinctly announced 
 itself as the main business of his life. 
 
 His* first publication, a translation of Biirger's ballads, Lenore and 
 The Wild Huntsman, was issued in 1796. In 1798 appeared his trans- 
 lation of Goethe's drama of Goetz von Derlichingen ; and in the year fol- 
 lowing he wrote the fine ballads, Glenfinlas, the Eve of N. John, and the 
 Grey Brother. The year 1802 gave to the world the first two volumes 
 of his Border Minstrelsy, which wore followed in 1803 by a third and 
 final one. This work, the fruit of those ''raids " — as he called them — 
 over the Border counties, in which he had been wont to spend his 
 vacations, was most favourably received by the public, and at once 
 won for him a prominent place among the literary men of the time. 
 In 1804 he issued an edition of the old poem. Sir Tristrem, admirably 
 edited and elucidated by valuable dissertations. Meantime, The Lay 
 of the Last Minstrel had been in progress, and by its publication in 
 1805, he became at a bound the most popidar author of his day. 
 
 During the next ten years, besides a mass of miscellaneous work, 
 the most important items of which were elaborate editions of Dryden 
 (1808) and of Swift (1814), including in either case a Life, he gave to 
 the world the poems Marmion (1808), The Laxly of the Lake (1810), The 
 Vision of Don Roderick (1811), Rokeby (1813), The Bridal of Triermain, 
 anonymously published (1813), The Lord of the Isles, and The Field of 
 Waterloo. 
 
 The enthusiasm with which the earlier of these works were re- 
 ceived somewhat began to abate as the series proceeded. The charm 
 of novelty was no longer felt; moreover, a distinct deterioration in 
 quality is not in the later poems to be denied; and in the bold out- 
 bursts of Byron, with his deeper vein of sentiment and concentrated 
 
LIFE OF SIB WALTER SCOTT. ^4 
 
 energy of passion, a formidable rival had appeared. All this Scott 
 distinctly noted, and after what he felt as the comparative failure of 
 The Lord of the Isles in 1815, with the trivial exception of the anony- 
 mous piece Harold the Dauntless (1817), he published no more poetry. 
 But already in Waverley, which appeared without his name in 1814, he 
 had achieved the first of a new and more splendid series of triumphs. 
 Gkaj Mannering, The Antiquary, The Black Duoarf, Old Mortality, Bob Boy, 
 and The Heart of Midlothian rapidly followed, and the " Great Unknown," 
 as he was called (whom yet every one cotdd very well guess to be no 
 other than Walter Scott), became the idol of the hour. The rest of the 
 famous series, known as the "Waverley Kovels, it would be idle to mention 
 "^n detail. From this time onward, f6r some years, he stood on such a 
 pinnacle of fame and brilliant social prosperity as no other British man 
 of letters has ever gone near to reach. 
 
 He resided chiefly at Abbotsford, the " romance in stone " he had built 
 himself in the Border country which he loved, and thither, as "Pilgrims 
 of his Genius," summer after summer repaired crowds of the noble and 
 the distinguished, to partake the princely hospitalities of a man whom 
 they found as delightful in the easy intercourse of his home, as before 
 they had found him in his writings . In 1820, to set a seal upon all this 
 distinction, a baronetcy was bestowed upon him as a special mark of the 
 royal favour. But the stately fabric of his fortunes, secure as it seemed, 
 was in secret built upon the shifting sands of commercial speculation, 
 and in the disastrous crisis of the year 1826 a huge ruin smote it. In 
 1805, his income, as calculated by his biographer, was something nigh 
 £1000 a year, irrespective of what literature might bring him ; a hand- 
 some competency, shortly by his appointment to a clerkship of the Court 
 of Session to have an increment at first of £800, subsequently of £1300. 
 But what was ample for all prosaic needs, seemed poor to his imagination 
 with its fond and glittering dreams. Already some such vision, as at 
 Abbotsford was afterwards realized, flitted before his mind's eye, and it 
 was the darling ambition of his heart to re-create and leave behind him, in 
 the founding of a family, some image of the olden glories which were the 
 life of his literary inspirations. 
 
 In the year above mentioned, lured by the prospect of profit, and with- 
 out the knowledge of his friends, he joined James Ballantyne, an old 
 schoolfellow, in the establishment of a large printing business in Edin- 
 burgh. To this, a few years afterwards, a publishing business was added, 
 under the nominal conduct of John Ballantyne, a brother of James; Scott, 
 in the new adventure, becoming, as before, a partner. Gradually the 
 affairs of the two firms became complicated with those of the great house 
 of Constable & Co., in the sudden colln-co of which Scott found himself 
 
viii LIFE OF STB WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 one forenoon a bankrupt, witli personal liabilities to the extent of some- 
 thing like £150,000; 
 
 ' In the reproof of chance 
 Lies the true proof of men' — 
 
 and now, in this challenge of adverse fate, his manhood and prond in- 
 tegrity were most nobly approved. With his creditors, composition wotdd 
 have been easy ; but this usual course he disdained. • ' God granting him 
 time and health, "he said, "he would owe no man a penny.' And 
 somewhat declined as he now was from the first vigour and elasticity of 
 his strength, he set himself by the labour of his pen to liquidate this 
 enormous debt. 
 
 Breaking up his establishment at Abbotsford, where the wife whom he 
 loved lay dying, he hired a lodging in Edinburgh, and there for some 
 years, with stern and unfaltering resolution, he toiled at his prodigious 
 task. The stream of novels flowed as formerly: a Ilistory of Napoleon, in 
 eight volumes, was undertaken and completed, with much other miscel- 
 laneous work; and within the space of two years, he had realized for his 
 creditors the amazing sum of nearly £40,030. A new and annotated edi- 
 tion of the novels was issued with immense success, and there seemed 
 every prospect that, within a reasonable period, he might again front the 
 world, as he had pledged himself to do, not owing to any man a penny. 
 In this hope he toiled on ; but the limits of endurance had been reached, 
 and the springs of the outworn brain broke in that stress of cruel and 
 long-continued effort. In 1830 he was smitten down with paralysis, from 
 which he never thoroughly rallied. It was hoped that the climate of 
 Italy might benefit him; and by the government of the day a frigate was 
 placed at his disposal in which to proceed thither. But in Italy he pined 
 for the home to which he returned only to die. 
 
 At Abbotsford, on the 2lBt September, 1832, he died, with his children 
 round him and the murmur of the Tweed in his ears. On the 26th, he 
 was buried beside his wife in the old Abbey of Dryburgh. 
 
THE 
 
 LADY OF THE LAKE: 
 
 A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 
 
 TO THE MOST NOBLE 
 
 JOHN JAMES, MARQUIS OF ABERCORN, 
 
 ETC., ETC., ETC., 
 
 THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BT 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 CANTO FmST. 
 
 The Chase. 
 
 Habip of the ITorth ! that mouldering 
 long hast hung 
 On the witch-elm that shades 
 Saint Fillan's spring, 
 And down t.;e fitful breeze thy num- 
 bers flung, 
 ^ill envious ivy did around thee 
 cling, 
 Muffling with verdant ringlet every 
 string, — 
 O minstrel Harp, still must thine 
 accents sleep V 
 T.Iid rustling leaves and fountains 
 murmuring, 
 ri'll miTst thy sweeter sounds 
 t'leir silence keep, 
 Kor Ijid a warrior smile, nor teach a 
 maid to weep ? 
 
 Kot thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 
 vVas thy voice mute amid the festal 
 
 crowd. 
 When lay of hopeless love, or glory 
 
 won, 
 
 Story. 
 
 Aroused the fearful, or stEfc^Tied the 
 proud. 
 At each according pause, was heard 
 aloud 
 Thine ardent symphony sublime 
 and high ! 
 Fair dames and crested chiefs atten- 
 tion bow'd ; 
 For still the burden of thy minstrelsy 
 "Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, 
 and Beauty's matchless eye. 
 
 O wake once more ! how rude soe'er 
 tho hand 
 That ventures o'er thy magic maze 
 to stray ; 
 O wake onco more ! though scarce 
 my skill command 
 Some feeble echoing of thine 
 earlier lay: 
 Though harsh and f int, and soon 
 to die away. 
 And all unwortliy of thy nobler 
 strain, 
 Yet if one heart throlj higher at its 
 sway, 
 The wizard note has not been 
 touch'd in vain. 
 Then silent be no more ! rnchant- 
 ress, wake an^ain ! 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 I. 
 
 The stag at eve had drank his fill, 
 Where danced the moon on Monan's 
 
 rill, 
 And deep his midnight lair had 
 
 made 
 In lone Glenartney's hazel shade ; 
 But, when the sun his beacon red 
 Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head, * 
 The»^ deep-mouth'd bloodhound's 
 
 heavy bay 
 Eesounded up the rocky way, 
 And faint, from farther distance 
 
 borne, 
 "Were heard the clanging hoof and 
 
 horn. 
 
 n. 
 
 As Chief, who hears his warder call, 
 *' To arms ! the foemen storm the 
 
 wall," 
 The cntler'd monarch of the waste 
 Sprung from his heathery couch in 
 
 hasto. 
 But, ere his fleet career he took, 
 The dew-drops from his flanks he 
 
 SJiook; 
 Like crested leader proud and high, 
 Tos3'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky; 
 A moment gazad adown the dale, 
 A moment snulT 'd the tainted gale, 
 A moment li::t£n' J to t!iG cry, 
 That tMcken'd as the chase djrew nigh ; 
 Then, as the headmost foes appear'd, 
 "With one brave bound the copse he 
 
 clear'd, 
 And, stretching forward free and far, 
 Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var. 
 
 in. 
 
 Yell'd on the view the opening pack; 
 
 Eoc^, glen, and cavern, paid them 
 back; 
 
 To many a mingled sound at once 
 
 The awaken'd mountain gave re- 
 sponse. 
 
 A hundred dogs bay'd deep and 
 strong, 
 
 Clatter'd a hundred steeds along, 
 
 Their peal the merry horns rung out, 
 
 * One of the Grampian chain of mountaiiia 
 at the head of the VaUe^ of Uae Garry, 
 
 A hundred voices join'd the shout; 
 "With hark and whoop and wild halloo. 
 No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. 
 Far from the tumult fled the roe, 
 Close in her covert cower'd the doe, 
 The falcon, from her cairn on high, 
 Cast on the rout a wondering eye, 
 Till far beyond her piercing ken 
 The hurricane had swept the glen. 
 Faint and more faint, its failing din 
 Eetum'd from cavern, cliff, and linn. 
 And silence settled, wide and still, 
 On the lone wood and mighty hill. 
 
 rv. 
 
 Less loud the sounds of sylvan war 
 Disturb'd the heights of TJam-Var, 
 And roused the cavern, where 'tis told, 
 A giant made his den of old; 
 For ere that steep ascent was won, 
 High in his pathway hung the sun, 
 And many a gallant, stay'd perforce, 
 \7as fain to breathe his faltering horse, 
 And of the trackers of the deer, 
 Scarce half the lessening pack was 
 
 near; 
 So shrewdly on the mountain side 
 Had the bold burst their mettle tried. 
 
 V. 
 
 The noble stag was pausing now. 
 Upon the mountain's southern brow, 
 Y/here broad cxtendad, far beneath, 
 The varied realms of fair Menteith. 
 Y/ith anxious eye he wander'd o'er 
 Mountain and meadow, moss and 
 
 moor, 
 And ponder'd refuge from his toil. 
 By far Lochard or Aberfoyle, 
 But nearer was the copsewood grey, 
 That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, 
 And mingled with the pine-trees blue 
 On the bold clilTs of Ben venue. 
 Fresh vigour with the hope return'd, 
 Y^ith flying foot the heath be spum'd, 
 Held westward with unwearied race, 
 And left behind the panting chase. 
 
 YI. 
 
 'Twere long to tell what steeds gave 
 
 o'er, 
 As swept the hunt through Cambus- 
 
 more; 
 
^COTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 "What reins were tighten'd in despair, 
 When rose Benledi's ridge in air;* 
 "Who flagg'd upon Bochastle's heath, 
 Who shun'd to stem the flooded 
 
 Teith.t— 
 For twice that day, from shore to 
 
 shore. 
 The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. 
 Few were the stragglers, following far, 
 That reach'd the lake of Venachar; 
 And when the BriggJ of Turk was won, 
 The headmost horseman rode«alone. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Alone, but with unbated zeal, 
 
 That horseman plied the scourge and 
 
 steel ; 
 For jaded now, and spent with toil, 
 Emboss'd with foam, and dark with 
 
 soil. 
 While every gasp with sobs he drew, 
 The labouring stag strain'd full in 
 
 view. 
 Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's 
 
 breed, 
 Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and 
 
 speed, 
 Fast on his flying traces came 
 And all but won that desperate game; 
 For, scarce a spear's length from his 
 
 haunch, 
 Vindictive toil'd the bloodhounds 
 
 staunch; 
 Nor nearer might the dogs attain. 
 Nor farther might the quarry strain. 
 Thus up the margin of the lake. 
 Between the precipice and brake, 
 O'er stock and rock their race they 
 
 take, 
 
 vni. 
 
 The Hunter rnark'd that mountain 
 
 high, 
 The lone lake's western boundary, 
 And deem'd the stag must turn to bay. 
 Where that huge rampart barr'd the 
 
 way; 
 
 * Eenledi is a li gh mountain on the north- 
 west of (Jaliender. Its name signifies the 
 mountain of God. 
 
 t A river Avliich gives its name to the terri- 
 tory of ^lenteith. 
 
 + Brigg, a bridge. 
 
 Already glorying in the prize, 
 Measured his antlers with his eyes; 
 For the death-woundand death-halloo, 
 Muster'd his breath, his whinyard 
 
 drew ; — 
 But thundering as he came prepared, 
 With ready arm and weapon bared. 
 The wily quarry shunn'd the shock, 
 And turn'd him from the opposing 
 
 rock; ^ 
 
 Then, dashing down a darksome glen, 
 Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken. 
 In the deep Trosach's wildest nook 
 His solitary refuge took. 
 There, while close couch'd, the thicket 
 
 shed 
 Cold dews and wild-flowers on his 
 
 head, 
 He heard the baffled dogs in vain 
 Rave through the hollow pass amain. 
 Chiding the rocks that yell'd again. 
 
 rs. 
 
 Close on the hounds the hunter came, 
 To cheer them on the vanish'd game; 
 But, stumbling in the rugged dell, 
 The gallant horse exhausted fell. 
 The impatient rider strove in vain 
 To rouse him with the spur and rein. 
 For the good steed, his labours o'er, 
 Stretch'd his stifif limbs, to rise no 
 
 more; 
 Then, touch'd with pity and remorse, 
 He sorrow'd o'er the expiring horse. 
 " I little thought, when first thy rein 
 I slack d upon the banks of Seine, 
 That Highland eagle e'er should feed 
 On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed! 
 Woe worth the chase, woe worth the 
 
 day, 
 That costs thy life, my gallant grey 1" 
 
 X. 
 
 Then through the dell his horn re- 
 sounds. 
 
 From vain pursuit to call the hounds. 
 
 Back limp'd, with slow and crippled 
 pace, 
 
 The sulky leaders of the chase; 
 
 Close to their master's sidetheypress 
 
 With drooping tail and humbled crest; 
 
 But still the dingle's hollow throat 
 
Tim LADY OF THE LAKE, 
 
 Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note. 
 The owlets started from their dream, 
 The eaglesanswered with theirscream, 
 Bound and around the sounds were 
 
 cast, 
 Till echo seem'd an answering blast; 
 And on the hunter hied his way, 
 To join some comrades of the day; 
 Yet often paused, so strange the road, 
 Sowondrouswerethe scenes it show'd, 
 
 XI. 
 
 The western waves of ebbing day 
 Roll'd o'er the glen their level way; 
 Each purple peak, each flinty spire. 
 Was bathed in floods of living fire. 
 But not a setting beam could glow 
 "Within the dark ravines below. 
 Where twined the path in shadow hid, 
 Eound many a rocky pyramid, 
 Shooting abruptly from the dell 
 Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle; 
 Bound many an insulated mass. 
 The native bulwarks of the pass. 
 Huge as the tower* which builders 
 
 vain 
 Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 
 The rocky summits, split and rent, 
 Form'd turret, dome, or battlement, 
 Cr seem'd fantastically set 
 With cupola or minaret, 
 Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd. 
 Or mosque of Eastern architect. 
 Nor were these earth-born castles 
 
 bare, 
 Nor lack'd they many a banner fair; 
 For, from their shiver'd brows dis- 
 
 play'd, 
 Far o'er the unfathomable glade, 
 All twinkling with the dewdrops 
 
 sheen, 
 The brier-rose fell in streamers green. 
 And creeping shrubs, of thousand 
 
 dy^, 
 Waved in the west-wind's summer 
 
 sighs. 
 
 xn. 
 
 Boon nature scatter' d, free and wild. 
 Each plant or flower, the mountain's 
 child, 
 
 * The Tower of Babel.— Genesis xi. 1—9. 
 
 Here eglantine embalm'd the air, 
 Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; 
 The primrose pale and violet flower, 
 Found in each cliff a narrow bower; 
 Fox-glove and night-shade, side by 
 
 side, 
 Emblems of punishment and pride, 
 Group 'd their dark hues with every 
 
 stain 
 The weather-beaten crags retain. 
 With bows that quaked at every 
 
 breath, 
 Grey birch and aspen wept beneath; 
 Aloft, the ash and warrior oak 
 Cast anchor in the rifted rock; 
 And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung 
 His shatter'd trvmk, and frequent 
 
 flung. 
 Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on 
 
 high. 
 His bows athwart the narrow' d sky. 
 Highest of all, where white peaks 
 
 glanced. 
 Where glist'ning streamers waved 
 
 and danced. 
 The wanderer's eye could barely view 
 The summer heaven's delicious blue; 
 So wondrous wild, the whole might 
 
 seem 
 The scenery of a fairy dream, 
 
 xm. 
 
 Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep 
 A narrow inlet, still and deep. 
 Affording scarce such breadth of 
 
 brim. 
 As served the wild duck's brood to 
 
 swim. 
 Lost for a space, through thickets 
 
 veering. 
 But broader when again appearing, 
 Tall rocks and tufted knolls their 
 
 face 
 Could on the dark-blue mirror trace; 
 And farther as the hunter stray'd, 
 Still broader sweeps its channels 
 
 made. 
 The shaggy mounds no longer stood, 
 Emerging from entangled wood. 
 But, wave-encircled, seem'd to float, 
 Like castle girdled with its moat; 
 Yet broader floods extending still 
 
SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Divide them from their parent hill, 
 lilleach, retiring, claims to be 
 An islet in an inland sea. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And now, to issue from the glen, 
 No pathway meets the wanderer's 
 
 ken. 
 Unless he climb, with footing nice, 
 A fair jDrojecting precipice. 
 , The broom's tough roots his ladder 
 
 made, 
 The hazel saplings lent their aid; 
 And thus an airy point he won, 
 Where, gleaming with the setting 
 
 sun. 
 One burnish'd sheet of living gold, 
 Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll'd, 
 In all her length far winding lay, 
 With promontory, creek, and bay, 
 A nd islands that, empurpled bright. 
 Floated amid the livelier light. 
 And mountains, that like giants 
 
 stand, 
 To sentinel enchanted land. 
 High on the south, hugp Benvenue 
 Down en the lake in masses threw 
 Crags, knolls and mounds, confused- 
 ly hurl'd, 
 The fragments of an earlier world; 
 A wildering forest feather'd o'er 
 His ruin'd sides and summit hoar, 
 While on the north, through middle 
 
 air, 
 Ben-an heaved high his forehead 
 
 bare. 
 
 XV. 
 
 From the steep promontory gazed 
 The stranger, raptured and amazed. 
 And, "Wliat a scene were here," he 
 
 cried, 
 "For princely pomp, or churchman's 
 
 pride ! 
 On this bold brow, a lordly tower; 
 In that soft vale, a lady's bower; 
 On yondor meadow, far away, 
 The turrets of a cloister grey; 
 How blithely might the bugle-horn 
 Chide, on the lake, the lingering 
 
 morn I 
 How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute 
 
 Chime, when the groves were still 
 
 and mute ! 
 And, when the midnight moon should 
 
 lave 
 Her forehead in the silver wave. 
 How solemn on the ear would come 
 The holy matins' distant hum. 
 While the deep peal's commanding 
 
 tone 
 Should wake, in yonder islet lone, 
 A sainted hermit from his cell. 
 To drop a bead with every knell — 
 And bugle, lute, and bell, and all, 
 Should each bewilder'd stranger call 
 To friendly feast, and lighted hall. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Blithe were it then to wander here ! 
 But now, — beshrew yon nimble 
 
 deer, — 
 Like that same hermit's, thin and 
 
 spare. 
 The copsG must give my evening 
 
 fare ; 
 Some mossy bank my couch must be. 
 Some rustling oak my canopy. 
 Yet pass wo that ; the war and chase 
 Give little choice of resting-place ; — 
 A summer night, in greenwood spent, 
 Were but to-morrow's merriment : 
 But hosts may in these wilds abound. 
 Such as are better miss'd than found ; 
 To meet with Highland plunderers 
 
 here, 
 Were worse than loss of steed or 
 
 deer. — 
 I am alone ; — my bugle strain 
 May call some straggler of the train ; 
 Or, fall the worse that may betide, 
 Ere now this falchion has been 
 
 tried." 
 
 xvn. 
 
 But scarce again his horn he wound. 
 When lo ! forth starting at the sound. 
 From iinderneath an aged oak, 
 That slanted from the islet rock, 
 A damsel guider of its way, 
 A little skiff shot to the bay. 
 That round the promontory steep 
 Led its deep line in graceful sweep» 
 Eddying in almost viewless wave, 
 The weeping willow-twig to lave. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 And kiss, with whispering sound and 
 
 slow, 
 The beach of pebbles bright as snow. 
 The boat had touch'd this silver 
 
 strand, 
 Just as the Hunter left his stand, 
 And stood conceal'd amid the brake, 
 To view this Lady of the Lake. 
 The maiden paused, as if again 
 She thought to catch the distant 
 
 strain. 
 With head up-raised, and look intent. 
 And eye and ear attentive bent, 
 And locks flung back, and lips apart. 
 Like monument of Grecian art, 
 Li listening mood, she seem'd to 
 
 stand, 
 The guardian Naiad of the strand, 
 
 xvin. 
 
 And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 
 A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 
 Of finer form, or lovelier face ! 
 What though the sun, with ardent 
 
 frown. 
 Had slightly tinged her cheek with 
 
 brown, — 
 The sportive toil, which, short and 
 
 light, 
 Had dyed her glowing hue so bright. 
 Served too in hastier swell to show 
 Short glimpses of a breast of snow : 
 What though no rule of courtly grace 
 To measured mood had train'd her 
 
 pace, — 
 A foot more light, a step more true, 
 Ne'er from the heath-tlower dash'd 
 
 the dew ; 
 E'en the slight hare-bell raised its 
 
 head, 
 ''ilastic from her airy tread : 
 \ /hat though upon her speech there 
 
 hung 
 The accents of the mountain tongue, 
 Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, 
 The listener held his breath to hear ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the 
 
 maid ; 
 Her satin snood,* her silken plaid, 
 
 * Snood, the fillet wora round the liair of 
 
 Her golden brooch, such birth be- 
 
 tray'd. 
 And seldom was a snood amid 
 Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, 
 Whose glossy black to shame might 
 
 bring 
 The plumage of the raven's wing ; 
 And seldom o'er a breast so fair, 
 Mantled a plaid with modest care, 
 And never brooch the folds com- 
 bined 
 Above a heart more good and kind. 
 Her kindness and her worth to spy. 
 You need but gaze on Ellen's eye ; 
 Not Katrine, in her mirror blue. 
 Gives back the shaggy banks more 
 
 true, 
 Than every free-born glance con- 
 
 fess'd 
 The guileless movements of her 
 
 breast ; 
 Whether joy danced in her dark eye. 
 Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh. 
 Or filial love was glowing there, 
 Or meek devotion pour'tl a prayer. 
 Or tale of injury call'd forth 
 The indignant spirit of the North. 
 One only passion unreveal'd. 
 With maiden pride the maid con- 
 ceal'd, 
 Yet not less purely felt the flame ; — 
 O need tell that passion's name ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 Impatient of the silent horn. 
 Now on the gale her voice was borne ; — 
 " Father!" she cried ; the rocks around 
 Loved to prolong the gentle sound. 
 Awhile she paused, no answer came, — 
 " Malcolm, was thine the blast? " the 
 
 name 
 Less resolutely utter'd fell. 
 The echoes could not catch the swell. 
 " A stranger I," the Huntsman said, 
 Advancing from the hazel shade. 
 The maid, alarmed, wi':h hasty oar, 
 Push'd her light shallop from the 
 
 shore. 
 And when a space was gain'd between. 
 Closer she drew her bosom's screen; 
 (So forth the startled swan would 
 
 swing, 
 
8 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 J(-: 
 
 So turn to prune his ruffled wing.) 
 Then safe, though llutter'd and 
 
 amazed, 
 She paused, and on the stranger gazed. 
 Not his the form, nor hia the eye, 
 That youthful maidens wont to fly. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 On his bold visage middle age 
 Had slightly prebs'd its signet sace 
 Yet had noo quench 'd the open truth 
 And fiery vehemence of youth ; 
 Forward and frolic gleo was t'-iere, 
 The will to do, the soul to dare, 
 The sparklinj glance, soon, blown to 
 
 fire, 
 Of hasty love, or headlong ire. 
 His limbs were cast in manly mould, 
 For hardy sports or contest bold; 
 And though in ijeaceful garb arrr^y'd, 
 And weaponless, except hli blade, 
 Eis stately mien aa v/cil iraplled 
 A h-'^h-born heart, a martial pride, 
 A3 ii! a Earon's crest ho v/oro, 
 And sheathed in armour trodo the 
 
 shore. 
 Sligh::-ng the petty need he show'd, 
 Ho told 01 his benighted road; 
 Ei3 ready speech llow'd fair and free, 
 In phraco of [gentlest courtecy; 
 Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture 
 
 bland, 
 Less used to sue than to command. 
 
 XXIL 
 
 A while the maid the stranger eyed, 
 And, reassured, ct Icngtxi replied, 
 That Highland halls were open s. Ill 
 To wildcr'd vranderers cf the hill. 
 "ITor think you unexpected como 
 To yon lone 'isle, our desert home; 
 Before the heath had lost the dew. 
 This morn, a couch was puU'd for you; 
 On yonder mountain's purple head 
 Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled. 
 And our broad nets have swept the 
 
 racro. 
 To furnish forth your evening 
 
 cheer." — 
 "ITow, by the rood, my lovely maid, 
 Your courtecy has crr'd," ho Gaid; 
 " ITo right have I to claim, misplaced, 
 
 The welcome of expected guest. 
 A wanderer, here by fortune tost, 
 My way, my friends, my courser lost, 
 I ne'er before, believe me, fair. 
 Have ever drawn your mountain air. 
 Till on this lake's romantic strand, 
 I lound a fay in fairy land !'^ — 
 
 xxin. 
 
 " I well believe," the maid replied, 
 As her light skiff approach'd the 
 
 side, — 
 " I well believe, that ne'er before 
 Your foot has trod Loch Latrine's 
 
 shore; 
 But yet, as far g3 yesternight, 
 Old Allan-bane foretold your plight, — 
 A gray-hair'd sire, v/hoso eye intent 
 \7a3 en tae vision'd future bent. 
 lie GiiW your steed, a dappled grey. 
 Lie dead beneath the birchen way; . 
 Paintod exact yo^r form and mien. 
 Your hunting suit of Lincoln green, 
 That tassell'd horn so gaily gilt, 
 That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, 
 That cap with heron plumage trim, 
 And yon two hounds so dark and grim. 
 -le bade that ail should leady bo, 
 2o grace a guest of fair degree ; 
 Jut light I held his prophecy. 
 And deem'd it was my father's horn, 
 \/hose echoes o'er the lake were 
 
 borne." 
 
 xxrv. 
 
 The stranger srailed : — " Gince to 
 
 your homo 
 A dsstined errant-knight I come. 
 Announced by prop-iet sooth and old, 
 Doom'd, doubtlesj, for achievement 
 
 bold, 
 ill lightly front each high emprise, 
 x-'or one kind glance of those bright 
 
 eyes. 
 Permit me, first, the task to guide 
 Your fairy frigate o'er the tide. " 
 The maid, wit-i smile suppress'd and 
 
 The toil unwonted saw him try ; 
 I?or F.eldom sure, ii e'er before. 
 Ilia noble hand had grasp'd an oar : 
 Yet with main strength his strokes 
 he drew, 
 
TEE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 And o'er the lake the shallop flew ; 
 With heads erect, and whimpering 
 
 cry, 
 The hounds behind their passage ply. 
 Nor frequent does tlio Lright oar 
 
 break 
 The dark'ning mirror of the lake, 
 Until the rocky isle they reach. 
 And moor their shallop on the Ijeaeh. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The stranger view'd the shore around, 
 'Twas ail so close with copsewood 
 
 bound, 
 Nor traclc nor pathway might de- 
 clare 
 That human foot frequented there, 
 Until the mountain-maiden show'd 
 A clambering unsuspected road, 
 That winded through the tangled 
 
 screen. 
 And open'd on a narrow green, 
 "Where weeping birch end willow 
 
 round 
 "With their long £bre3 swept the 
 
 ground. 
 Here, for retreat in dangerous hour, 
 Some chief had framed a rustic bower. 
 
 XZTI. 
 
 It was a lodge of ample size, 
 
 But strange of structure and device ; 
 
 Of such materials, a3 around 
 
 The workmsm's hand had readiest 
 
 found. 
 Lopp'd off their boughs, their hoar 
 
 trunks bared. 
 And by the hatchet rudely squared, 
 To give the walls their destined 
 
 height. 
 The sturdy oak and ash unite ; 
 Y/hile moss and clay and leaves com- 
 bined 
 To fence each crevice from the wind. 
 The lighter pine-trees, over-head. 
 Their slender length for rafters 
 
 spread, 
 And wither' d heath and rushes dry 
 Supplied a russet canopy. 
 Due westward, fronting to the green, 
 A rural portico was seen, 
 Aloft on native pillars borne, 
 Of mountain fir, with bark unshorn. 
 
 YtHiere Ellen's hand had taught to 
 
 twine 
 The ivy and Idasan vine. 
 The clematis, the favour'd flower 
 "Which boasts the name of virgin- 
 bower. 
 And every hardy plant could bear 
 Loch Katrine's keen and searching 
 
 air. 
 An instant in this porch she staid, 
 And gaily to the stranger said, 
 " On heaven and on thy lady call, 
 And enter the eu chanted hall !" 
 
 xx"vn. 
 
 "My hope, my heaven, my trust 
 
 must bo, 
 My gentle guide, in followin;^ thee." 
 lie cross'd the threshold — and a clang 
 Of angry steel that instant rang. 
 To his bold brow his spirit rush'd, 
 3ut soon for vain alarm he blush'd, 
 Y/hen on the floor he saw display'd. 
 Cause cf the din, a naked blade 
 Dropp'd from the sheath, that ceire- 
 
 less flung 
 Upon a stag's huge antlers swung ; 
 Tor all around, the walls to grace, 
 ilung trophies of the fight or chase : 
 A target there, a bugle here, 
 A battle-axe, a hunting-spear. 
 And broadswords, bows, and arrows 
 
 store, 
 "With the tusk'd trophies of the boar. 
 Hero grins the wolf as when he died. 
 And there the wild-cat's brindled 
 
 hide 
 The frontlet of the elk adorns. 
 Or mantles o'er the bison's horns ; 
 Pennons and flags defaced and 
 
 stain 'd. 
 That blackening streaks of blood re- 
 
 tain'd. 
 And dccr-skins, dappled, dim, and 
 
 white, 
 "With otter's fur and seal's unite, 
 In rude and uncouth tapestry ell. 
 To garnish forth the sylvan hall. 
 
 XXYHL 
 The wondering stranger round him • 
 
 gazed, 
 And next the fallen weapon raised: — 
 
lo 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WOBES. 
 
 Few were the axms whose sinewy 
 
 strength 
 SufSced to stretch it forth at length, 
 And as the brand he poised and 
 
 sway'd, 
 "I never knew but one," he said, 
 " Whose stalwart arm might brook to 
 
 wield 
 A blade like this in battle-field. 
 She sigh'd, then smiled and took the 
 
 word: 
 "You see the guardian champion's 
 
 sword : 
 As light it trembles in his hand, 
 As in my grasp a hazel wand ; 
 My sire's tall form might grace the 
 
 part 
 Of Ferragus or Ascabart; 
 But in the absent giant's hold 
 Are women now, and menials old. " 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The mistress of the mansion came, 
 Mature of age, a graceful dame; 
 ^Vhose easy step and stately port 
 Had well become a princely court. 
 To whom, though more than kindred 
 
 knew, 
 Young Ellen gave a mother's due. 
 I ieet welcome to her guest she made, 
 And every courteous rite was paid, 
 That hospitality could claim. 
 Though all unask'd his birth and 
 
 name. 
 Such then the reverence to a guest, 
 That fellest foe might join the feast. 
 And from his deadliest foeman's door 
 Unquestion'd turn, the banquet o'er. 
 At length his rank the stranger 
 
 names, 
 "The Knight of Snowdoun, James 
 
 Fitz-James ; 
 Lord of a barren heritage. 
 Which his brave sires, from age to 
 
 age, 
 Ey their good swords had held with 
 
 toil; 
 His siro had fallen in such turmoil. 
 And he, God wot, was forced to stand 
 Oft for his right with blade in hand. 
 This morning, with Lord Moray's 
 
 train, 
 
 He chased a stalwart stag in vain, 
 Outstripp'd his comrades, miss'd the 
 
 deer. 
 Lost his good steed, and wander'd 
 
 here. " 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Fain would the knight in turn require 
 The name and state of Ellen's sire. 
 Well show'd the elder lady's mien, 
 That courts and cities she had seen; 
 Ellen, though more her looks dis- 
 
 play'd 
 The simple grace of sylvan maid. 
 In speech and gesture, form and face, 
 Ghow'd she was come of gentle race. 
 'Twere strange, in ruder rank to find, 
 Such looks, such manners, and such 
 
 mind. 
 Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun 
 
 gave. 
 Dame Margaret heard with silence 
 
 grave ; 
 Or Eilen, innocently gay, 
 Turn'd all inquiry light away: — 
 "Weird women we! by dale and 
 
 down 
 We dwell, afar from tower and town. 
 V.^e stem the flood, we ride the blast, 
 On wandering knights our spells we 
 
 cast; 
 While viewless minstrels touch the 
 
 string, 
 'Tis thus our charmed rhymes we 
 
 sing." 
 She sung, and stiU a harp unseen 
 Fiil'd up the symphony between. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 So7ig. 
 
 "Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not 
 breaking; 
 Dream of battled fields no more, 
 
 Days of danger, nijhts of waking. 
 In our isle's enchanted hall, 
 
 Hands unseen thy couch are strew- 
 ing. 
 Fairy strains of music fall. 
 
 Every sense in slumber dewing. 
 Soldier, rect ! thy warfare o er, 
 Dream of fighting fields no more: 
 
TH^ LADY OF THE LAKH. 
 
 It 
 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not 
 
 breaking, 
 Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 
 
 " No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 
 Armour's clang, or war-steed 
 champing, 
 Trump nor pibroch summon here 
 Mustering clan, or squadron tramp- 
 ing. 
 Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 
 
 At the day-break from tlie fallow. 
 And the bittern sound his drum, 
 
 Booming from the sedgy shallow. 
 Euder sounds shall none be near. 
 Guards nor warders challenge here. 
 Here's no war-steed's neigh and 
 
 champing, 
 Shouting clans, or squadrons stamp- 
 ing." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 She paused — then, blushing, led the 
 
 To grace the stranger of the day. 
 Her mellow notes avvhiie prolong 
 The cadence of the flowing song, 
 Till to her lips in measured frame 
 Th*e minstrel verse spontaneous came. 
 
 Song continued. 
 " Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 
 While our slumbrous spells assail 
 
 ye, 
 
 Dreara not, with the rising sun, 
 Bugles here shjdl sound reveille. 
 
 Sleep ! the deer is in. his den; 
 
 deep! thy hounds are by theo lying; 
 
 Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen. 
 How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
 
 Huntsman, rest ! thy ciiase is done, 
 
 Think not of the rising sun, 
 
 For at dawning to assail ye. 
 
 Here no bugles sound reveille." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The hall was clear' d — the stranger's 
 
 bed 
 Was there of mountain heather 
 
 spread. 
 Where oft a hundred guests had lain, 
 And dream'd their forest sports again. 
 But vainly did the heath-flower shed 
 
 Its moorland fragrance round his 
 
 head; 
 Not Ellen's spell had lull'd to rest 
 The fever of his troubled breast. 
 In broken dreams the image rose 
 Of varied perils, pains, and woes: 
 His steed now flounders in the brake. 
 Now sinks his barge upon the lake ; 
 Now leader oi a broken host, 
 His standard falls, his honour's lost. 
 Then,— from my couch may heavenly 
 
 might 
 Chase that worst phantom of the 
 
 night !— 
 Again return'd the scenes of youth, 
 Of confldent undoubting truth; 
 Again his soul he interchanged 
 With friends whose hearts were long 
 
 estranged. 
 They come, in dim procession lei, 
 The cold, the faithless, and the dead; 
 As warm each hand, each brow as gay, 
 As if they parted yesterday. 
 And doubt distracts him at the view. 
 were his senses false or true ! 
 Dream'd he of death, or broken vow, 
 Or is it all a vision now ? 
 
 xxxrv. 
 
 At length, with Ellen in a grove 
 He seeja'd to walk, and speak of love; 
 She listen'd with a blush and sigh, 
 His suit was warm, his hopes were 
 
 high. 
 He sought her yielded hand to clasp. 
 And a cold gauntlet met his grasp : 
 The phantom's sex was changed and 
 
 gone, 
 Upon its head a helmet shone; 
 Glowly enlarged to giant size, 
 With darken' d cheek and threatening 
 
 eyes. 
 The grisly visage, stern and hoar, 
 To Eilen still a likeness bore. — 
 He woke, and panting with affrig':!:, 
 Recali'd the vision of the nig!:t. 
 The hearth's decaying brands v/ i i 
 
 red. 
 And deep and dusky lustre shed. 
 Half showing, half concealing, all 
 The uncouth trophies of the hall. 
 'Mid those the stranger fixed his eye, 
 
12 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Where tliafc liuge falcliion hung on 
 high, 
 
 And thouc;hts on thoughts, a count- 
 less throng, 
 
 Rush'J, cuatjinj countless thoughts 
 along, 
 
 Until, the giddy whirl to cure, 
 
 He rose, and sought the moonshine 
 pure. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The wild-rose, eglantine, and broom, 
 "Wasted around taeir ricii perfume: 
 The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm, 
 The aspens slept beneatj tuo calm; 
 The silver light, with quivering glance, 
 Play'd on th3 water'3 still expanse, — 
 Wild were tao h^art w-iose passions' 
 
 Bway 
 Could rage beneath the sober ray ! 
 He fait iti calm, taat warrior guest. 
 While thui Le communed With his 
 
 breast: — 
 " Why is it, at each turn I trace 
 Some memory of taat exiled race ! 
 Can I not mountain-maiden spy, 
 But she must bear the Douglas eye? 
 Can I not view a Highland brand, 
 But it must match the Douglas hand ? 
 Can I not frame a fever' d dream, 
 But still tlio Douglas is the theme? 
 I'll dream no more — by manly mind 
 Not even in sleep is w.U resign'd. 
 My midnight orisons said o'er, 
 1 11 turn to rest, and dream no more." 
 His midnight orisons ho told, 
 A prayer with every bead of gold, 
 Consign' d to heaven his cares and 
 
 woes. 
 And sunk in undisturb'd repose; 
 Until the heath-cock shrilly crew. 
 And morning dawn'd on Benvenue. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 The Island. 
 I. 
 At morn the black-cock trims his j etty 
 wing, 
 'Tis morning prompts the linnet's 
 blithest lay. 
 All Nature's children feel the matin 
 spring 
 
 Of life reviving, with reviving day ; 
 And wnile yon little bark glides down 
 the bay. 
 Wafting the stranger on his way 
 again, 
 r.Iorn's genial induence roused a min- 
 strel grey. 
 And sweetly o'er the lake was heard 
 thy strain, 
 riix'd with the sounding harp, O 
 white-hair' d Ailan-Bane ! 
 
 n. 
 
 S'ing. 
 
 ' ' Not faster yonder rowers' might 
 Flings from tneir oari tne spray, 
 
 Not faster yondoi* rippling bright, 
 
 x'iiat tracks tuj b-^aiiO^j d course in 
 light, 
 MeLs in the lakn away, 
 
 Than men from memory erase 
 
 rhe benefits oi' former days; 
 
 Then, stranger, go ! good speed the 
 while. 
 
 Nor thin-c a^ain of the lonely isle. 
 
 ••High place to thee in royal court, 
 
 liigh piaco in battle line, , 
 
 Good haw^ and hound for sylvan 
 
 sport, 
 Where beauty sees the brave resort. 
 
 The honour'd meed be thine ! 
 True be thy sword, tay Iriend sincere, 
 Thy lady constant, kind, and dear, 
 And lost in love and friendship's smile 
 Be memory of the lonely isle. 
 
 m. 
 
 Song continued. 
 
 " But if beneath yon southern sky 
 
 A plaided stranger roam. 
 Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh. 
 And sunken cneek and heavy eye. 
 
 Bine for his Highland home; 
 Then, warrior, then be thine to show 
 The care that soothes a wanderer's 
 
 woe; 
 Remember then thy hap ere while, 
 A stranger in the lonely islo. 
 
 " Cr if on life's uncertain main 
 
 Mishap shall mar thy sail; 
 If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, 
 
THE LAD T OF THE LAKE. 
 
 13 
 
 Woe, want, and exile thou sustain 
 Beneath the fickle p;ale ; 
 
 "Waste not a sigh on fortune changed, 
 
 On thankless courts, or friends es- 
 tranged, 
 
 But come where kindred worth shall 
 smile, 
 
 To greet thee in the lonely isle." 
 
 IV. 
 
 As died the sounds upon the tide, 
 The shallop reach'd the mainland side, 
 And ere his onward way he took, 
 The stranger cast a lingering look. 
 Where easily his eye might reach 
 The Harper on tho islet beach, 
 Eeclined against a blighted tree, 
 As wasted, grey, and worn as he. 
 To minstrel meditation given, 
 His reverend brow was raised to 
 
 heaven, 
 As from the rising sun to claim 
 A sparkle of inspiring liamo. 
 His hand, reclined upon the wire, 
 Seem'd watering the awakening fire ; 
 So still he sate, as those who wait 
 Till judgment speak the doom of 
 
 . fate; 
 So still, as if Ho breeze might dare 
 To lift one lock of hoary heir; 
 So still, as life itself were flod. 
 In the last sound his harp had sped. 
 
 V. 
 
 Upon a rock with lichens wild, 
 Beside him Eilen sate and smiled. — 
 Smiled she to see the stately drake 
 Lead forth his fleet upon the lake, 
 While her vex'd spaniel from the 
 
 beach, 
 Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach ? 
 Yet tell me, then, the maid who 
 
 knows. 
 Why deepen'd on her cheek the rose? — 
 Forgive, forgive. Fidelity ! 
 Perchance the maiden smiled to see 
 Yon parting lingerer wave adieu. 
 And stop and turn to wave anew; 
 And, lovely ladies, ere your iro 
 Condemn the heroine of my lyre, 
 Show me the fair would scorn to spy, 
 And prize such conquest of her eye ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 While yet he loiter'd on the spot, 
 It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not; 
 But when he turn'd him to the glade, 
 One courteous parting sign she made; 
 And after, oft the knight would say. 
 That not when prize of festal day 
 Was dealt him by the brightest fair, 
 Who e'er wore jewel in her hair, 
 So highly did his bosom swell. 
 As at that simple mute farewell. 
 Now with a trusty mountain-guide, 
 And his dark stag-hounds by his side, 
 He parts — the maid, unconscious still, 
 Watch'd him wind slowly round the 
 
 hill; 
 But when his stately form was hid. 
 The guardian in. her bosom chid — 
 "Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish 
 
 maid ! " 
 'Twas thus upbraiding conscience 
 
 said, — 
 "I'Tot so had Malcolm idly hung 
 On the smooth phrase of southern 
 
 tongue ; 
 ITot so had Malcolm strain 'd his eye. 
 Another step than thine to spy. 
 V/ake, Allan-Bane, " aloud she cried. 
 To the old Minstrel by her side, — 
 " Arouse thee from thy moody dream! 
 I'll give thy harp heroic theme. 
 And warm thee with a noble name; 
 1*0 ar forth the glory of the GrceracI" 
 ocarce from her lip the word hact 
 
 rush'd, 
 When deep the conscious maiden 
 
 blush" d; 
 Tor of hi3 clan, in hall and bower, 
 x'oung Malcolm Graeme was held the 
 
 flower. 
 
 vn. 
 
 The Minstrel waked his harp — three 
 
 times 
 Arose the well-known martial chimes, 
 And thrice their high heroic pride 
 xn melancholy murmurs died. 
 " Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid," 
 Clasping hi^ wither'd hands, ho said, 
 "Vainly thou bid'st me wake the 
 
 strain. 
 Though all unwont to bid in vain. 
 
a 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 Alas! than mine a mightier hand 
 Has tuned my harp, my strings has 
 
 spann'd I 
 I touch the chords of joy, but low 
 And mournful answer notes of woe, 
 And the proud march, which victors 
 
 tread, 
 Sinks in the wailing for the dead. 
 O well for me, if mine alone 
 That dirge's deep prophetic tone ! 
 If, as my tuneful father said. 
 This harp, which erst Saint Modan 
 
 sway'd. 
 Can thus its master's fate foretell, 
 Then welcome be the minstrel's knell! 
 
 vin. 
 
 *'But ah ! dear lady, thus it sigh'd 
 The eve thy sainted mother died; 
 And such the sounds which, while I 
 
 strove 
 To wake a lay of war or love. 
 Came marring all the festal mirth, 
 Appalling me who gave them birth. 
 And, disobedient to my call, 
 Wail'd loud through Bothwell's ban- 
 
 ner'd hall, 
 Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven, 
 "Were exiled from their native heav- 
 en. — 
 Oh ! if yet worse mishap and woe, 
 My master's house muct undergo, 
 Or aught but weal to Ellen fair. 
 Brood in these accents of despair, 
 No future bard, sad Harp ! shall fling 
 Triumph or rapture from thy string ; 
 One short, one final strain Ehall flow. 
 Fraught with unutterable woe, 
 Thenshiver'd shall thy fragments lie. 
 Thy master cast him down and die !" 
 
 IX. 
 
 Soothing she answer'd him, "Assuage, 
 Mine honour'd friend,the fears of age ; 
 All melodies to thee are known, 
 That harp has rung, or pipe has blown, 
 In Lowland vale or Highland glen, 
 From Tweed to Spey — what marvel, 
 
 then, 
 At times, unbidden notes should rise, 
 Confusedly bound in memory's ties, 
 Entangling, as they rush along, 
 
 The war-march with the funeral 
 
 song ? — 
 Small ground is now for boding fear; 
 Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. 
 I.Iy sire, in native virtue great. 
 Resigning lordship, lands, and state, 
 Not then to fortune more resign'd, 
 Than yonder oak might give the wind; 
 The graceful foliage storms may 
 
 reave, 
 The noble stem they cannot grieve. 
 For me,'' — she stopp'd, and, looking 
 
 round, 
 Pluck'd a blue hare-bell from the 
 
 ground, — 
 " For me, whose memory scarce con- 
 veys 
 An image of more splendid days. 
 This little flower, that loves the lea. 
 May well my simple emblem be ; 
 It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as 
 
 rose 
 That in the king's own garden grows; 
 And when I place it in my hair, 
 Allan, a bard is bound to swear 
 He ne'er saw coronet so fair." 
 Then playfully the chaplet wild 
 She wreath'd in her dark locks, and 
 
 smiled. 
 
 X. 
 
 Her smile, her speech, with winning 
 
 sway, 
 Wiled the old harper's mood away. 
 With such a look as hermits throw, 
 When angels stoop to soothe their 
 
 woe, 
 He gaz3d, till fond regret and pride 
 Thrill'd to a tear, then thus replied: 
 "Loveliest and best! thou little 
 
 know'st 
 The rank, the honours,thou hast lost I 
 O might I live to see thee grace. 
 In Scotland's court, thy birth-right 
 
 place. 
 To see my favourite's step advance, 
 The lightest in the courtly dance, 
 The cause of every gallant's sigh, 
 And leading star of every eye. 
 And theme of every minstrel's art, 
 The Lady of the Bleeding Heart !"*— 
 
 * The coguizance of the Douglas family. 
 
TJ3S LADY OP THE LAKE. 
 
 is 
 
 XI. 
 
 "Fair dreams are these," the maiden 
 
 cried, 
 (Light was her accent, yet she sigh'd ;) 
 "Yet is this mossy rock to me 
 "Worth splendid chair and canopy; 
 Nor woiiJd my footsteps spring more 
 
 gay 
 
 In courtly dance than blithe strath- 
 spey, 
 Nor half so pleased mine ear incline 
 To royal minstrel's lay as thine. 
 And then for suitors proud and high. 
 To bend before my conquering eye, — 
 Thou, flattering bard ! thyself wilt 
 
 say, 
 That grim Sir Boderick owns its sway. 
 The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's 
 
 pride. 
 The terror of Loch Lomond's side, 
 "Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay 
 A Lennox foray — for a day." — 
 
 XII. 
 
 The ancient bard his glee repress'd: 
 " 111 hast thou chosen theme for jest! 
 For who, through all this western 
 
 wild. 
 Named Black Sir Boderick e'er, and 
 
 smiled ! 
 In Holy-Bood a knight he slew ; 
 I saw, when back the dirk he drew, 
 Courtiers give place before the stride 
 Of the undaunted homicide ; 
 And since, though outlaw'd, hath his 
 
 hand 
 Full sternly kept his mountain land. 
 "Who else dared give — ah ! woe the 
 
 day. 
 That I such hated truth should say — 
 The Douglas, like a stricken deer, 
 Disown'd by every noble peer, 
 Even the rude refuge wo have here ? 
 Alas, this wild marauding Chief 
 Alone might hazard our relief, 
 And now thy maiden charms ex- 
 pand, 
 Looks for his guerdon in thy hand; 
 Full soon may dispensation sought, 
 To back his suit, from Bome be 
 
 brought. 
 Then, though an exile on the hill, 
 
 Thy father, as the Douglas, still 
 Be held in reverence and fear; 
 And though to Boderick thou'rt so 
 
 dear, 
 That thou mightst guide with silken 
 
 thread, 
 Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread; 
 Yet, loved maid, thy mirth refrain ! 
 Thy hand is on a lion's main." — 
 
 xm. 
 
 "Minstrel," the maid replied, and 
 
 high 
 Her father's soul glanced from her 
 
 eye, 
 "My debts to Boderick's house I 
 
 know: 
 All that a mother could bestow, 
 To Lady Margaret's care I owe. 
 Since first an orphan in the wild 
 She sorrow'd o'er her sister's child; 
 To her brave chieftain son, from ire 
 Of Scotland's king who shrouds my 
 
 sire, 
 A deeper, holier debt is owed ; 
 And, could I pay it with my blood, 
 Allan ! Sir Boderick should command 
 My blood, my life, — but not my hand. 
 Bather will Ellen Douglas dwell 
 A votaress in Maronnan's cell; 
 Bather through realms beyond the 
 
 sea, 
 Seeking the world's cold charity, 
 Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish 
 
 word, 
 And ne'er the name of Douglas 
 
 heard. 
 An outcast pilgrim will she rove, 
 Than wed the man she cannot love. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "Thou shakest, good friend, thy 
 
 tresses grey, — 
 That pleading look, what can it say 
 But what I own ? — I grant him brave. 
 But wild as Bracklinn's thundering 
 
 wave; 
 And generous — save vindictive mood. 
 Or jealous transport, chafe his blood: 
 I grant him true to friendly band. 
 As his claymore is to his hand; 
 But O ! that very blade of steel 
 
i6 
 
 8C0TT8 POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 More mercy for a foe -would feel: 
 I grant Lira liberal, to fling 
 Among his clan the wealth they bring, 
 "When back by lake and glen they 
 
 wind, 
 And in the Lowland leave behind, 
 "Where once some pleasant hamlet 
 
 stood, 
 A mass of ashes slaked with blood. 
 The hand that for my father fought, 
 I honour, as his daughter ought; 
 But can I clasp it reeking red, 
 From peasants slaughter'd in their 
 
 shed? 
 No ! wildly while his virtues gleam. 
 They make his passions darker seem, 
 And flash along his spirit hir;h. 
 Like lightning o'er tlio midnij^ht sky. 
 While yet a child, — and c-iildren 
 
 know, 
 Listinctive taught, the friend and 
 
 foe, — 
 I shudder'd at his brow of gloom, 
 His shadowy plaid, and sablo plume ; 
 A maiden grown, I i.l could bear 
 His haughty mien and lordly air: 
 But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim, 
 InEcrious mood, to Roderick's name, 
 I thrill with anguish ! or, if e'er 
 A Douglas knew the word, with fear. 
 To change such odious theme were 
 
 best, — 
 What think^st thou of our stranger 
 
 guest?" — 
 
 ^ XV. 
 
 "What think I of him? — woe the 
 
 while 
 That brought such wanderer to our 
 
 isle ! 
 Thy father's battle-brand, of yore 
 For line-man forged by fairy ioro. 
 What time he leagued, no longer foes, 
 His Border spears with Hotspur's 
 
 bows. 
 Did, eelf-unscabbarded, foreshow 
 Tlie foo'step of a secret foe. 
 Ii courtly spy hath harbour'd here. 
 What may we lor the Douglas fear ? 
 What for this island, dcem'd of old 
 Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold ? 
 If neither spy nor foe, I pray 
 What yet may jealous Roderick say ? 
 
 — Nay, wave not thy disdainful head, 
 Bethink thee of the discord dread 
 That kindled, when at Beltane game 
 Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm 
 
 Graeme; 
 Still, though thy sire the peace re- 
 
 new'd. 
 Smoulders in Roderick's breast the 
 
 feud; 
 Beware ! —But hark^ what sounds are 
 
 these ? 
 My dull ears catch no faltering breeze, 
 No weeping birch, nor aspens wake, 
 Nor breath is dimpling in the lake, 
 Gtill is the carina's ■' hoary beard, 
 Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard — 
 And hark again ! some pipe of war 
 Sends the bold pibroch from afar." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Far up the lengthen'd lake were spied 
 Four darxiening specks upon the tide, 
 That, slow enlarging on the view, 
 ^our mann'd and masted barges 
 
 grew, 
 And, bearing downwards from Glen- 
 gyle, 
 rjteer'd full upon the lonely isle; 
 The point of Brianchoil they pass'd. 
 And, to the windward as they cast. 
 Against the sun they gave to shine 
 Tlie bold Sir Roderick's banner'd 
 
 Fine. 
 Nearer and nearer as they bear, 
 Gpcar, pikes, aad axes flash in air. 
 Now might you see the tartans bravo. 
 And plaids and plumage dance and 
 
 wave : 
 Now see the bonnets sink and rise, 
 As his tough oar the rower plies; 
 See, flashing at each sturdy stroke. 
 The wave ascending in£o smoke; 
 See the proud pipers on the bow. 
 And mark the gaudy streamers flow 
 From their loud chantersf down, and 
 
 sweep 
 The f urrow'd bosom of the deep, 
 As, rus-iinj through the lake amain, 
 They plied the ancient Highland 
 strain. 
 
 * Cotton grass. 
 
 t The pipu of the bagpipe. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 X? 
 
 }:t:i. 
 
 Ever, as oa tacy bore, more loud 
 And louder ruivj the pibrocli proud. 
 At first tlio sound, by distance tame, 
 llellow'd alonj tae waters came, 
 And, lingering long by capo and bay, 
 Y/ail'd every harslier note away; 
 Then burstlnc^ bolder on the ear, 
 Tbeclaa'G shrill Gathering they could 
 
 hear; 
 Those thrilling sounds, that call tho 
 
 might 
 Of old Cbn-Alpinc to tho fi^ht. 
 Thicli beat tho rapid notca, C3 when 
 The musterlnj hundreds shalzo tho 
 
 gkn. 
 And, hurrying at tho signal dread, 
 The battcr'd earth returns their 
 
 tread. 
 Then i^rcludo light, of livelier tone, 
 Express'd their merry marching on, 
 Ero peal of closing battle rose, 
 With mingled outcry, shriehs, and 
 
 blows; 
 And mimic din of stroho and ward, 
 As broad sword upon target jarr'd; 
 And groaning pause, cr3 yet again, 
 Condensed, tho battle ych'd amain; 
 The rapid charge, the rallying shout, 
 Eotrcat borno headlong into rout. 
 And bursts of triumph, to declare 
 Clan- Alpine's conquest — all were 
 
 there. 
 ' Nor ended thus tho strain ; but clow, 
 Sunlr in a moan prclong'd and low, 
 And changed tho conquering clarion 
 
 swell, 
 Tor wild lament o'er those that foil. 
 
 xviir. 
 
 The war-pipes ceased; but lahe and 
 
 hill 
 ^7ero bucy with their echoes still; 
 And, when they slept, a vocal strain 
 Bada their Loarso chorus walie again, 
 TThile loud a hundred clansmen 
 
 raise 
 Their voices in their Chieftain's 
 
 praise. 
 Each boatman, bending to his oar, 
 "N7ith measured ewocp tho burden 
 
 bore, 
 
 In such wild cadence, as tho breeze 
 Makes through December's leaHess 
 
 trees. 
 The chorus first could Allan know, 
 "noderick Vich Alpine, ho ! iro !" 
 And near, and nearer as they row'd. 
 Distinct the martial ditty llow'd. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Boat Song. 
 
 Hail to the Chief who in triumph ad- 
 vances ! 
 Ilonour'd and bless'd be the ever- 
 green Pino ! 
 Long may tho tree, in his banner 
 that glances. 
 Flourish, tho shelter and grace of 
 our line ! 
 
 Ileaven send it happy dew. 
 Earth lend it sap anew, 
 Gaylyto bourgeon, and broadly to 
 grow,^ 
 
 ^^hllo every Ilighland glen 
 Gonds our chout back agen, 
 "Eodorigh Vich Alpino dhu, ho! 
 ieroe !" 
 
 Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by 
 tho fountain, 
 Lloomlng at Leltanc, in winter to 
 fade; 
 \7hcn tho whirlwind has stripp'd 
 every loaf on tho mountain, 
 Tho mora shall Clan-Alpina exult 
 in her shade. 
 
 lloor'd in the rirted rock. 
 Proof to the tempest's shock, 
 Firmer ho roots him tho ruaer it 
 blow; 
 
 llontcith and Ereadalbane, 
 
 then. 
 Echo his praise agen, 
 " Iloderigh Vich Alpino dhu, ho! 
 ieroe !" 
 
 XX. 
 
 Proudly our pibroch* has thrill'd in 
 Glen 1 ruin. 
 And Dannochar's groans to our slo- 
 ganf replied; 
 
 * Bajrpipo air belonging' to a clan. 
 t Slogan, a war-cry. 
 
i8 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WOUKS. 
 
 Glen Luss and Boss-dhu, they are 
 smoking in ruin, 
 And the best of Loch Iiomond lie 
 dead on her side. 
 Widow and Saxon maid 
 Long shall lament our raid, 
 Think of Clan- Alpine with fear and 
 with woe; 
 
 Lenox and Leven-glen 
 Bhake when they hear agen, 
 ' Eoderigh Yich Alpine dhu, ho ! 
 ieroe !" 
 
 Bow, vassals, row, for the pride of 
 ■ the Highlands ! 
 
 Stretch to your oars, for the ever- 
 green Pine ! 
 ! that the rose-bud that graces yon 
 islands, 
 "Were wreathed in a garland around 
 him to twine ! 
 
 O that some seedling gem, 
 Worthy such noble stem, 
 Honour'd and bless'd in their 
 shadow might grow ! 
 Loud should Clan-Alpine then 
 Eing from the deepmost glen, 
 "Eoderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! 
 ieroe!" 
 
 XXI. 
 
 With all her joyful female band, 
 Had Lady Margaretsought the strand. 
 Loose on the breeze their tresses flew, 
 Andhi^-h their snowyarmsthey threw, 
 As echoing back with shrill acclaim, 
 And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name ; 
 While, prompt to please, with moth- 
 er's art, 
 The darling passion of his heart, 
 The Dame call'd Ellen to the strand, 
 To greet her Idnsnian ere he land: 
 " Come,loiterer,come ! aDouglasthou, 
 And shun to wreathe a victor'sbrow?"— 
 Eeluctantly and slow, the maid 
 The unwelcome summoning obey'd, 
 And, when a distant bugle run^. 
 In the mid-path aside she sprung:— 
 " List, Allan-Bane ! From mainland 
 
 cast, 
 I hear my father's signal blast. 
 Be ours," she cried, '•tlie skiff to 
 guide, 
 
 And waft him from the mountain 
 
 side." 
 Then, like a sunbeam, swift and 
 
 bright, 
 She darted to her shallop light, 
 And, eagerly while Boderick scann'd, 
 For her dear form, his mother's band, 
 The islet far behind her lay, 
 And she had landed in the bay. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Some feelings are to mortals given. 
 With less of earth in them than 
 
 heaven : 
 And if there be a human tear 
 From passion's dross refined and 
 
 clear, 
 A tear so limpid and so meek. 
 It would not stain an angel's cheek, 
 'Tis that which pious fathers shed 
 Upon a duteous daughter's head ! 
 And as the Douglas to his breast 
 His darling Ellen closely press'd. 
 Such holy drops her tresses steep'd, 
 Though'twas a hero's eye that weep'd, 
 Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue 
 Her filial welcomes crowded hung, 
 Mark'd she,that f ear(affection's proof) 
 Still held a graceful youth aloof ; 
 No ! not till Douglas named his name. 
 Although the youth was Malcolm 
 
 Graeme. 
 
 xxin. 
 
 Allan, with wistful look, the while, 
 Mark'd Boderick landing on the 
 
 isle ; 
 Ilis master piteously he eyed, 
 Then gazed upon the chieftain's 
 
 pride. 
 Then dash'd, with hasty hand, away 
 From his dimm'd eye the gathering 
 
 spray ; 
 And Douglas, as his hand he laid 
 On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said, 
 " Camt thou, young friend, no mean- 
 ing spy 
 In my poor follower's glistening eye? 
 I'll tell thee :— he recalls the day, 
 When in my praise he led the lay 
 O'er the arch'd gate of Bothwell 
 proiid. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 19, 
 
 While many a minstrel answer'd 
 
 loud, 
 When Percy's Norman pennon, won 
 In bloody field, before me shone, 
 And twice ten knights, the least a 
 
 name 
 As mighty as yon Chief may claim. 
 Gracing my pomp, behind me came. 
 Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud 
 Was I of all that marshall'd crowd. 
 Though the waned crescent own'd 
 
 my might, 
 And in my train troop'd lord and 
 
 knight. 
 Though Blantyre hymn'd her holiest 
 
 lays, 
 And Bothwell's bards flung back my 
 
 praise. 
 As when this old man's silent tear. 
 And this poor maid's affection dear, 
 A welcome give more kind and true, 
 Than aught my better fortunes knew. 
 Forgive, my friend, a father's boast, 
 1 it out-beggars all I lost I" 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Delightful praise! Like summer rose. 
 That brighter in the dew-drop glows, 
 The bashful maiden's cheek appear' d. 
 For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm 
 
 heard. 
 The flush of shame-faced joy to 
 
 hide, 
 The hounds, the hawk, her cares 
 
 divide ; 
 The loved caresses of the maid 
 The dogs with crouch and whimper 
 
 paid ; 
 And, at her whistle, on her hand 
 The falcon took her favourite stand, 
 Closed his dark wing., relax'd his eye. 
 Nor, though unhooded, sought to fly. 
 And, trust, while in such guise she 
 
 stood, 
 Like fabled Goddess of the wood, 
 That if a father's partial thought 
 O'erweigh'd her worth and beauty 
 
 aught, 
 Well might the lover's judgment fail 
 To balance with a juster scale ; 
 For with each secret glance he stole. 
 The fond enthusiast sent his soul. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Of stature tall, and slender frame. 
 But firmly knit, was Malcolm Grgeme. 
 The belted plaid and tartan hose 
 Did ne'er more graceful limbs dis- 
 close ; 
 His flaxen hair of sunny hue, 
 Curl'd closely round his bonnet blue. 
 Train'd to the chase, his eagle eye 
 The ptarmigan in snow could spy : 
 Each pass, by mountain, lake, and 
 
 heath. 
 He bnew, through Lennox and Men- 
 
 teith ; 
 Vain was the bound of dark-brown 
 
 doe, 
 When Malcolm bent his soundin-^ 
 
 bow, 
 And scarce that doe, though wing'd 
 
 with fear, 
 Outstripp'd in speed the mountain- 
 eer: 
 
 Eight up Ben-Lomondcouldhepress, 
 And not a sob his toil confess. 
 His form accorded with a mind 
 Lively and ardent, frank and kind; 
 A blither heart, till Ellen came. 
 Did never love nor sorrow tame; 
 It danced as lightsome in his breast, 
 As play'd the feather on his crest. 
 Yet friends, who nearest knew the 
 
 youth. 
 His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth, 
 And bards, who saw his features bold. 
 When kindled by the tales of old. 
 Said, were that youth to manhood 
 
 grown. 
 Not long should Roderick Dhu's 
 
 renown 
 Be foremost voiced by mountainf ame, 
 But quail to that of Malcolm Grasme. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Now back they wend their watery 
 
 way, 
 And, •' O my sire !" did EUen say, 
 "Why urge thy chase so far astray? 
 And why so late retum'd? And 
 
 why—" 
 The rest was in her speaking eye. 
 ' * My child, the chase I follow far, 
 'Tis mimicry of noble war; 
 
23 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 I 
 
 And withL that gallant pastime reft 
 Were all of Douglas I have left. 
 I met young Malcolm as I stray'd, 
 Far eastward, in Glenfinlas' shade, 
 Nor stray 'd I safe; for, all around, 
 Hunters and horsemen scour'd the 
 
 ground. 
 This youth, though still a royal ward, 
 EisK'd life and land to be my guard, 
 And through the passes of the wood, 
 Guided my steps, not unpursu6d; 
 And Roderick shall his welcome 
 
 make, 
 Despite old spleen, for Douglas' sake. 
 Then must he seek 8trath-Endrick 
 
 glen, 
 Nor peril aught for me agen." 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 SirRoderick, who to meet them came, 
 Redden'd at sight of Malcolm Graeme, 
 Yet, not in action, word, or eye, 
 Fail'd aught in hospitality. 
 In talk and sport they wiled away 
 The morning of that summer day; 
 But at hip;h noon a courier light 
 Held secret parley with the knight, 
 Whoso moody aspect soon declared. 
 That evil wero the news he heard. 
 Deep thought seem'd toiling in his 
 
 head; 
 Yet was the evening banquet made. 
 Ere he assembled round the flame, 
 His mother, Douglas, and the Graeme, 
 And Ellen, too; then cast around 
 His eyes, then fix'd them on the 
 
 ground. 
 As studying phrase that might avail 
 Best to convey unpleasant tale. 
 Long with his dagger's hilt he play'd. 
 Then raised his haughty brow, and 
 
 said: — 
 
 xxvni. 
 
 •* Short be my speech; — nor time af- 
 fords, 
 Nor my plain temper, glozing words. 
 Kinsman and father, — if such name 
 Douglas vouchsafe to Roderick's 
 
 claim ; 
 Mine honour'dmother ;— Ellen — why, 
 My co\Jsin, turn away thin© eye? — 
 
 And Graeme; in whom I hope to know 
 Full soon a noble friend or foe, 
 When age shall give thee thy cam- 
 man d, 
 And leading in thy native land, — 
 Listall ! — 1 he King's vindictive pride 
 Boasts to have tamed the Border-side, 
 Where chiefs, with hound and hawk 
 
 who came 
 To ' share their monarch's sylvan 
 
 game. 
 Themselves in bloody toils were 
 
 snared; 
 And when the banquet they prepared, 
 An 1 wide their loyal portals flung, 
 O'er their own gateway struggling 
 
 hung. 
 Loud cries their blood from Meggat's 
 
 mead. 
 From Yarrow braes, and banks of 
 
 Tweed, 
 Where the lone streams of Ettrio 
 
 glide, 
 And from the silver Teviot's side; 
 The dales, where martial clans did 
 
 ride, 
 Are now one sheep-walk, waste and 
 
 wide. 
 This tyrant of the Scottish throne, 
 So faithless and so ruthless known, 
 Now hither comes, his end the same, 
 The same pretext of sylvan game. 
 What grace for Highland Chiefs, judge 
 
 ye 
 
 By fate of Border chivalry. 
 
 Yet more ; amid Glenfinlas green, 
 
 Douglas, thy stately form was seen. 
 
 This by espial sure I know; 
 
 Your counsel in the streightl show." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Ellen and Margaret fearfully 
 Sought comfort in each other's eye, 
 Then turn'd their ghastly look, each 
 
 one, 
 This to her sire — that to her son. 
 The hasty colour went and came 
 In the bold cheek of Malcolm Graeme; 
 But from his glance it well appear'd, 
 'Twas but for Ellen that he fear'd; 
 While, sorrowful, but undismay'd, 
 The Douglas thus his counsel said:— 
 
TTIE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 21 
 
 " Brave Roderick, though the temp- 
 est roar, 
 It may but thunder and pass o'er; 
 Nor will 1 here remain an hour, 
 To draw the hghtning on tay bower; 
 !For w/il tjou knoY/ 8t, at taia grey 
 
 hejL.l 
 The royal holt were fiercest sped. 
 Por thee, who, at tay King's com- 
 mand, 
 Canst aid hiia with a gallant band, 
 Submission, homage, humbled pride, 
 Shall turn the Monarch's wrath aside. 
 l^oor remnants ol the Bleeding Heart, 
 Ellen an 1 1 will seek, apart. 
 The refuge of some forest cell, 
 There, h^e tlio hunted quarry, dwell, 
 Till on the mountain and the moor. 
 The stem pursuit be pass'd and 
 o'er."- 
 
 XXX. 
 
 "Ko, by mine honour," Hoderick 
 
 said, 
 "So help mc, heaven, and my good 
 
 bladj I 
 No, never ! Elastel bo yon Pine, 
 jiy fathers' ancient crest and mine, 
 ■i from its shade in danger part 
 The lineage of the Bleeding Heart ! 
 xlear my blunt speech: Grant me 
 
 this maid 
 '"o v,'ife, thy counsel to mine aid; 
 ^ J Douglas, ioagued with Eoderick 
 
 Dhu, 
 T7ill friends and allies flock enow; 
 Like causo of doubt, distrust, and 
 
 grief, 
 "Will bind to us each "Western Chief. 
 Av hen the loud pipes my bridal tell, 
 The Links of i'orth shall hear tiie 
 
 knell. 
 The guards shall start in Stirling's 
 
 porch ; 
 And, when I light the nuptial torch, 
 A thousand viiiages in flames, 
 Shall , scare the siiimbera of King 
 
 James ! 
 — Nay, Ellen, blench not thus away, 
 And, mother, cease these signs, I 
 
 pray; 
 I meant not all my heart might say. — 
 
 Small need of inroad, or of fight, 
 When tile sage Douglas may unite 
 Each mountain cian m irien iiy band, 
 I o guard tne passe-3 oi t leir 1 md, 
 Till tae loil'd kinj, from pathless 
 
 glen, 
 ohall bootless turn him home agen." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 There are who have, at midnight hour, 
 In slumber scaled a diz^y tower, 
 And, on the vergj that beetled o'er 
 xhe ocean-tide'ij incessant roar, 
 Uream'd calmly out their dangerous • 
 
 dream. 
 Till waken'd by the morning beam ; 
 Y/hen, dazzled by the eastern giow, 
 Such startler cast hi;i glance below, 
 And saw unmeasure d depth around. 
 And heard unintermitted sound. 
 And thought the battled fence so frail, 
 It waved like cobweb in the gale; — 
 Amid his senses' giddy wheel, 
 i)id he not desperate impulse feel, 
 ileadlong to plunge himself below, 
 *ind meet the worst his fears fore- 
 show ? — 
 Thus, Ellen, dizzy and astound, 
 As sudden ruin yawn'd around, 
 i3y crossing terrors wildly toss'd, 
 S;ill for the Douglas fearing most, 
 Could scarce tae desperate thought 
 
 withstand 
 To buy his safety with her hand. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 Such purpose dread could Malcolm 
 
 spy 
 
 In Ellen's quivering lip and eye. 
 And eager rose to speak — but ere 
 His tongue could hurry forth his fear, 
 iiad Douglas mark'd the hectic strife, 
 where death seemed combating with 
 
 life; 
 For to her cheek, in feverish flood. 
 Que initani riisiid the throobing 
 
 bi.v>od. 
 
 Then ebbing baci:, with sudden 
 
 sway. 
 Left its domain as wan as clay. 
 "Koderick, enough! enough I" lie 
 
 cried, 
 
22 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 " My daughter cannot be thy bride; 
 Not that the blush to wooer de r, 
 Nor paleness that of maiden fear. 
 It may not bo — forgive her, Chief, 
 Nor hazard aught for our relief. 
 Against his sovereign, Douglas ne'er 
 Will level a rebellious spear. 
 'Twas I that taught his youthful 
 
 hand 
 To rein a steed and wield a brand; 
 I see him yet, the princely boy I 
 Not Elle: . more my pride and joy; 
 I love him still, despite my wronr;.^. 
 By hasty wrath, and slanderous 
 
 tongues. 
 O seek the grace you well may find* 
 Without a cause to mine combined." 
 
 xxxin. 
 
 Twice through the hall the Chieftain 
 
 strode ; 
 The waving of his tartans broad, 
 And darken'd brow, where wounded 
 
 pride 
 With ire and disappointment vied, 
 Seem'd, by the torch's gloomy light. 
 Like the ill Demon of tlie night. 
 Stooping his pinion's shadowy sway 
 Upon the nighted pilgrim's way : 
 But, unrequited Love ! thy dart 
 Plunged deepest its cnvenom'd 
 
 smart, 
 And Roderick, "with thine anguish 
 
 stung. 
 At length the hand of Douglas wrung, 
 While eyes, thai: mock'd at tears be- 
 fore. 
 With bitter drops were running o'er. 
 The death-pangs of long-chcrish'd 
 
 hope 
 Scarce in that ariple breast had scope, 
 But, struggling with his spirit proud, 
 Convulsi\re Iieaved its chequer' d 
 
 shroud. 
 While every sob— so mute were all- 
 Was heard distinctly through the 
 
 hall. 
 The son's despair, the mother's look, 
 111 might the gentle Ellen brook; 
 She rose, and to her side there 
 
 came, 
 To aid her parting steps, the Graeme. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Then Roderick from the Douglas 
 
 broke— 
 As flashes flame through sable smoke, 
 Kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and 
 
 low, 
 To one broad blaze of ruddy glow, 
 So the deep anguish of despair 
 Burst, in fierce jealousy, to air. 
 With stalwart grasp his hand he laid 
 On Malcolm's breast and belted plaid: 
 '* Back, beardless boy !" he sternly 
 
 said, 
 "Back, minion ! hold'st thou thus at 
 
 naught 
 The lesson I so lately taught ? 
 This roof, the Douglas, and that 
 
 maid, 
 Thank thou for punishment delay'd." 
 Eager as greyhound on his game, 
 Fiercely with Roderick grappled 
 
 Graeme. 
 <'■ Perish my name, if aught afford 
 Its Chieftain safety save his sword !" 
 Thus as they strove, their desperate 
 
 hand 
 Griped to the dagger or the brand, 
 And death had been — but Douglas 
 
 rose. 
 And thrust between the struggling 
 
 foec 
 His giant strength: — *' Chieftains, 
 
 forego ! 
 I hold the first who strikes, my 
 
 foe. — 
 Madmen, forbear your frantic jar I 
 What ! is the Douglas fall'n so far. 
 His daughter's hand is doom'd the 
 
 spoil 
 Of such dishonourable broil !" 
 SuUca and slowly they unclasp, 
 A.3 ctruck with shame, their desper- 
 ate grasp, 
 And each upon his rival glared, 
 With foot advanced, and blade half 
 
 bared. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Ere yet the brands aloft were flung, 
 Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung. 
 And Malcolm heard his Ellens 
 scream. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 A-S falter'd through terrific dream. 
 Tiiev. lloderick plunged ia sheath his 
 
 sword, 
 And veil'd his wrath in scornful 
 
 word. 
 "Eest safe till morning ; pity 'twere 
 Such cheek should feel the midnight 
 
 air! 
 Then mayest thou to James Stuart 
 
 tell, . 
 Roderick will keep the lake and fell, 
 Nor lackey, with his f reeborn clan, 
 The pageant pomp of earthly man. 
 More would he of Clan-Alpine know, 
 Thou canst our strength and passes 
 
 show. — 
 Malise, wliat ho !" — his henchman 
 
 came ;* 
 "Give our safe- conduct to the 
 
 Graeme." 
 Young Malcolm answer' d, calm and 
 
 bold, 
 "Fear nothing for thy favourite hold; 
 The spot, an angel deigned to grace, 
 Is biess'd, thougn robbers haunt the 
 
 place. 
 Thy churlish courtesy for those 
 Reserve, who fear to be thy foes. 
 As safe to me the mountain way 
 At midnight as in blaze of day, 
 Though with his boldest at his back 
 Even Roderick Dhu beset the track. — 
 Brave Douglas, — lovely Ellen, — nay. 
 Nought here of parting will I say. 
 Earth does not hold a lonesome glen. 
 So secret, but we meet agen. — ■ 
 Chieftain ! we too shall find an hour." 
 He said, and left the sylvan bower. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Old Allan follow'd to the strand, 
 (Such was the Douglas's command,) 
 And anxious told, how, on the morn. 
 The stern Sir Roderick deep had 
 
 sworn, 
 The Fiery Cross should circle o'er 
 Dale, glen, and valley, down, and 
 
 moor. 
 
 * A henchman was the confidential at- 
 tendant or gilly of a chief. His standing be- 
 hind hi8 lordf at festivals originated the name 
 of hauuoli-mau or henchman. 
 
 Much were the peril to the Graeme, 
 From those who to the signal came ; 
 Far up the lake 'twere safest land, 
 Himself would row him to the strand. 
 He gave his counsel to the wind. 
 While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind, 
 Round dirk and pouch and broad- 
 sword roU'd, 
 His ample plaid in tighten'd fold. 
 And stripp'd his limbs to such array, 
 As best might suit the watery way,— 
 
 xxxvn. 
 
 Then spoke abrupt : " Farewell to 
 
 thee, 
 Pattern of old fidelity !" 
 The Minstrel's hand he kindly 
 
 press'd, — 
 '* O ! could I point a place of rest ! 
 My sovereign holds in ward my land, 
 Lly uncle leads my vassal band; 
 To tame his foes, his friends to aid, 
 Poor Malcolm has but heart and 
 
 blade. 
 Yet, if there be one faithful Graeme, 
 Y/ho loves the Chieftain of his name, 
 Not long shall honour'd Douglas 
 
 dwell, 
 Like hunted stag in mountain cell; 
 Nor, ere yon pride-swoH'n robber 
 
 dare — 
 I may not give the rest to air 1 
 Tell Roderick Dhu, I owed him 
 
 nought. 
 Not the poor service of a boat. 
 To waft me to yon mountain-side." 
 Then plunged he in the flashing 
 
 tide. 
 Bold o'er the flood his head he bore. 
 And stoutly steer'd him from the 
 
 shore; 
 And Allan strain'd his anxious eye, 
 Far 'mid the lake his form to spy. 
 Darkening across each puny wave 
 To which the moon her silver gave. 
 Fast as the cormorant could skim. 
 The swimmer plied each active limb; 
 Then landifig in the moonlight dell, 
 Loud shouted of his we:il to tell. 
 The Minstrel heard the far halloo, 
 And joyful from the shore with- 
 drew. 
 
24 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 CANTO THIKD. 
 
 The Gathering. 
 
 I. 
 
 Time rolls his ceaseless course. The 
 race of yore, 
 Who danced our infancy upon their 
 knee, 
 And told our marvelling boyhood le- 
 gends store, 
 Of their strange ventures happ'd 
 by land or sea, 
 How are they blotted from the things 
 that be ! 
 How few, all weak and wither'd of 
 their force, 
 Wait on the verge of dark eternity, 
 Like stranded wrecks, the tide re- 
 turning hoarse, 
 To sweep them from our sight ! Time 
 
 rolls his ceaseless course. 
 Yet live there still who can remember 
 well, 
 How, when a mountain chief his 
 bugle blew, 
 Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, 
 and dell, 
 And solitary heath, the signal knew ; 
 And fast the faithful clan around him 
 drew, 
 What time the warning note was 
 keenly wound, 
 What time aloft their kindred banner 
 flew. 
 While clamorous war-pipes yell'd 
 the gathering sound, 
 And while the Fiery Cross glanced 
 like a meteor round. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Summer dawn's reflected hue 
 To purple changed Loch Katrine blue ; 
 Mildly and soft the western breeze 
 Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the 
 
 trees, 
 And the pleased lake, like maiden coy. 
 Trembled but dimpled not for joy; 
 The mountain-s] auows on her breast 
 Were neither broken nor at rest; 
 In bright uncertainty they lie. 
 Like future joys to Fancy's eye. 
 The water-lily to the light 
 
 Her chalice rear'd of silver bright; 
 The doe awoke, and to the lawn, 
 Begemm'd with dew-drops, led her 
 
 fawn; 
 The grey mist left the mountain side, 
 The ton-ent show'd its glistening 
 
 pride; 
 Invisible in flecked sky. 
 The lark sent down her revelry; 
 Theblackbird and the speckled thrush 
 Good -morrow gave from brake and 
 
 bush ; 
 In answer coo'd the cushat dove 
 Her notes of peace, and rest, and love. 
 
 III. 
 
 No thought of peace, no thought of rest, 
 Assuaged the storm in Koderick's 
 
 breast. 
 With sheathed broadsword in his 
 
 hand, 
 Abrupt he paced the islet strand, 
 And eyed the rising sun, and laid 
 His hand on his impatient blade. 
 Beneath a rock, his vassals' care 
 Was prompt the ritual to prepare. 
 With deep and deathful meaning 
 
 fraught; 
 For such Antiquity had taught 
 Was jireface meet, ere yet abroad 
 The Cross of Fire should take its road. 
 The shrinking band stood oft aghast 
 At the impatient glance he cast; — 
 Such glance the mountain eagle threw, 
 As from the cliffs of Benvenue, 
 She spread hor dark sails on the wind, 
 And, high in middle heaven, reclined, 
 With her broad shadow on the lake, 
 Silenced the warblers of the brake. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A heap of wither'd boughs was piled, 
 Of juniper and rowan wild. 
 Mingled with shivers from the oak, 
 Kent by the lightning's recent stroke. 
 Brian, the Hermit, by it stood, 
 Barefooted, in his frock and hood. 
 His grisled beard and matted hair 
 Obscured a visage of despair; 
 His naked arms and legs, seam'd o'er. 
 The scars of frantic penance bore. 
 That monk, of savage form and face, 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 25 
 
 The ipi.pending danger of his race 
 Had drawn from deepest solitude. 
 Far in Benharrow's bosom rude. 
 Not his the mien of Christian priest, 
 But Druid's, from the grave released. 
 Whose harden'd heart and eye might 
 
 brook 
 On human sacrifice to look; 
 And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore 
 Mix'd m the charms ho mutter'd o'er. 
 The hallow 'd creed gave only worse 
 And deadlier emphasis of curse; 
 No peasant sought that Hermit's pray- 
 er, 
 His cave the pilgrim shunn'd with 
 
 care. 
 The eager huntsman knew his bound, 
 And in mid chase call'd off his hound, 
 Or if, in lonely glen or strath, 
 The desert-dweller met his path, 
 He pray'd, and sign'd the cross be- 
 tween, 
 While terror took devotion's mien. 
 
 V. 
 
 Of Brian's birth strange tales were 
 
 told: 
 His mother "watch'd a midnight fold, 
 Built deep within a dreary glen, 
 Where scatter'd lay the bones of men, 
 In some forgotten battle slain, 
 And bleach'd by drifting wind and 
 
 rain. 
 It might have tamed a warrior's 
 
 heart, 
 To view such mockery of his art ! 
 The knot-grass fetter'd there the 
 
 hand, 
 Which once could burst an iron band; 
 Beneath the broad and ample bone, 
 That buckler'd heart to fear unknown, 
 A feeble and a timorous guest, 
 The field-fare framed her lowly nest; 
 There the slow blind-worm left his 
 
 slime, 
 On the fleet limbs that mock'dattime ; 
 And there, too, lay the leader's skull. 
 Still wreathed with chaplet, flush'd 
 
 and full, 
 For heath-bell with her purplebloom, 
 Supplied the bonnet and the j^lume. 
 All night, in this sad glen, the maid 
 
 Sate, shrouded in her mantle's shade: 
 — She said, no shepherd sought her 
 
 side, 
 No hunter's hand her snood untied, 
 Yet ne'er again to braid her hair 
 The virgin snood did Alice wear; 
 Gone was her maiden glee and sport, 
 Her maiden girdle all too short, 
 Nor sought she, from that fatal night. 
 Or holy church or blessed rite. 
 But lock'd her secret in her breast, 
 And died in. travail, unconfess'd. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Alone, among his young compeers, 
 Was Brian fiom his infant years; 
 A moody and heart-broken boy. 
 Estranged from sympathy and joy. 
 Bearing each taunt which careless 
 
 tongue 
 On his mysterious lineage flung. 
 Whole nights he spent by moonlight 
 
 pale. 
 To wood and stream his hap to wail, 
 Till, frantic, he as truth received 
 What of his birth the crowd believed. 
 And sought, in mist and meteor fire, 
 To meet and know his Phantom Sire ! 
 In vain, to soothe his wayward fate, 
 The cloister oped her pitying gate; 
 In vain, the learning of the age 
 Unclasp'd the sable letter'd page; 
 Even in its treasures he could find 
 Food for the fever of his mind. 
 Eager he read whatever tells 
 Of magic, cabala, and spells. 
 And every dark pursuit allied 
 To curious and presumptuous pride; 
 Till with fired brain and nerves o'er- 
 
 strung, 
 And heart with mystic horrors wrung, 
 Desperate he sought Benharrow's den, 
 And hid him from the haunts of men. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The desert gave him visions wild. 
 Such as might suit the spectre's child. 
 Where with black cliffs the torrents 
 
 toil. 
 He watch'd the wheeling eddies boil. 
 Till, from their foam, his dazzled 
 
 eyes 
 
26 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 Beheld tlie River Demon rise; 
 
 The mountain mist took form and 
 
 limb, 
 Of noontide hag, or goblin grim ; 
 The midnight wind came wild and 
 
 dread, 
 Swell'd with the voices of the dead; 
 Far on the future battle-heath 
 fiis eyo beheld the ranks of death: 
 Thus the lone Seer, from mankind 
 
 hurl'd, 
 Shaped forth a disembodied world. 
 One lingering sympathy of mind 
 Still bound him to the mortal kind; 
 The only parent he could claim 
 Of ancient Alpine's lineage came. 
 Late had ho heard, la prophet's 
 
 dream. 
 The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream ; 
 Sounds, too, had come in midnight 
 
 blast, 
 Of charging steeds, careering fast 
 Along Beniiarrow's shingly side. 
 Where mortal horseman ne'er might 
 
 ride; 
 The thunderbolt had split the pine, — 
 AH augur'd ill to Alpine's line. 
 He girt his loins, and came to show 
 The signals of impending woe, 
 And now stood prompt to bless or 
 
 ban, 
 As bade the Chieftain of his clan. 
 
 vin. 
 
 'Twas all prepared; — and from the 
 
 rock, 
 A goat, the patriarcn of the flock. 
 Before the kindling pile was laid. 
 And pierced by Boderick's ready 
 
 blade. 
 Patient the sickening victim eyed 
 The life-blood ebb in crimson tide, 
 Down his clogg'd beard and shaggy 
 
 limb, 
 Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. 
 The grisly priest, with murmuring 
 
 prayer, 
 A slender crosslet form'd with care, 
 A cubit's length in measure due ; 
 The shaft and limbs were rods of 
 
 yew, 
 Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave 
 
 Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's 
 
 grave, 
 And, answering Lomond's breezes 
 
 deep. 
 Soothe many a chieftain's endless 
 
 sleep. 
 The Cross, thus form'd, he held on 
 
 high. 
 With wasted hand, and haggard eye, 
 And strange and mingled feelings 
 
 woke, 
 While his anathema he spoke. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ' ' Woe to the clansman, who shall view 
 This symbol of sepulchral yew, 
 Forgetful that its branches grew 
 Where weep the heavens their holi- 
 est dew. 
 On Alpine's dwelling low ! 
 Deserter of his Chieftain's trust. 
 He ne'er shall mingle with their dust, 
 But, from his sires and kindred 
 
 thrust. 
 Each clansman's execration just 
 
 Shall doom him wrath and 
 woe !" 
 He paused; — the word the vassals 
 
 took. 
 With forward step and fiery look, 
 On high their naked brands they 
 
 shook. 
 Their clattering targets wildly strook; 
 
 And first in murmur low, 
 Then, like the billow in his course, 
 That far to seaward finds his source. 
 And flings to shore his muster'd 
 
 force, 
 Burst, with loud roar, their answer 
 hoarse, 
 
 " Woe to the traitor, woe !" 
 Ben-an's grey scalp the accents knew. 
 The joyous wolf from covert drew, 
 The exulting eagle scream'd afar, — 
 They knew the voice of Alpine's war. 
 
 X. 
 
 The shout was hush'd on lake and 
 
 fell, 
 The monk resumed his mutter'd 
 
 spell: 
 Dismal and low its accents came. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 The while he scathed the Cross with 
 
 flame; 
 And the few words that reach'd the 
 
 air, 
 Although the holiest name was there, 
 Had more of blasphemy than prayer. 
 Uut when he shook above the crowd 
 Its kindled points, ho spoke aloud: — 
 "Woe to the wretch who fails to rear 
 At this dread sign the ready spear ! 
 For, as the flames this symbol sear, 
 Her home, the refuge of his fear, 
 A kindred fate shall know; 
 Far o'er its roof the volume flamed 
 Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall pro- 
 claim, 
 While maids and matrons on his name 
 Shall call down wretchedness and 
 shame, 
 And infamy and v/oe." 
 Then rose the cry of females, shrill 
 As goss-hawk's whistle en the hill, 
 Denouncing misery and ill, 
 Mingled with childhood's babbling 
 trill 
 Of curses stammer'd slow; 
 Answering, with imprecation dread, 
 " iSunk be his home in embers red ! 
 And cursed be the meanest shed 
 That e'er shall hide the houseless 
 head, 
 We doom to want and woe !" 
 A sharp and shrieking echo gave, 
 Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave ! 
 And the grey pass where birches 
 wave, 
 On Beala-nam-bo. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then deeper paused the priest anew, 
 And hard his labouring breath he 
 
 drew. 
 While, with set teeth and clenched 
 
 hand, 
 And eyes that glow'd like fiery brand, 
 He meditated curse more dread, 
 And deadlier, on the clansman's head, 
 Who, summon'd to his Chieftain's 
 
 aid, 
 The signal saw and disobey'd. 
 The crosslet's points of sparkling 
 
 wood, 
 
 He quench'd among the bubbling 
 
 blood. 
 And, as again the sign he rear'd, 
 Hollow and hoarse his voice was 
 
 heard: 
 " When flits this Cross from man to 
 
 man, 
 Vich-Alpine's summons to his clan, 
 Burst be the ear that fails to heed ! 
 Palsied the foot that shuns to speed ! 
 May ravens tear the careless eyes. 
 Wolves make the coward heart their 
 
 prize ! 
 As sinks that blood-stream in the 
 
 earth. 
 So may his heart's-blood drench his 
 
 hearth ! 
 As dies in hissing gore the spark. 
 Quench thou his light, Destruction 
 
 dark, 
 And be the grace to him denied, 
 Bought by this sign to all beside ! " 
 He ceased; no echo gave agen 
 The murmur of the deep Amen. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then Roderick, with impatient look, 
 From Brian's hand the symbol took: 
 "Speed, Malise, speed!" he said, 
 
 and gave 
 The crosslet to his henchman brave. 
 " The muster- place be Lanrick 
 
 mead — 
 Instant the time — speed, Malise, 
 
 speed ! " 
 Like heath-bird, when the hawks 
 
 pursue, 
 A barge across Loch Katrine flew ; 
 High stood the henchman on the 
 
 prow ; 
 So rapidly the barge-men row. 
 The bubbles, where they launch'd 
 
 the boat, 
 Were all unbroken and afloat, 
 Dancing in foam and ripple still, 
 When it had near'd the mainland 
 
 hill; 
 And from the silver beach's side 
 Still was the prow three fathom 
 
 wide. 
 When lightly bounded to the land 
 The messenger of blood and brand. 
 
.28 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 xin. 
 
 Speed, Malise, speed ! the dun deer's 
 
 hide 
 On fleeter foot was never tied. 
 Speed, Malise, speed ! such cause of 
 
 haste 
 Thine active sinews never braced. 
 Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast, 
 Burst down like torrent from its crest; 
 With short and springing footstep 
 
 pass 
 The trembling bog and false morass; 
 Across the brook like roebuck bound. 
 And thread the brake like questing 
 
 hound; 
 The crag is high, the scaur is deep, 
 "Yet shrink not from the desperate 
 
 leap: 
 Parch'd are thy burning lipsand brow, 
 Yet by the fountain pause not now; 
 Herald of battle, fate, and fear, 
 Stretch onward in thy fleet career ! 
 The wounded hind thou track'st not 
 
 now, 
 Pursuest not maid through green- 
 wood bough, 
 Nor pliest thou now thy flying pace, 
 With rivals in the mountain race; 
 But danger, death, and warrior deed, 
 Are in thy course— speed, Malise, 
 
 speed ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Fast as the fatal symbol flies, 
 
 In arms the huts and hamlets rise; 
 
 From winding glen, from upland 
 
 brown. 
 They pour'd each hardy tenant down. 
 Now slack'd the messenger his pace; 
 He show'd the sign, he named the 
 
 place. 
 And, pressing forward like the wind, 
 Left clamour and surprise behind. 
 The fisherman forsook the strand. 
 The swarthy smith took dirk and 
 
 brand; 
 With changed cheer, the mower blithe 
 Left in the half-cut swathe the scythe ; 
 The herds without a keeper stray'd, 
 The plough was in mid-furrow staid. 
 The falc'ner toss'd his hawk away, 
 The hunter left the stag at bay; 
 
 Prompt at the signal of alarms. 
 Each son of Alpine rush'd to arms. 
 So swept the tumult and affray 
 Along the margin of Achray. 
 Alas ! thou lovely lake ! that e'er 
 Thy banks should echo sounds of 
 
 fear ! 
 The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep 
 So stilly on thy bosom deep. 
 The lark's blithe carol, from the cloud, 
 Seems for the scene too gaily loud. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Speed, Malise, speed ! the lake is past, 
 Duncraggan's huts appear at last. 
 And peep, like moss-grown rocks, 
 
 half seen, 
 Half hidden in the copse so green; 
 There mayest thou rest, thy labour 
 
 done, 
 Their Lord shall speed the signal 
 
 on.— 
 As stoops the hawk upon his prej'. 
 The henchman snot him down the 
 
 way. 
 — What woeful accents load the gale ? 
 The funeral yell, the female wail ! 
 A gallant hunter's sport is o'er, 
 A valiant warrior fights no more. 
 Vv'ho, in the battle or the chase, 
 At Roderick's side shall fiU his 
 
 place ! — 
 Within the hall, where torches' ray 
 Supplies the excluded beams of day. 
 Lies Duncan on his lowly bier. 
 And o'er him streamshis widow's tear. 
 His stripling son stands mournful by. 
 His youngest weeps, but knows not 
 
 why; 
 The village maids and matrons round 
 The dismal coronach resound. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Coronach. 
 
 He is gone on the mountain, 
 
 He is lost to the forest, 
 Like a summer-dried fountain, 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 The font, reappearing. 
 
 From the rain-drops shall borrow, 
 But to us comes no cheering, 
 
 To Duncan no morrow ! 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 29 
 
 The hand of the reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary, 
 ]>at the voice of the weeper 
 
 Wails manhood in glor3^ 
 The autumn winds rushing 
 
 V-'ait the leaves that are searest, 
 Lut our flower was in flushing, 
 
 When blighting was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the Correi,* 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber, 
 Eed hand in the foray, 
 
 How sound is thy slumber ! 
 Like the dew on the mountain, 
 
 Like the foam on the river, 
 Like the bubble on the fountain, 
 
 Thou art gone, and for ever ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 See Stumah,t who, the bier beside, 
 His master's corpse with wonder 
 
 eyed, 
 Poor Stumah ! whom his least halloo 
 Could send like lightning o'er the 
 
 dew. 
 Bristles his crest and points his ears, 
 As if some stranger stej) he hears. 
 'Tis not a mourner's muffled tread, 
 "NVho comes to sorrow o'er the dead, 
 But headlong haste, or deadly fear, 
 Urge the precipitate career. 
 All stand aghast: — unheeding all, 
 The h'^nchman bursts into the hall; 
 Before the dead man's bier he stood; 
 Held forth the Cross besmear'd with 
 
 blood ; 
 " The muster-place is Lanrick mead; 
 Speed forth the signal ! clansmen, 
 
 speed !" 
 
 xvni. 
 
 Angus, the heir of Duncan's line, 
 Sprung forth and seized the fatal 
 
 sign. 
 In haste the stripling to his side 
 His father's dirk and broadsword tied ; 
 But when he saw his mother's eye 
 Watch him in speechless agony, 
 Back to her openM arms he flew, 
 Press'd on her lips a fond adieu — 
 
 » Correi, tlie hollow side of the hill where 
 game usually lies. 
 
 \ The uame of a dog. The word is Celtic 
 for "fuitUtul," 
 
 "Alas!" she sobb'd,— "and yet, be 
 
 gone, 
 And speed thee forth, like Duncan's 
 
 son !" 
 One look he cast upon the bier, 
 Dash'd from his eye the gathering 
 
 tear, 
 Breathed deep to clear his labouring 
 
 breast, 
 And toss'd aloft his bonnet crest. 
 Then, like the high-bred colt, when, 
 
 freed. 
 First he essays his fire and speed, 
 He vanish'd, and o'er moar and moss 
 Sped forward with the Fiery Cross. 
 Suspended was the widow's tear, 
 While yet his footsteps she could 
 
 hear; 
 And when she marked the hench- 
 man's eye 
 Wet with unwonted sympathy, 
 "Kinsman," she said, "his race is 
 
 run, 
 That should have sped thine errand 
 
 on; 
 The oak has fall'n, — the sapling 
 
 bough 
 Is all Duncraggan's shelter now. 
 Yet trust I well, his duty done, 
 The orphan's God will guard my 
 
 son. — 
 And you, in many a danger true, 
 At Duncan's hest your blades that 
 
 drew. 
 To arms, and guard that orphan's 
 
 head ! 
 Let babes and women wail the dead.'^ 
 Then weapon- clang, and martial call, 
 Resounded through the funeral hall, 
 While from the walls the attendant 
 
 band 
 Snatch'd sword and targe, with hur- 
 ried hand; 
 And short and flitting energy 
 Glanced from the mourner's sunken 
 
 As if the sound^5 to warrior dear, 
 Might rouse her Duncan from his 
 
 bier. 
 But faded soon that borrow'd force, 
 Grief claim 'd his right, and tears 
 
 their course, 
 
3° 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Benledi saw the Cross of Fire, 
 It glanced like lightning up Strath- 
 Ire. 
 O'er dale and hill the summons flew, 
 Nor rest nor pause young Angus 
 
 knew ; 
 The tear that gather'd in his eye 
 He left the mountain breeze to dry; 
 Until, where *Teith's young waters 
 
 roll, 
 Betwixt him and a wooded knoll, 
 That graced the sable strath with 
 
 green, 
 The chapel of St. Bride was seen. 
 Swoln was the stream, remote the 
 
 bridge, 
 But Angus paused not on the edge; 
 Though the dark waves danced diz- 
 zily, 
 Though reel'd his sympathetic eye. 
 He dash'd amid the torrent's roar: 
 His right hand high the crosslet bore, 
 His left the pole-axe grasp'd, to 
 
 guide 
 And stay his footing in the tide. 
 He stumbled twice— the foam splash'd 
 
 high, 
 "With hoarser swell the stream raced 
 
 by; 
 And had he fall'n,— for ever there, 
 Farewell Duncraggan's orjjhan heir! 
 But still, as if in parting life, 
 Firmer he grasp'd the Cross of strife, 
 Until the opposing bank he gain'd, 
 And up the chapel pathway strain'd. 
 
 XX. 
 
 A blithesome rout, that morning 
 
 tide. 
 Had sought the chapel of St. Bride. 
 Her troth Tombea's Mary gave 
 To Norman, heir of Armandave. 
 And, issuing from the Gothic arch, 
 The bridal now resumed their march. 
 In rude, but glad procession, came 
 Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame; 
 And plaided youth, with jest and 
 
 jeer, 
 Which snooded maiden would not 
 
 hear; 
 And children, that, unwitting why. 
 
 Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry ; 
 And minstrels, that in measures vied 
 Before the young and bonny bride, 
 Wlios ; downcast eye and cheek dis- 
 close 
 The tear and blush of morning rose. 
 With virgin step, and bashful hand, 
 She held the 'kerchiefs snowy band; 
 The gallant bridegroom by her side. 
 Beheld his prize with victor's pride. 
 And the glad mother in her ear 
 V/as closely whispering word of 
 cheer. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Who meets them at the churchyard 
 
 gate V 
 The messenger of fear and fate ! 
 Haste in his hurried accent lies, 
 And grief is swimming in his eyes. 
 All dripjoing from the recent flood, 
 ranting an;l travel-soil'd he stood, 
 The fatal sign of fire and sword 
 Held forth, and spoke the appointed 
 
 word: 
 •' The muster-place is Lanrick 
 
 mead; 
 Speed forth the signal ! Norman, 
 
 speed !" 
 And must he change so soon the 
 
 hand, 
 Just link'd to his by holy band. 
 For the fell Cross of biood and brand? 
 And must the day, so blithe that rose, 
 And promised rapture in the close, 
 Before its setting liour, divide 
 The bridegroom from the plighted 
 
 bride ! 
 fatal doom !— it must ! it must ! 
 Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's 
 
 trust, 
 Her summons dread, brook no delay; 
 Stretch to the race — away ! away ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Yet slow he laid his plaid aside, 
 And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride, 
 Until he saw the starting tear 
 Speak woe he might not stop to cheer ; 
 Then, trusting not a second look. 
 In haste he sped him up the brook, 
 Nor backward glanced, till on the 
 heath 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 31 
 
 Y>Tiere Lubnaig's lake supplies the 
 
 Teith. 
 — What in "the racer's bosom stirr'd ? 
 The sickening pang of hope deferr'd, 
 And memory, with a torturing train 
 Of all his morning visions vain. 
 Mingled with love's impatience, came 
 The manly thirst for martial fame; 
 The stormy joy of mountaineers, 
 Ere yet they rush upon the spears ; 
 And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burn- 
 in*^ 
 And hope, from well-fought field re- 
 turning, 
 With war's red honours on his crest, 
 To clasp his Mary to his breast. 
 Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank 
 
 and brae, 
 Like fire from flint he glanced away, 
 V\^hilehighresolve,and feeling strong. 
 Burst into voluntary song. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 !Son(j. 
 
 The heath this night must be my bed, 
 The bracken* curtain for my head, 
 Mv lullaby the warder's tread. 
 
 Far, far from love and thee, 
 Mary ; 
 To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, 
 My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
 My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! 
 
 It will not waken me, Mary ! 
 I may not, dare noi:, fancy now 
 The grief that clouds thy lovely 
 
 brow, 
 I dare not think upon thy vow. 
 
 And all it promised me, Mary. 
 No fond regret must Norman know ; 
 When bursts Clan-Alpine on the 
 
 foe, 
 His heart must be like bended bow, 
 
 His font like arrow free, Mary. 
 
 A time will come with feeling fraught, 
 For, if I fall m battle fought. 
 Thy hapless lover's dying thought 
 Shall be a thought on thee, 
 Mary. 
 And if return'd from conquer'd foes, 
 How blithely will the evening close, 
 
 * Fern. 
 
 How sweet the linnet sing repose, 
 To my young bride and me, 
 Mary ! 
 
 XXIV. * 
 
 Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, 
 Balquidder, speeds the midnight 
 
 blaze. 
 Rushing, in conflagration strong, 
 Thy deep ravines and dells along, 
 Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow, 
 And reddening the dark lakes beiow ; 
 Nor fiister speeds it, nor so far. 
 As o'er thy heaths the voice of wax*. 
 The signal roused to martial coil 
 The sullen margin of Loch Voil, 
 Waked still Loch Doine, and to the 
 
 source 
 Alarm'd, Balvaig. thy swampy course; 
 Thence southward turn'd its rapid 
 
 road , 
 Adown Strath-Gartney's valley broad, 
 Till rose in arms each man might 
 
 claim 
 A portion in Clan-Alpine's name, 
 From the grey sire, whose trembling 
 
 hand 
 Could hardly buckle on his brand, 
 To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow 
 Were yet scarce terrot co the crow. 
 Each valley, each sequester'd glen. 
 Muster'd its little horde of men. 
 That met as torrents from the height 
 In Highland dales their streams 
 
 unite, 
 Still gathering, as they pour vlong, 
 A voice moie loud, a tide more strong, 
 Till at the rendezvous they stood 
 By hundreds prompt for blows and 
 
 blood ; 
 Each train' d to arms since life began, 
 Owning no tie but to his clan, 
 No oath, but by his chieftain's hand, 
 No law, but Eoderick Dhu's com- 
 mand. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 That summer morn had Roderick 
 
 Dhu 
 Survey'd the skirts of Benvenue, 
 And sent Lis scouts o'er hill and 
 
 heath. 
 To view the frontiers of Monteith, 
 
32 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 All backward came with news of 
 
 truce ; 
 Still lay each, martial Graeme and 
 
 Bruce, 
 In Rednoch courts no horsemen 
 
 wait, 
 No banner waved on Cardross gate, 
 On Duchray's towers no beacon 
 
 shone, 
 Nor scared the herons from Loch 
 
 Con ; 
 All seem d at peace. — Now, wot yc 
 
 why 
 The Chieftain, with such anxious 
 
 eye. 
 Ere to the muster he repair, 
 This western frontier scann'd with 
 
 care ? — 
 In Benvenu's most darksome cleft, 
 A fair, though cruel, pledge was left ; 
 For Douglas, to his promise true, 
 That morning from the isle withdrew. 
 And in a deep soquester'd dell 
 Had sought a low and lonely cell. 
 By many a bard, in Celtic tongiie, 
 Has Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung ; 
 A softer name the Saxons gave. 
 And call'd the grot the Goblin-c.ivc. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 It was a wild and strange retreat, 
 As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. 
 The dell, upon the mountain's crest, 
 Yawn'd like a gash on warrior's 
 
 breast ; 
 Its trench had staid full many a rock, 
 Hurl'd by primeval earthquake shock 
 From Benvenue's grey summit wild. 
 And here, in random ruin piled, 
 They frown'd incumbent o'er the 
 
 spot. 
 And form'd the rugged silvan grot. 
 The oak and birch, with mingled 
 
 shade, 
 At noontide there a twilight made, 
 Unless when short and sudden shone 
 Some straggling beam on cliff or 
 
 stone. 
 With such a glimpse as prophet's eye 
 Gains on thy depth, Futurity. 
 No murmur waked the solemn still. 
 Save tinkling of a fountain rill; 
 
 But when the wind chafed with the 
 
 lake, 
 A sullen sound woul 1 upward break, 
 With dashing hollov,' voice, that 
 
 spoke 
 The incessant war of wave and rock. 
 Suspended cliffs with hideous sway, 
 Seom'd nodding o'er the cavern grey. 
 From such a den the wolf had 
 
 sprung, 
 In fiuch the wild-cat leaves her 
 
 young; 
 Yet Douglas and his daughter fair 
 Sought for a space their safety there. 
 Grey Superstition's whisper dread 
 Debarr'd the spot to vulgar tread; 
 For there, she said, did fays resort. 
 And satyrs* hold their silvan court, 
 I5y moonlight tread their mystic 
 
 maze. 
 And blast the rash beholder's gaze. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Now eve, with western shadows long. 
 Floated on Katrine bright and strong. 
 When Koderick, with a chosen few, 
 Repass'd the heights of Benvenue. 
 Above the Goblin-cave they go. 
 Through the wild pass of Beal-nam- 
 
 bo : 
 The prompt retainers speed before. 
 To launch the shallop from the shore, 
 For cross Loch Katrine lies his way 
 To view the passes of Achray, 
 And place his clansmen in array. 
 Yet lags the chief in musing mind. 
 Unwonted sight, his men behind. 
 A single page, to bear his sword. 
 Alone attended on his lord; 
 The rest their way through thickets 
 
 break, 
 And soon await him by the lake. 
 It was a fair and gallant sight, 
 To view them from the neighbouring 
 
 height. 
 By the low-levell'd sunbeams light ! 
 For strength and stature, from the 
 
 clan 
 Each warrior was a chos«n man, 
 As even afar might well be seen, 
 
 * The Highlanders had a mythological 
 satyr or urisE, 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 ZZ 
 
 By their proud step and martial 
 
 mien. 
 Their feathers dance, their tartans 
 
 float, 
 Their targets gleam, as by the boat 
 A wild and warlike group they stand, 
 That well became such mountain- 
 strand. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Their Chief, with step reluctant, still 
 Was lingering on the craggy hill, 
 Hard by where turn'd apart the road 
 To Douglas's obscure abode. 
 It was but with that dawning morn, 
 That Koderick Dhu had proudly 
 
 sworn 
 To drown his love in war's wild roar, 
 Nor think of Ellen Douglas more ; 
 But he who stems a stream with sand, 
 And fetters flame with flaxen band, 
 Has yet a harder task to prove — 
 By firm resolve to conquer love ! 
 Eve finds the Chief, like restless 
 
 ghost, 
 Still hovering near his treasure lost; 
 For though his haughty heart deny 
 A parting meeting to his eye, 
 Still fondly strains his anxious ear. 
 The accents of her voice to hear. 
 And inly did he curse the breeze 
 That waked to sound the rustling 
 
 trees. 
 But hark ! what mingles in the 
 
 strain ? 
 It is the harp of Allan-Bane, 
 That wakes its measure slow and 
 
 high. 
 Attuned to sacred minstrelsy. 
 What melting voice attends the 
 
 strings ? 
 'Tis Ellen, or an angel, sings. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Hymn to the Virgin. 
 Ave Maria ! maiden mild ! 
 
 Listen to a maiden's prayer ! 
 Thou canst hear though from the 
 wild, 
 Thou canst save amid despair. 
 Safe may we sleep beneath thy care, 
 Though banish'd, outcast, and re- 
 yiled— 
 
 Maiden! hear a maiden's prayer; 
 Mother, hear a suppliant child ! 
 
 Ave Maria! 
 
 Ave Maria! undefiled! 
 
 The flinty couch we now must share 
 Shall seem with down of eider piled. 
 
 If thy protection hover there. 
 The murky cavern's heavy air 
 
 Shall breathe of balm if thou hast 
 smiled ; 
 Then, Maiden! hear a maiden's pray- 
 er; 
 Mother, list a suppliant child ! 
 
 Ave Maria! 
 
 Ave Maria! stainless styled! 
 
 . Foul demons of the earth and air. 
 From this their wonted haunt exiled, 
 Shall fleo before thy presence fair. 
 We bow us to our lot of care. 
 
 Beneath thy guidance reconciled; 
 Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer. 
 And for a father hear a child! 
 
 Ave Maria! 
 XXX. 
 
 Died on the harp the closing hymn — 
 Unmoved in attitude and limb. 
 As list'ning still, Clan-Alpine's lord 
 Stood leaning on his heavy sword, 
 Until the page, with humble sign. 
 Twice pointed to the sun's decline. 
 Then while his plaid he round him 
 
 cast, 
 "It is the last time — 'tis the last," 
 He mutter'd thrice, — "the last time 
 
 e'er 
 That angel voice shall Roderick hear!" 
 It was a goading thought — his stride 
 Hied hastier down the mountain-side; 
 Sullen he flung him in the boat, 
 And instant 'cross the lake it shot. 
 They landed in that silvery bay, 
 And eastward hehl their hasty way, 
 Till, with the latest beams of light, 
 Tbe band arrived on Lanrick height, 
 Where muster'd, in the vale below, 
 Clan-Alpine's men in martial show. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 A various scene the clansmen made. 
 Some sate, some stood, some slowly 
 stray 'd; 
 
34 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 But most with mantles folded round, 
 Were couch'd to rest upon the ground, 
 Scarce to be known by curious eye, 
 From the deep heather where they lie, 
 So well was match' d the tartan screen 
 With heath-bell dark and brackens 
 
 green ; 
 Unless where, here and there, a blade. 
 Or lance's point, a glimmer made, 
 Like glow-worm twinkling through 
 
 the shade. 
 But when, advancing through the 
 
 gloom, 
 They saw the Chieftain's eagle plume, 
 Their shout of welcome, shrill and 
 
 wide. 
 Shook the steep mountain's steady 
 
 side. 
 Thrice it arose, and lake and fell 
 Three times return'd the martial yell; 
 It died upon Bochastle's plain, 
 And Silence claim'd her evening 
 
 reign. 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 The Prophecy. 
 I. 
 "The rose is iairest when 'tis bud- 
 ding new, 
 And hope is brightest when it 
 dawns from fears; 
 The rose is sweetest wash'd with 
 morning dew, 
 And love is loveliest when em- 
 balm'd in tears. 
 O wilding rose, whom fancy thus en- 
 dears, 
 I bid your blossoms in my bonnet 
 wave, 
 Emblem of hope and love through 
 
 future years!" 
 Thus spoke young Norman, heir of 
 
 Armandave, 
 What time the sun arose on Vennach- 
 ar's broad wave. 
 
 II. 
 
 Such fond conceit,half said.half sung, 
 Love prompted to the bridegroom's 
 tongue. 
 
 All while he stripp'd the wild-rose 
 
 spray. 
 His axe and bow beside him lay. 
 For on a pass 'twixt lake and woo'', 
 A wakeful sentinel he stood. 
 Hark ! on the rock a footstep rung. 
 And instant to his arms he sprung. 
 "Stand, or thou diest! — What, Ma- 
 
 lise ? — soon 
 Art thou return'd from Braes of 
 
 Doune. 
 By thy keen step and glance I know, 
 Thou bring'st us tidings of the foe. " — 
 (For while the Fiery Cross hied on. 
 On distant scout had Malise gone.) 
 "Where sLeps the Chief?" the 
 
 henchman said.— 
 "Apart, in yonder misty glade; 
 To his lonecouch I'llbeyourguide."— 
 Then call'd a slumberer by his side, 
 And stirr'd him with his slacken'd 
 
 bow— 
 " Up, up, Glentarkin ! rouse thee, ho! 
 V/e seek the Chieftain; on the track, 
 Keep eagle watch till I comeback.'' 
 
 in. 
 
 Together up the pass they sped: 
 
 ' ' What of the foeman ? " Norman 
 
 said. — 
 "Varying reports from near and far; 
 Thia certain — that a band of war 
 Has for two days been ready boune. 
 At prompt command, to march from 
 
 Doune; 
 King James, the while, with princely 
 
 powers, 
 Holds revelry in Stirling towers. 
 Soon will this dark and gathering 
 
 cloud 
 Speak on our glens in thunder loud. 
 Inured to bide such bitter bout, 
 The warrior's plaid may bear it out; 
 But, Norman, how wilt thou provide 
 A shelter for thy bonny bride ? " 
 " What ! know ye not that Koderick's 
 
 care 
 To the lone isle hath caused repair 
 Each maid and matron of the clan, 
 And every child and aged man 
 Unfit for arms; and given his charge. 
 Nor skiff nor shallop, boat nor barge, 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 35 
 
 Upon these lakes, shall float at large, 
 But all beside the islet moor, 
 That such dear pledge may rest se- 
 cure ? " 
 
 IV. 
 
 " 'Tis well advised— the Chieftain's 
 
 plan 
 Bespeaks the father of his clan. 
 But wherefore sleeps Sir Eoderick 
 
 Dbu 
 Apart from all his followers true ?" — 
 " It is because last evening-tide 
 Brian an augury hath tried, 
 Of that dread kind which must not be 
 Unless in dread extremity, 
 TheTaghairm call'd; by which, afar, 
 Our sires foresaw the events of war. 
 Duncraggan's milk-white bull they 
 
 slew." 
 
 MALISE. 
 
 •'Ah ! well the gallant brute I knew ! 
 The choicest of the prey we had, 
 When swept ov-x merry-men Gallan- 
 
 gad. 
 His hide was snow, his horns were 
 
 dark, 
 Ilis red eye glow'd like fiery spark; 
 80 fierce, so tameless, and so fleet, 
 Sore did he cumber our retreat, 
 And kept our stoutest kernes in awe, 
 Even at the pass of Beal 'maha. 
 But steep and flinty was the road, 
 And sharp the hurrying pikemen's 
 
 goad. 
 And when we came to Dennan's Row, 
 A child might scatheless stroke his 
 
 brow." — 
 
 V. 
 
 NORMAN. 
 
 "That bull was slain : his reeking hide 
 They stretch'd the cataract beside, 
 Whose waters their wild tumult toss 
 Adown the black and craggy boss 
 Of that huge cliff, whose ample verge 
 Tradition calls the Hero's Targe, 
 Couch'd on a shelve beneath its brink, 
 Close where the thundering torrents 
 
 sink, 
 Rocking beneath their headlong 
 
 sway, 
 And drizzled by the ceaseless spray, 
 
 Midst groan of rock, alid roar of 
 
 stream. 
 The wizard waits prophetic dream. 
 Nor distant rests the Chief;--but 
 
 hush! 
 See, gliding slow through mist and 
 
 bush. 
 The hermit gains yon rock, and 
 
 stands 
 To gaze upon our slumbering bands. 
 Seems he not, Malise, like a ghost, 
 That hovers o'er a slaughter'd host ? 
 Or raven on the blasted oak, 
 That, watching while the deer is 
 
 broke. 
 His morsel claims with sullen croak?" 
 
 MALISE. 
 
 — " Peace ! peace ! to other than 1 3 
 
 me, 
 Thy words were evil augury ; 
 But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade 
 Clan-Alpine's omen and her aid. 
 Not aught that, glean'd from heaven 
 
 or hell, 
 Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell. 
 The Chieftain joins him, see — and 
 
 now. 
 Together they descend the brow." 
 
 VI. 
 
 And as the)' came, with Alpine's 
 
 Lord 
 The Hermit Monk held solemn word : 
 "Roderick ! it i3 a fearful strife, 
 For man endow'd with mortal life. 
 Whose shroud of sentient clay can 
 
 still 
 Feel feverish pang and fainting chill. 
 Whose eye can stare in stony trance, 
 Whose hair can rouse like warrior's 
 
 lance, — 
 'Tis hard for such to view, unfurl'd, 
 The curtain of the future world. 
 Yet, witness every quaking limb, 
 My sunken pulse, my eyeballs dim, 
 My soul, with harrowing anguish 
 
 torn, — 
 This for my Chieftain have I borne ! — 
 The shapes that sought my fearful 
 
 couch, 
 A human tongue may ne'er avouch ; 
 
SCOTT S r OPTICAL WORKS. 
 
 No mortal man, — save he, wlio, bred 
 Between the living and the dead, 
 Is gifted beyond nature's law, — 
 Had e'er survived to say he saw. 
 At length the fatal answer came, 
 In characters of living flame I 
 Not spoke in word, nor blaz'd in 
 
 scroll, 
 But borne and branded on my soul ; — 
 Which spills the foremost foeman's 
 
 LIFE, 
 
 That party conquers in the strife !" 
 VII. 
 
 •' Thanks, Brian, for thy zeal and 
 
 care ! 
 Good is thine augury, and fair. 
 Clan-Alpine ne er in battle stood, 
 But first our broadswords tasted 
 
 blood. 
 A surer victim still I know, 
 Self-offer'd to the auspicious blow : 
 A spy has sought my land this morn, — 
 No eye shall witness his return ! 
 My followers guard each pass's mouth. 
 To east, to westward, and to south : 
 Bed Murdoch, bribed to be his guide, 
 Has charge to lead his steps aside, 
 Till, in deep path or dingle brown. 
 Ha light on those shall bring him 
 
 down. 
 — Biit see, who comes his news to 
 
 show ! 
 Malise ! what tidings of the foe?" — 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "At Doune, o'er many a spear and 
 
 glaive 
 Two Barons proud their banners 
 
 wave. 
 I saw the Moray's silver star, 
 And mark'd the sable pale of Mar," — 
 "By Alpine's soul, high tidings 
 
 those ! 
 I love to hear of worthy foes. 
 V/hen move they on?"— "To-morrow's 
 
 noon 
 Will see them here for battle boune." 
 " Then shall it see a meeting stern ! — 
 But, for the place — say, couldst thou 
 
 learn 
 Nought of the friendly clans of Earn ? 
 
 Strengthen'd by them, we well might 
 bide 
 
 The battle on Benledi's side. 
 
 Thou couldst not?— Well! Clan- 
 Alpine's men 
 
 Shall man the Trosach's shaggy glen; 
 
 Within Loch Katrine's gorge we'll 
 fight. 
 
 All in our maids' and matrons' sight, 
 
 Each for his hearth and househol/d 
 fire. 
 
 Father for child, and son for sire, — 
 
 Lover for maid beloved! — But why — 
 
 Is it the breeze affects mine eye? 
 
 Or dost thou come, ill-omen'd tear ! 
 
 A messenger of doubt or fear ? 
 
 No ! sooner may the Saxon lance 
 
 Unfix Benledi from his stance. 
 
 Than doubt or terror can pierce 
 through 
 
 The unyielding heart of Boderick 
 Dhu! 
 
 'Tis stubborn as his trusty targe. — 
 
 Each to his post ! — all know their 
 charge." 
 
 The pibroch sounds, the bands ad- 
 vance, 
 
 The broadswords gleam, the banners 
 dance, 
 
 Obedient to the Chieftain's glance. 
 
 — I turn me from tlie martial roar. 
 
 And seek Coir-Uriskin once more. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Where is the Douglas? — he is gone; 
 And Ellen sits on the grey stone 
 Fast by the cave, and makes her 
 
 moan 
 While vainly Allan's words of cheer 
 Are pour'd on her unheeding ear. — 
 "He will return — Dear lady, trust I— 
 With joy return; — he will — he must. 
 Well was it time to seek, afar. 
 Some refuge from impending war. 
 When e'en Clan-Alpine's rugged 
 
 swarm 
 Are cow'd by the approaching storm. 
 I saw their boats, with many a light. 
 Floating the live-long yesternight, 
 Shifting like flashes darted forth 
 By the red streamers of the north; 
 I mark'd at morn how close they ride. 
 
THE LADY OF TEE LAKE. 
 
 37 
 
 Thick moor'd by the lone islet's side, 
 Like wild-duck's couching in the fen, 
 When stoops the hawk upon the glen. 
 Sinc3 this rude race dare not abide 
 The peril on the mainland side, 
 Shall not thy noble father's care 
 Some safe retreat for thee prepare ? " 
 
 X. 
 
 ELLEN. 
 
 " No, Allan, no ! Pretext so kind 
 My wakeful terrors could not blind. 
 When in such tendertone, yet grave, 
 Douglas a parting blessing gave, 
 The tear that glisten'd in his eye 
 Drown'd not his purpose fix'd on 
 
 high. 
 My soul, though feminine and weak. 
 Can image his; e'en as the lake, 
 Itself dlsturb'd by slightest stroke, 
 Reflects the invulnerable rock. 
 He hears report of battle rife. 
 He deems himself the cause of strife. 
 I saw him redden, when the theme 
 Turn'd, Allan, on t'line idle dream, 
 Of Malbolm Grseme, in fetters bound. 
 Which I, thou saidst, about him 
 
 wound. 
 Think'st thou he trow'd thine omen 
 
 aught ? 
 Oh no ! 'twas apprehensive thought 
 For the kind youth, - for Roderick 
 
 too — 
 (Let me be just) that friend so true; 
 In danger both, and In our cause ! 
 Minstrel, the Douglas, dare not pause. 
 Y/hy else that solemn warning given, 
 ' If not on earth, we meet in heaven !' 
 Why else, to Cambus- kenneth's fane, 
 If eve return him not again, 
 Am I to hie, and make me known ? 
 Alas ! he goes to Scotland's throne. 
 Buys his friend's safety with his 
 
 own;— 
 He goes to do— what I had done, 
 Had Douglas' daughter been his 
 
 son !" — 
 
 XI. 
 
 , " Nay, lovely Ellen ! — dearest, nay ! 
 I If aught should his return delay. 
 He only named yon holy fane 
 
 As fitting place to meet again. 
 
 Be sure he's safe; and for the 
 
 Grseme,— 
 Heaven's blessing on his gallant 
 
 name ! — 
 My vision'd sight may yet prove true. 
 Nor bode of ill to him or you. 
 When did my gifted dream beguile ? 
 Think of the stranger at the isle, 
 And think upon the harpings slow, 
 That presaged this approaching woe ? 
 Sooth was my prophecy of fear; 
 Believe it when it augurs cheer. 
 Would we have left this dismal spot ! 
 HI luck still haunts a fairy grot. 
 Of such a wondrous tale I know — 
 Dear lady, change that look of woe. 
 My harp was wont thy grief to 
 
 cheer." — ■ 
 
 ELLEN. 
 
 " Well, be it as thou wilt; I hear, 
 But cannot stop the bursting tear. " 
 The Minstrel tried his simple art, 
 But distant far was Ellen's heart. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Ballad. 
 
 ALICE BRAND. 
 
 Merry it is in the good greenwood, 
 Where the mavis* and merlef are 
 singing. 
 When the deer sweeps by, and the 
 hounds are in cry. 
 And the hunter's horn is ringing. 
 
 '* O Alice Brand, my native land 
 
 Is lost for love of you; 
 And we must hold by wood and 
 wold, 
 
 As outlaws wont to do. 
 
 '* O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks co 
 bright, 
 And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue, 
 That on the night of our luckless 
 flight, 
 Thy brother bold I slew. 
 
 " Now must I teach to hew the beech 
 The hand that held the glaive, 
 
 *Mavi8, a thrush. 
 
 ^Merle, a blackbird 
 
38 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 For leaves to spread our lowly bed, 
 And stakes to fence our cave. 
 
 "And for vest of pall, thy fingers small, 
 That wont on harp to stray, 
 
 A cloak must shear from the slaugh- 
 ter'd deer. 
 To keep the cold away." — 
 
 " O Richard ! if my brother died, 
 
 'Twas but a fatal chance, 
 For darkling was the battle tried, 
 
 And fortune sped the lance. 
 
 '* If pall and vair no more I wear, 
 Nor thou the crimson sheen, 
 
 As warm, we'll say, is the russet 
 grey, 
 As gay the forest green. 
 
 "And, Richard, if our lot be hard. 
 
 And lost thy native land, 
 Still Alice has her own Richard, 
 
 And he his Alice Brand." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Ballad continued. 
 
 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green- 
 wood. 
 So blithe Lady Alice is singing; 
 On the beech's pride, and oak's 
 brown side, 
 Lord Richard's axe is ringing. 
 
 Up spoke the moody Elfin King, 
 Who wonn'd within the hill, — 
 
 Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd 
 church, 
 His voice was ghostly shrill. 
 
 "Why sounds yon stroke on beech 
 and oak. 
 
 Our moonlight circle's screen ? 
 Or whc comes hero to chase the deer. 
 
 Beloved of our Elfin Queen ? 
 Or who may dare on wold to wear 
 
 The fairies' fatal green V 
 
 "Up, Urgan, up ! to yon mortal hie, 
 For thou wei't christen'd man; 
 
 For cross or si<rn thou wilt not fly, 
 For mutter'd word or ban. 
 
 " Lay on him the curse of the with- 
 er'd heart, 
 The curse of the sleepless eye; 
 Till he wish and pray that his life 
 would part, 
 Nor yet find leave to die." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Ballad continued. 
 
 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green- 
 wood, 
 Though the birds have still'd their 
 singing; 
 The evening blaze doth Alice raise. 
 And Richard is faggots bringing. 
 
 Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf 
 
 Before Lord Richard stands, 
 And, as he cross'd and bless'd him- 
 self, 
 "I fear not sign," quoth the grisly 
 elf, 
 " That ismade with bloody hands." 
 
 But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, 
 That woman void of fear, — 
 
 "And if there's blood upon his hand, 
 'Tis but the blood of deer." 
 
 "Now loud thou liest, thou bold of 
 mood ! 
 
 It cleaves unto his hand, 
 The stain of thine own kindly blood. 
 
 The blood of Ethert Brand." 
 
 Then forward stepp'd she, Alice 
 Brand, 
 And made the holy sign, — 
 "And if there's blood on Richard's 
 hand, 
 A spotless hand is mine. 
 
 "xVnd I conjure thee. Demon elf. 
 By Him whom Demons fear. 
 
 To show TIS whence thou art thyself, 
 And what thine errand here ?" — 
 
 XV. 
 
 Ballad continued. 
 
 " 'Tis merry, 'tis merry in Fairy-land, 
 When fairy birds are singing. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE, 
 
 39 
 
 When the court doth ride "by their 
 monarch's side, 
 With bit and bridle ringing: 
 
 "And gaily shines the Fairy-land — 
 But all is glistening show, 
 
 Like the idle gleam that December's 
 beam 
 Can dart on ice and snow. 
 
 "And fading, like that varied gleam, 
 
 Is our inconstant shape, 
 Who now like knight and lady seem, 
 
 And now like dwarf and ape. 
 
 "It was between the night and day, 
 
 When the Fairy King has power. 
 That I sunk down in a sinful fray. 
 And 'twixt life and death, was snatch'd 
 away 
 To the joyless Elfin bower. 
 
 " But wist I of a woman bold, 
 Who thrice my brow durst sign, 
 
 I might regain my mortal mold. 
 As fair a form as thine." 
 
 She cross'd him once — she cross'd 
 him twice — 
 
 That lady was so brave; 
 The fouler grew his goblin hue. 
 
 The darker grew the cave. 
 
 She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold. 
 He rose beneath her hand 
 
 The fairest knight on Scottish mold, 
 Her brother, Ethert Brand ! 
 
 Merrry it is in good greenwood, 
 When tbe mavis and merle are 
 singing, 
 But merrier were they in Dunferm- 
 line grey. 
 When all the bells were ringing. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Just as the minstrel sounds were 
 
 staid, 
 A stranger climb'd the steepy glade: 
 His martial step, his stately mien, 
 His hunting suit of Lincoln green, 
 His eagle glau ce, remembrance claims, 
 'Tis Snowdoun's Knight, 'tis Jamea 
 
 Fitz-Jumes. 
 Ellen beheld as in a dream, 
 
 Then, starting, scarce suppress'd a 
 
 scream : 
 " O stranger ! in such hour of fear, 
 What evil hap has brought thee 
 
 here?" — 
 "An evil hap how can it be, 
 That bids me look again on thee? 
 By promise bound, my former guide 
 Met me betimes this morning tide, 
 And marshall'd, over bank andbournc, 
 The happy path of my return." — 
 "The happy path! — what! said he 
 
 nought 
 Of war, of battle to be fought, 
 Of guarded pass?' — "No, by my 
 
 faith ! 
 Nor saw I aught could augur scathe. " — 
 "0 haste thee, Allan, to tbe kern, 
 — Yonder his tartans I discern; 
 Learn thou his purpose, and conjure 
 That he will guide the stranger sure ! — 
 What prompted thee, unhappy man ? 
 The meanest serf in Roderick's clan 
 Had not been bribed by love or fear. 
 Unknown to him to guide thee 
 
 here." — 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "Sweet Helen, dear my life must be, 
 Since it is worthy care from thee; 
 Yet life I hold but idle breath, 
 When love or honour's weigh'd with 
 
 death. 
 Then let me profit by my chance. 
 And speak my purpose bold at once. 
 I come to bear thee from a wild, 
 Where ne'er before such blossom 
 
 smiled, 
 By this soft hand to lead thee far 
 From frantic scenes of feud and war. 
 Near Bochastle my horses wait; 
 They bear us soon to Stirling gate. 
 I'll place thee in a lovely bower, 
 I'll guard thee like a tender flower." — 
 "0 ! hush, Sir Knight ! 'twere female 
 
 art, 
 To say I do not read thy heart; 
 Too much, before, my seliish ear 
 Yv^as idly soothed my praise to hear 
 That fatal bait hath lured thee back, 
 In deathful hour, o'er dangerous 
 
 track; 
 
40 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And how, how, can I atone 
 The wreck my vanity brought on ! — 
 One way remains— I'll tell him all— 
 Yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall ! 
 Thou, whose light folly bears the 
 
 blame, 
 Buy thine own pardon with thy 
 
 shame ! 
 But first— my father is a man 
 Outlaw'd and exiled, under ban; 
 The price of blood is on his head, 
 "With me 'twcro infamy to wed. — 
 Still wouldst thou speak ? — then hear 
 
 the truth ! 
 Fitz-James, there is a noble youth,— 
 If yet he i;3 !— exposed for me 
 And mine to dread extremity — 
 Thou hast the secret of my heart: 
 Forgive, be generous, and depart !" 
 
 xvm. 
 
 Fitz-James knew every wily train 
 
 A lady's fickle heart to gain; 
 
 But here he knew and felt them 
 
 vain. 
 There shot no glance from Ellen's 
 
 eye, 
 To give her steadfast speech the lie; 
 In maiden confidence she stood, 
 Though mantled in her cheek the 
 
 blood, 
 And told her love with such a sigh 
 Of deep and hopeless agony. 
 As death had seal'd her Malcolm's 
 
 doom, 
 And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. 
 Hopovanish'd from litz-James'seye, 
 But not with hope fled sympathy. 
 He proffer'd to attend her side. 
 As brother would a sister guide.— 
 " ! little know'st thou Eoderick's 
 
 heart ! 
 !:afer for both we go apart. 
 O haste thee, and from Allan learn, 
 If thou may'st trust yon wily kern." 
 With hand upon his forehead laid, 
 The conflict of his mind to shade, 
 A parting step or two he made; 
 Then, as some thought had cross'd 
 
 his brain, 
 He paused, and turn'd, and came 
 
 again. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ' ' Hear, lady, yet, a parting word ! — 
 It chanced in fight that my poor 
 
 Bword 
 Preserved the life of Scotland's lord. 
 This ring the grateful monarch gave, 
 And bade when I had boon to crave. 
 To bring it back, and boldly claim 
 The recompense that I would name. 
 Ellen, I am no courtly lord, 
 But one who lives by lance and 
 
 sword. 
 Whose castle is his helm and shield, 
 His lordship the embattled field. 
 What from a prince can I demand, 
 Who neither wreck of state nor land ? 
 Ellen, thy hand — the ring i:5 thine; 
 Each guard and usher knows the 
 
 sign. 
 Seek thou the king without delay; 
 This signet shall secure thy way; 
 And claim thy suit, whate'er it be, 
 As ransom of his pledge to me." 
 He placed the golden circlet on, 
 Paused — kiss'd her hand — and then 
 
 was gone. 
 The aged Minstrel stood aghast. 
 So hastily Fitz-James shot past. 
 He join'd his guide, and wending 
 
 down 
 The ridges of the mountain brown, 
 Across the stream they took their 
 
 way. 
 That joins Loch Katrine to Achray. 
 
 XX. 
 
 All in the Trosach's glen was still. 
 Noontide was sleeping on the hill; 
 Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and 
 
 high— 
 " Murdoch ! was that a signal cry ?" — 
 He stammer'd forth, — "I shout to 
 
 scare 
 Yon raven from his dainty fare." 
 He look'd — he knew the raven's prey, 
 Ilis own brave steed: — "Ah ! gallant 
 
 grey ! 
 For thee — for me, perchance — 'twere 
 
 well 
 We ne'er had seen the Trosach's 
 
 dell.— 
 Murdoch, move first — but silently; 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE 
 
 41 
 
 Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt 
 
 die !" 
 Jealous and sullen on they fared, 
 Each silent, each upon his guard. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 N'ow wound the path its dizzy ledge 
 A-rqund a precipice's edge, 
 When lo ! a wasted female form. 
 Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, 
 In tatter' d weeds and wild array, 
 Stood on a cliff beside the way, 
 And glancing round her restless eye. 
 Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, 
 Seem'd nought to mark, yet all to spy. 
 Her brow was wreath' d with gaudy 
 
 broom ; 
 With gesture wild she waved a plume 
 Of feathers, which the eagles lling 
 To crag and cliff from dusky wing ; 
 Such spoils her desperate step had 
 
 sought, 
 Where scarce was footing for the 
 
 goat. 
 The tartan plaid she first descried. 
 And shriek'd till all the rocks replied ; 
 As loud she laugh'd when near they 
 
 drew, 
 For then the Lowland garb she knew ; 
 And then her hands she wildlywrung, 
 And then she wept, and then she 
 
 sung — 
 She sung ! — the voice, in better time, 
 Perchance to harp or lute might 
 
 chime ; 
 And now, though strain'd and rough- 
 
 en'd, still 
 Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Song. 
 
 They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, 
 They say my brain is warp'd and 
 wrung — 
 I cannot sleep on Highland brae, 
 
 I cannot pray in Highland tongue. 
 But were I now where Allan* glides, 
 Or heard my native Devan's tides, 
 So sweetly would I rest, and pray 
 
 * Allan and Devan, two rivers numiug 
 throusli Stirling Plaiu. 
 
 That Heaven would close my wintry 
 day! 
 
 'Twas thus my hair they bade me 
 braid, 
 They made me to the church re- 
 pair ; 
 It was my bridal mom they said, 
 And my true love would meet me 
 there. 
 But woo betide the cruel guile. 
 That drown'd in blood the morning 
 
 smile ! 
 And woe betide the fairy dream 1 
 I only wak'd to sob and scream. 
 
 xxin. 
 
 "Who is this maid? what means 
 
 her lay ? 
 She hovers o'er the hollow way, 
 And flutters wide her mantle grey. 
 As the lone heron spreads his wing. 
 By twilight, o'er a haunted spring." — 
 " 'Tis Blanche of Devan," Murdoch 
 
 said, 
 "A crazed and captive Lowland maid, 
 Ta'cn on the mom she was a bride, 
 Yv^hen Iloderick foray'd Devan-side. 
 The gay bridegroom resistance made, 
 And felt our Chief's unconquer'd 
 
 blade ; 
 I marvel she is now at large, 
 But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's 
 
 charge. — 
 Hence, brain-sick fool !" — He raised 
 
 his bow : — 
 ' ' Now, if thou strikest her but one 
 
 blow, 
 I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far 
 As ever peasant pitch'd a bar !" — 
 "Thanks, champion, thanks!" the 
 
 Maniac cried, 
 And press'd her to Fitz-James's side. 
 " See the grey pennons I prepare, 
 To seek my true-love through the air; 
 I will not lend that savage groom. 
 To break his fall, one downy plume ! 
 No ! — deep amid disjointed stones, 
 The'Wolves shall batten on his bones, 
 And then shall his detested plaid, 
 By bush and briar in mid-air staid, 
 Wave forth a banner fair and free, 
 Meet signal for their revelry."— 
 
42 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ••Hush thee, poor maiden, and be 
 
 still !"— 
 " O ! thoulook'st kindly, and I will.— 
 Mine eye has dried and wasted been, 
 But still it lo^es the Lincoln green ; 
 And, though mine ear is all unstrung. 
 Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue. 
 
 ' ' For O my sweet V/illiam was for- 
 ester true. 
 He stole i30or Blanche's heart away! 
 His coat it was all of the greenwood 
 hue, 
 And so blithely he trill'd the Low- 
 land lay ! 
 
 '• It was not that I meant to tell 
 But thou art wise and guessest well." 
 Then, in a low and broken tone. 
 And hurried note, the song went on. 
 Still on the Clansman, fearfully, 
 She fix'd her apprehensive eye; 
 Then turn'd it on the Knight, and 
 
 then 
 Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " The toils are pitch'd, and the 
 stakes are set. 
 Ever sing merrily, merrily ; 
 The bows they bend, and the knives 
 they whet, 
 Hunters live so cherrily. 
 
 *'It was a stag, a stag of ten,* 
 Bearing its branches sturdily; 
 
 He came stately down the glen, 
 Ever sing hardily, hardily. 
 
 *' It was there he met with a wounded 
 doe, 
 
 She was bleeding deathfully; 
 She warn'd him of the toils below, 
 
 0, so faithfully, faithfully ! 
 
 "He had an eye, and he could heed. 
 
 Ever sing warily, warily; 
 He had a foot, and he could speed — 
 
 Hunters watch so narrowly." 
 
 ' Of ten branches to bis antlers; a rojal or 
 juiblc deer. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Fitz-James's mind was passion-toss'd, 
 "When Ellen's hints and fears were 
 
 lost; 
 But Murdoch's shout suspicion 
 
 wrought, 
 And Blanche's song conviction 
 
 brought. — 
 Not like a stag that spies the snare. 
 But lion of the hunt aware. 
 He waved at once his blade on high, 
 " Disclose thy treachery, or die !" 
 Forth at full speed the Clansman 
 
 flew. 
 But in his race his bow he drew. 
 The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's 
 
 crest, 
 And thrill'd in Blanche's faded 
 
 breast, — 
 Murdoch of Alpine ! prove thy speed. 
 Fur ne'er had Aljjine's son such need! 
 With heart of fire, and foot of wind, 
 The fierce a-«^enger is behind ! 
 Fate jddges of the rapid strife-^ 
 The forfeit death— the prize is life ! 
 Thy kindred ambush lies before, 
 Close couch'd upon the heathery 
 
 moor; 
 Them couldst thou reach — it may not 
 
 be— 
 Thine ambush'd kin thou ne'er shalt 
 
 see. 
 The fiery Saxon gains on thee ! 
 — Resistless speeds the deadly thrust. 
 As lightning strikes the pine to dust; 
 With foot and hand Fitz-James must 
 
 strain, 
 Ere he can win his blade again. 
 Bent o'er the fab'n, with falcon eye, 
 He grimly smiled to see him die; 
 Then slower wended back his way, 
 Where the poor maiden bleeding lay. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 She sate beneath the birchen-tree, 
 Her elbow resting oa her knee; 
 She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, 
 And gazed on it, and feebly laugh'd; 
 Her wreath of broom and feathers 
 
 grey, 
 Daggled with blood, beside her lay. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 The Knight to stanch the life-stream 
 
 tried, — 
 "Stranger, it is in vain !" she cried. 
 "This hour of death has given me 
 
 more 
 Of reason's power than years before; 
 For, as these ebbing veins decay, 
 My frenzied visions fade away. 
 A helpless injured wretch I die, 
 And something tells me in thine eye. 
 That thou wert mine avenger born. — 
 Seest thou this tress ? — ! still I've 
 
 worn 
 This little tress of yellow hair, 
 Through danger, frenzy, and despair! 
 It once was brif^htand clear as thine, 
 But blood and tears have dimm'd its 
 
 shine. 
 I will not tell thee when 'twas shred, 
 Nor from what guiltless victim's 
 
 head — 
 My brain would turn ! — but it shall 
 
 wave 
 Like plumage on thy helmet brave, 
 Till sun and wind shall bleach the 
 
 stain, 
 And thou wilt bring it me again. — 
 I waver still. — God ! more bright 
 Let reason beam her parting light ! — 
 O ! by thy knighthood's honour'd 
 
 sign, 
 And for thy life preserved by mine. 
 When thou shalt see a darksome man. 
 Who boasts him -Chief of Alpine's 
 
 Clan, 
 With tartans broad and shadowy 
 
 plume, 
 And hand of blood, and brow of 
 
 gloom, 
 Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, 
 And wreak poor Blanche of Devon's 
 
 wrong !— 
 They watch for thee by pass and 
 
 fell . . . 
 Avoid the path .... God ! . . . . 
 
 farewell." 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James; 
 Fast pour'd his eyes at pity's claims. 
 And now with mingled grief and ire, 
 He saw the murder'd maid expire. 
 
 " God, in my need, be my relief. 
 As I wreak this on yonder Chief ! " 
 A lock from Blanche's tresses fair 
 He blended with her bridegroom's 
 
 hair; 
 The mingled braid in blood he dyed, 
 And placed it on his bonnet-side: 
 **By Him whose word is truth ! I 
 
 swear, 
 No other favour will I wear. 
 Till this sad token I imbrue 
 In the best blood of Eoderick Dhu ! 
 — But hark ! what means yon faint 
 
 halloo ? 
 The chase is up, — but they shall know, 
 The stag at bay's a dangerous foe." 
 Barr'd from the known but guarded 
 
 way 
 Through copse and cliffs Fitz-James 
 
 must stray. 
 And oft must change his desperate 
 
 track. 
 By stream and precipice turn'd back. 
 Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at 
 
 length, 
 From lack of food and loss of strength, 
 He couch 'd him in a thicket hoar, 
 And thought his toils and perils 
 
 o'er: — 
 "Of all my rash adventures past. 
 This frantic feat must prove the last ! 
 Who e'er so mad but might have 
 
 guess'd, 
 That all this Highland hornet's nest 
 Y/ould muster up in swarms so soon 
 As e'er they heard of bands at 
 
 Doune? — 
 Like bloodhounds now they search 
 
 me out, — 
 Hark, to the whistle and the shout ! — 
 If farther through the wilds I go, 
 I only fall upon the foe: 
 I'll couch me here till evening grey, 
 Then darkling try my dangerous 
 
 way. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The shades of eve come slowly down, 
 The woods are wrajDt in deeper brown, 
 The owl awakens from her dell. 
 The fox is heard upon the fell; 
 Enough remains of glimmering light 
 
 \ 
 
44 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 To guide the wanderer's steps aright. 
 Yet not enough from far to show 
 Tlis figure to the watchful foe. 
 With cautious step, and ear awake, 
 He climbs the crag and threads the 
 
 brake ; 
 And not the summer solstice, there, 
 Tempcr'd the midnight mountain air, 
 But every breeze, that swept the wold, 
 Benumb'd his drenched limbs with 
 
 cold. 
 In dread, in danger, and alone, 
 Famish'd and chill'd, through ways 
 
 unknown, 
 Tangled and steep, he journey'd on; 
 Till, as a rock's huge point he turn'd, 
 A watch-fire close before him burn'd. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Beside its embers red and clear, 
 Bask'd, in his plaid, a mountaineer; 
 And up he sprung with sword in 
 
 hand, — 
 " Thy name and purpose ! Saxon, 
 
 stand!"— 
 " A stranger." — " AVhat dost thou re- 
 quire V '' — 
 " Eest and a guide, and food and fire. 
 My life's beset, my path is lost, 
 The gale has chill'd my limbs with 
 
 frost."— 
 " Art thou a friend to Eoderick ?" — 
 
 "No."— 
 "Thou darest not call thyself a foe ?" — 
 " I dare ! to him and all the band 
 lie brings to aid his murderous 
 
 hand," — 
 "Bold words ! — but, though the beast 
 
 of game 
 The privilege of chase may claim, 
 Though space and law the stag we 
 
 lend, 
 Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend, 
 ^Vho ever reck'd, where, how, or when, 
 The prowling fox was trapp'd or slain ? 
 Thus treacherous scouts, — yet sure 
 
 they lie. 
 Who say thou camest a secret spy!" — 
 "They do, by heaven ! — Come iloder- 
 
 ick Dhu, 
 And of his clan the boldest two, 
 And let me but till morning rest, 
 
 I wri ' e the falsehood on their crest. — 
 " If by the blaze I mark aright. 
 Thou bear'st the belt and spur of 
 
 Knight."— 
 '*Then by these tokens may est thou 
 
 know 
 Each proud oppressor's mortal foe." — 
 ' • Enough, enough ; sit down and share 
 A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 He gave him of his Highland cheer, 
 The harden'd flesh of mountain deer; 
 Dry fuel on the fire he laid. 
 And bado the Saxon share his plaid. 
 He tended him like welcome guest, 
 Then thus his farther speech ad- 
 
 dress'd. 
 " Stranger, I am to Eoderick Dhu 
 A clansman born, a kinsman true; 
 Each word against his honour spoke, 
 Demands of me avenging stroke; 
 Yet more, — upon thy fate, 'tis said, 
 A mighty augury is laid, 
 It rests with me to wind my horn, — 
 Thou art with numbers overborne, 
 It lests with me, here, brand to 
 
 brand, 
 Y7orn as thou art, to bid thee stand: 
 But, not for clan, nor kindred's cause, 
 V/iil I dspart from honour's laws; 
 To assail a wearied man were shame. 
 And stranger is a holy name; 
 Guidance and rest„and food and fire. 
 In vain he never must require. 
 Then rest thee hero till dawn of day; 
 Myself will guide thee on the way, 
 0"cr stock and stone, through watch 
 
 and ward, 
 Till past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard, 
 As far as Coilantogle's ford ; 
 From thence thy warrant is thy 
 
 sword." — 
 "I take thy courtesy, by heaven, 
 As freely as 'tis nobly given !" 
 " Well, rest thee; for the bittern's cry 
 Sings us the lake's wild lullaby." 
 Yvlth that he shook the gather'd heath,* 
 And spread his plaid upon the wreath ; 
 And the brave foemen, side by side 
 Lay peaceful down, like brother's 
 
 tried, 
 
Tli±: LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 45 
 
 And slept until tlie dawning beam 
 Purpled the mountain and tlie 
 stream. 
 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 
 The Combat. 
 
 I. 
 
 Faib as the earliest beam of eastern 
 ligbt, 
 When first, by the bewilder'd pil- 
 grim spied, 
 It smiles upon the dreary brow of 
 night, 
 And silvers o'er the torrent's foam- 
 ing tide, 
 And lights the fearful path on moun- 
 tain side, 
 Fair as that beam, although the 
 fairest far, 
 Giving to horror grace, to danger 
 pride. 
 Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy's 
 bright star, 
 Through all thevreckful storms that 
 cloud the brow of Y/ar. 
 
 II. 
 
 That early beam, so fair and sheen, 
 Was twinkling through the ha:rel 
 
 screen. 
 When, rousing at its glimmer red, 
 The warriors left their lowly bed, 
 Look'd out upon the dappled sky, 
 Mutter'd their soldier matins by, 
 And then awaked their fire, to steal. 
 As short and rude, their soldier meal. 
 That o'er, the Gael* around him threw 
 His graceful plaid of varied hue, 
 And, true to promise, led the way, 
 By thicket green and mountain grey. 
 A wilderingpath ! — they winded now 
 Along the precipice's brow, 
 Commanding the rich scenes beneath, 
 The windings of the Forth and Teith, 
 And all the vales beneath that lie, 
 Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky; 
 Then, sunk in copse, their farthest 
 
 glance 
 
 * Gael, the ancient or Celtic name of a High- 
 lander. 
 
 Gain'd not the length of horseman's 
 
 lance. 
 'Twas oft so steep, the foot was fain 
 Assistance from the hand to gain ; 
 So tangled oft, that, bursting through, 
 Each hawthorn shed her showers of 
 
 dew, — 
 That diamond dew, so pure and clear, 
 It rivals all but Beauty's tear ! 
 
 in. 
 
 At length they came where, stern and 
 
 steep. 
 The hill sinks down upon the deep. 
 Here Vennachar in silver iiows, 
 There, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose; 
 Ever the hollow path twined on. 
 Beneath steep bank and threatening 
 
 stone ; 
 An hundred men might hold the 
 
 post 
 With hardihood against a host. 
 The rugged mountain's scanty cloak 
 Was dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak, 
 With shingles bare, and clifis be- 
 tween. 
 And patches bright of bracken green. 
 And heather black, that waved so 
 
 high, 
 It held the copse in rivalry. 
 Jut where the lake slept deep and 
 
 still. 
 Dank oziers fringed the swamp and 
 
 hill; 
 -Vnd oft both path and hill were torn, 
 \Vhere wintry torrents down h.id 
 
 borne. 
 And heap'd upon Iho cumber'd land 
 Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand. 
 So toilsome was the road to trace, 
 The guide, abating of his pace, 
 Led slowly through the pass's jaws 
 And ask'd Fitz-James, by what 
 
 strange cause 
 He sought these wilds ? traversed by 
 
 few, 
 Without a pass from Eoderick Dhu. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "Brave Gael, my pass in danger 
 
 tried, 
 Hangs in my belt and by my side; 
 
46 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAJL WORKS. 
 
 Yet, Booth to tell," the Saxon said, 
 " I dreamt not now to claim its aid. 
 When here, but three daj^s since, I 
 
 came, 
 Bewilder'd in pursuit of game. 
 All seem'd as peaceful and as still, 
 As the mist slumbering on yon hill; 
 Thy dangerous Chief was then afar, 
 Nor soon expected back from war. 
 Thus said, at least, my mountain- 
 guide. 
 Though deep, perchance, the villain 
 
 lied."— 
 "Yet why a second venture try?" 
 "A warrior thou, and ask me why! — 
 MovfcS our free course by such fix'd 
 
 cause, 
 As gives the poor mechanic laws: 
 Enough, I sought to drive away 
 The lazy hours of peaceful day: 
 Slight cause will then suffice to guide 
 A Knight's free footsteps far and 
 
 wide — 
 A falcon flown, a greyhound stray'd. 
 The merry glance of mountain-maid : 
 Or, if a path be dangerous known, 
 The danger's self is lure alone." 
 
 " Thy secret keep, I urge thee not;— 
 Yet, ere again ye sought this spot. 
 Say, heard ye nought of Lowland war, 
 Against Clan- Alpine, raised by Mar T' 
 — " No, by my word;— of bands pre- 
 pared 
 To guard King James's sports I 
 
 heard; 
 Nor doubt I aught, but, when they 
 
 hear 
 This muster of the mountaineer. 
 Their pennons will abroad be flung, 
 Which else in Doune had peaceful 
 
 hung." — 
 •'Free be they flung! — for we were 
 
 loth 
 Their silken folds should feast the 
 
 moth. 
 Free be they flung!— as free shall 
 
 wave 
 Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave. 
 But, Stranger, peaceful since you 
 
 came, 
 
 Bewilder'd in the mountain game. 
 Whence the bold boast by which you 
 
 show 
 Vich-Alpine's vow'd and mortal 
 
 foe?"— 
 ' ' Warrior, but yester-morn, I knew 
 Nought* of thy Chieftain, Roderick 
 
 Dhu, 
 Save as an outlaw'd desperate man, 
 The chief of a rebellious clan, 
 Who, in the Regent's court and sight. 
 With ruffian dagger stabb'd a knight: 
 Yet this alone might from his part 
 Sever each true and loyal heart." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Wrothful at such arraignment foul. 
 Dark lower'd the clansman's sable 
 
 scowl, 
 A ppace he paused, then sternly said, 
 ' ' Ajid heard'st thou why he drew his 
 
 blade ? 
 Heard'st thou that shameful word 
 
 and blow 
 Brought Roderick's vengeance on his 
 
 foe? 
 What reck'd the Chieftain if he stood 
 On Highland's heath, or Holy-Rood? 
 He rights such wrong where it is 
 
 given. 
 If it were in the court of heav- 
 en," — 
 " Still was it outrage; — yet, 'tis true, 
 Not then claim'd sovereignty his due; 
 While Albany, with feeble hand, 
 Held borrow'd truncheon of com- 
 mand. 
 The young King, mew'd in Stirling 
 
 tower. 
 Was stranger to respect and power. 
 But then, thy Chieftain's robber 
 
 life !— 
 Winning mean prey by causeless 
 
 strife. 
 Wrenching from ruin'd Lowland 
 
 swain 
 His herds and harvest rear'd in 
 
 vain. — 
 Methinks a soul, like thine, should 
 
 scorn 
 The spoils from such foul foray 
 
 borne." 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 47. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Gael beheld him grim the while, 
 And answer'd with disdainful smile,— 
 ' ' Saxon, from yonder mountain high, 
 I mark'd thee send delighted eye. 
 Far to the south and east, where lay. 
 Extended in succession gay, 
 Deep waving fields and pastures 
 
 green, 
 With gentle slopes and groves be- 
 tween: — 
 These fertile plains, th^t soften'dvale, 
 Were once the birthright of the Geel; 
 The stranger came with iron hand, 
 And from our fathers reft the land. 
 Where dwell we now? See, rudely 
 
 swell 
 Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. 
 Ask we this savage hill we tread. 
 For fatten'd steer or household bread : 
 Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, 
 And well the mountain might reply, — 
 • To you, as to your sires of yore, 
 Belong the target and claymore ! 
 I give you shelter in my breast, 
 Your own good blades must win the 
 
 re^.' 
 Pent in this fortress of the North, 
 Think'st thou we will not sally forth, 
 To spoil the spoiler as we may, 
 And from the robber rend the prey? 
 Ay, by my soul! — While on yon plain 
 The Saxon rears one shock of grain; 
 While, of ten thousand herds, there 
 
 strays 
 But one along yon river's maze, — 
 The Gael, of plain and river heir, 
 Shall, with strong hand, redeem his 
 
 share. 
 Where live the mountain chiefs who 
 
 hold. 
 That plundering Lowland field and 
 
 fold 
 Is aught but retribution true? 
 Seek other cause 'gainst Koderick 
 
 Dhu."— 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Answer'd Fitz- James, — "And, if I 
 
 sought, 
 Think'st thou no other could be 
 
 brought? 
 
 What deem ye of my path waylaid ? 
 My life given o'er to ambuscade?" — 
 " As of a meed to rashness due: 
 Hadst thou sent warning fair and 
 
 true, — 
 I seek my hound, or falcon stray 'd, 
 I seek, good faith, a Highland maid, — 
 Free hadst thou been to come and go ; 
 But secret path mark secret foe. 
 Nor yet, for this, even as a spy, 
 Hadst thou, unheard, been doom'd 
 
 to die. 
 Save to fulfil an augury." — 
 " Well, let it pass; nor will I now 
 Fresh cause of enmity vow, 
 To chafe thy mood and cloud thy 
 
 brow. 
 Enough, I am by promise tied 
 To match me with this man of pride: 
 Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's 
 
 glen 
 In peace ; but when I come agen, 
 I come with banner, brand, and 
 
 bow. 
 As leader seeks his mortal foe. 
 For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower, 
 Ne'er panted for the appointed hour, 
 As I, until before me stand 
 This rebel Chieftain and his band!" — 
 
 IX. 
 
 "Have, then, thy wish!" — he whistled 
 
 shrill, 
 And he was answer'd from the hill; 
 Y/ild as the scream of the curlew, 
 From crag to crag the signal flew. 
 Instant, through copse and heath, 
 
 arose 
 Bonnets and spears and bended bows; 
 On right, on left, above, below. 
 Sprung up at once the lurking foe; 
 From shingles grey their lances start. 
 The bracken bush sends forth the 
 
 dart, 
 The rushes and the willow-wand 
 Are bristling into axe and brand, 
 And every tuft of broom gives life 
 To plaided warrior Srm'd for strife. 
 That whistle garrison'd the glen 
 At once with full five hundred men, 
 As if the yawning hill to heaven 
 A subterranean host had given. 
 
48 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WOliKF. 
 
 "Watching their leader's beck and 
 
 will, 
 All silent there they stood, and still. 
 Like the loose crags, whose threaten- 
 ing mass 
 Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, 
 As if an infant's touch would urge 
 Their headlong passage down the 
 
 verge, 
 "With step and v/eapon forward flung, 
 Upon the mountain-side they hung. 
 The Mountaineer cast glance of pride 
 Along Benledi's living side, 
 Then fix'd his eye and sable brow 
 Full on Fitz James —'• How say'st 
 
 thou now ? 
 These are Clan-Alpine's warriors 
 
 true; 
 And, Saxon, — I am Eoderick Dhu !" 
 
 X. 
 
 Fitz-James was brave :— Though to 
 
 his heart 
 The life-blood thrill'd with sudden 
 
 start. 
 He mann'd himself with dauntless 
 
 air, 
 Eeturn'd the chief his haughty stare, 
 His back against a rock he bore, 
 And firmly placed his foot before : — 
 "Come one, come all! this rock shall 
 
 fly 
 
 From its firm base as soon as I." 
 Sir Koderick mark'd — and in his eyes 
 llespect was mingled v.- ith surprise, 
 And the stern joy which warriors led 
 In foemcn worthy of their steel. 
 Short space he ttood — then v/a/ed 
 
 his hand: 
 Down sunk the disappearing band; 
 Each warrior vanish'd where he stood, 
 In broom or bracken, heath or wood; 
 Sunk brand and spear and bended 
 
 bow. 
 In osiers pale and copses low; 
 It seem'd as if their mother Earth 
 Had swallow'd up her warlike birth. 
 The wind's last breath had toss'd in 
 
 air, 
 Pennon, and plaid, and plumage 
 
 fair, — 
 The next but swept a lone hill-side, 
 
 "Where heath and fern were waving 
 
 wide : 
 The sun's last glance was glinted 
 
 back 
 From spear and glaive, from targe 
 
 and jack,— 
 The next, all unreflected, shone 
 On bracken green, and cold grey 
 
 stone. 
 
 XL 
 
 Fitz-James look'd round — yet scarce 
 
 believed 
 The witness that his sight received; 
 Such apparition well might seeia 
 Delusion of a dreadful dream. 
 Sir Koderick in suspense he eyed, 
 And to his look the Chief replied, 
 "Fear nought— nay, that 1 need not 
 
 say- 
 But — doubt not ought from mine ar- 
 ray. 
 Thou art my guest;— I pledged my 
 
 word 
 As far as Coilantoglo ford: 
 Nor would I call a clansman's brand 
 For aid against one vahant hand. 
 Though on our strife lay every vale 
 Bent by the Saxon from the Gael. 
 So move we on; — I only meant 
 To show the reed on which you leant, 
 Deeming this path you might pursue 
 Without a pass from lioderick Dhu." 
 They moved : — I said Fitz-James was, 
 
 brave, • J 
 
 As ever knight that belted glaive; ( 
 Yet dare not say, that now his blood \ 
 Kept on its wont and temper'd flood, * 
 As, following lioderick's stride, he 
 
 drew I 
 
 That seeming lonesome pathway 
 
 through. 
 Which yet, by fearful proof, Vv'as rife 
 With lances, that, to take his life. 
 Waited but signal from a guide, 
 So late dishonour'd and defied. 
 Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round 
 The vanish'd guardians of the ground, 
 And still, from copse and heathei* 
 
 deep. 
 Fancy saw spear and broadsword 
 
 peep, 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 49 
 
 And in the plover's slirilly strain, 
 The signal whistle heard again. 
 Nor breathed he free till far behind 
 The pass was left; forlhen they wind 
 Along a wide and level green, 
 ■\Vhere neither tree nor tuft was seen, 
 Nor rush, nor bush of broom was 
 
 near, 
 To hide a bonnet or a spear. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Chief in silence strode before, 
 And reach' d that torrent's sounding 
 
 shore, 
 Which, daughter of three mighty 
 
 lakes. 
 From Vennachar in silver breaks, 
 Sweeps through the plain, and cease- 
 less mines 
 On Bochastle the mouldering lines, 
 \7here Borne, the Empress of the 
 
 world. 
 Of yore her eagle wings unfurl'd. 
 And here his course the Chieftain 
 
 staid, 
 Threw down his target and his plaid, 
 And to the Lowland warrior said: — 
 " Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, 
 Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust. 
 This murderous Chief, this ruthless 
 
 man, 
 This head of a rebellous clan, 
 Hath led thee, safe through watch and 
 
 ward, 
 Far past Clan- Alpine's outmost guard. 
 Now, man to man, and steel to steel, 
 A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt 
 
 feel. 
 See here, all vantageless I stand, 
 Arra'd, like thyself, with single brand: 
 For this is Coilantogle ford. 
 And thou must keep thee with thy 
 
 sword." 
 
 xm. 
 
 The Saxon paused: — "Ine^^^ay'd, 
 When foeman bade lne~draw ray 
 
 blade ; 
 Nay, more, brave Chief, I vow'd thy 
 
 death : 
 Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, 
 And my deep debt for life preserved, 
 A better meed have well deserved: 
 
 Can nought but blood our feud atone ? 
 Are there no means?" — "No, Strang- 
 er, none ! 
 And hear, — to fire thy flagging zeal, — 
 The Saxon cause rests on thy steel ; 
 For thus spoke Fate, by prophet 
 
 bred 
 Between the living and the dead: 
 'Who spills the foremost foeman 's 
 
 life. 
 His party conquers in the strife.' " — 
 " Then, by my word," the Saxon said, 
 "The riddle is already read. 
 Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff, — 
 There lies Red Murdoch, stark and 
 
 stiff. 
 Thus Fate has solved her prophecy. 
 Then yield to Fate, and not to me. 
 To James, at Stirling, let us go, 
 Y/hen, if thou wilt be still his foe, 
 Or if the King shall not agree 
 To grant thee grace and favour free, 
 I plight mine honour, oath, and 
 
 word, 
 That, to thy native strengths re- 
 stored. 
 With each advantage shalt thou 
 
 stand, 
 That aids thee now to guard thy 
 land." 
 
 XIY. 
 Dark lightning flash'd from Hode- 
 
 rick's eye — • 
 'iSoars thy presumption, then, so 
 ^ high. 
 
 Because a wretched kern ye slew, 
 Homage to name to Koderick Dhu ? 
 He jdelds not, he, to man nor Fate ! 
 Thou add'st but fuel to my hate: — 
 My clansman's blood demands re- 
 venge. 
 Not yet prepared? — By heaven, I 
 
 change 
 My thought,and hold thy valour light 
 As that of some vain carpet knight, 
 Who ill deserved my courteous care. 
 And whose best boast is but to wear 
 A braid of his fair lady's hair." — 
 "I thank thee, Eoderick, for the 
 
 word! 
 It nerves my heart, it steels my 
 sword ; 
 
50 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 For I have sworn this braid to stain 
 In the best blood that warms thy 
 
 vein. 
 Now, truce farewell ! and, ruth, be- 
 gone ! — 
 Yet think not that by thee alone, 
 Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown ! 
 Though not from copse, or heath, or 
 
 cairn, 
 Start at my whistle clansmen stern, 
 Of this small horn one feeble blast 
 Would fearful odds against thee cast. 
 But fear not — doubt not — which thou 
 
 wilt— 
 "We try this quarrel hilt to hilt," — 
 Then each at once his falchion drew, 
 Each on the ground his scabbard 
 
 threw. 
 Each look'd to sun, and stream, and 
 
 plain, 
 As what they ne'er might see again ; 
 Then loot, and point, and eye ox^- 
 
 posed. 
 In dubious strife they darkly closed. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 
 That on the field his targe he threw, 
 Whose brazen studs and tough bull- 
 hide 
 Had death so often dash'd aside; 
 For, train' d abroad his arms to wield, 
 Fitz-James's blade was sword and 
 
 shield. I 
 
 He practiced every pass and ward, 
 To thrust, to strike, to feint, to 
 
 guard ; 
 Y/hila less expert, though stronger 
 
 far, 
 The Gael maintain'd unequal war. 
 Three times in closing strife they 
 
 stood, 
 And thrice the Saxon blade drank 
 
 blood; 
 No stinted draught, no scanty tide. 
 The gushing flood the tartans dyed. 
 Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain. 
 And shower'd his blows like wintry 
 
 rain; 
 And, as firm rock, or castle-roof. 
 Against the winter shower is proof, 
 The foe, invulnerable still, 
 
 Foil'd his wild rage by steady skill : 
 Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 
 Forced Roderick's weapon from his 
 
 hand. 
 And backward borne upon the lea. 
 Brought the proud chieftain to his 
 
 knee. 
 
 XVI. 
 ' ' Now, yield thee, or by Him who 
 
 made 
 The world, thv heart's blood dyes my 
 
 blade!" 
 "Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy ! 
 Let recreant yield, who fears to die." 
 — Like adder darting from his coil. 
 Like wolf that dashes through the 
 
 toil. 
 Like mountain-cat who guards her 
 
 young, 
 Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung; 
 Received, but reck'd not of a wound. 
 And lock'd his arms his foeman 
 
 round, — 
 Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! 
 No maiden's hand is round thee 
 
 thrown ! 
 That desperate grasp thy frame might 
 
 feel. 
 Through bars of brass and triple 
 
 steel ! — 
 They tug, they strain ! dovni, down 
 
 they go, 
 The Gael above, Fitz-James below. 
 The Chieftain's gripe his throat com- 
 
 press'd. 
 His knee was planted on his breast; 
 ilis clotted locks he backward threw, . 
 Across his brow his hand he drew. 
 From blood and mist to clear his 
 
 Then gleam'd aloft his dagger 
 
 bright ! — 
 — But hate and fury ill supplied 
 The stream of life's exhausted tide, 
 And all too late the advantage came, 
 To turn the odds of deadly game ; 
 For, while the dagger gleam'd on 
 
 high, 
 Reel'd soul and sense, reel'd brain 
 
 and eye, 
 Down came the blow ! but in the 
 
 heath 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 51 
 
 The erring blade found bloodless 
 
 sheath. 
 The struggling foe may now unclasp 
 The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp; 
 Unwounded from the dreadful close, 
 But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 He falter'd thanks to Heaven for life, 
 lledeem'd, unhoped, from desperate 
 
 strife ; 
 Next on his foe his look he cast, 
 Whose every gasp appear'd his last; 
 In Koderick's gore he dipt the 
 
 braid, — 
 "Poor Blanche! thy wrongs are 
 
 dearly paid: 
 Yet with thy foe must die, or live. 
 The praise that Faith and Valour 
 
 give." 
 With that he blew a buglo-note. 
 Undid the collar from his throat, 
 CFnbonneted, and by the wave 
 Sate down his brow and hands to lave. 
 Then faint afar are heard the feet 
 Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet; 
 The sounds increase, and now are 
 
 seen 
 Four mounted squires in Lincoln 
 
 green: 
 Two who bear lance, and two who 
 
 lead. 
 By loosen'd rein, a saddled steed: 
 Each onward held his headlong 
 
 course, 
 And by Fitz-James rein'd up his 
 
 horse, — 
 With wonder view'd the bloody 
 
 spot — 
 — "Exclaim not, gallants ! question 
 
 not. — 
 You, Herbert and Luffness, alight. 
 And bind the wounds of yonder 
 
 knight ; 
 Let the grey palfrey bear his weight, 
 Wo destined for a fairer freight, 
 And bring him on to Stirling straight : 
 I will before at better speed, 
 To seek fresh horse and fitting weed. 
 The sun rides high ; — I must be 
 
 boune,* 
 
 *Boune, prepared. 
 
 To see the archer-game at noon : 
 But lightly Bayard clears the lea. — 
 De Vaux and Herries, follow me. 
 
 xvm. 
 
 " stand. Bayard, stand !" — the steed 
 
 obey'd, 
 With arching neck and bending head, 
 And glancing eye and quivering ear 
 As if he loved his lord to hear. 
 No foot Fitz-James in stirrup staid, 
 No grasp upon the saddle laid, 
 But wreath'd his left hand in the 
 
 mane, 
 And lightly bounded from the plain, 
 Turn'd on the horse his arm'd heel, 
 And stirr'd his courage with the 
 
 Bteel. 
 Bounded the fiery steed in air, 
 The rider sate erect and fair. 
 Then like a bolt from steel crossbow 
 Forth launch'd, along the plain they 
 
 go- 
 They dash'd that rapid torrent 
 
 through, 
 And up Carhonie's hill they flew ; 
 Still at the gallop prick'd the Knight, 
 His merry-men foUow'd as they 
 
 might. 
 iUong thy banks, swift Teith ! they 
 
 ride, 
 iVnd in the race they mock'd thy 
 
 tide ; 
 Torry and Lendrick now are past, 
 ^Vnd Deanstown lies behind them 
 
 cast : 
 They rise, the banner'd towers of 
 
 Doune, 
 They sink in distant woodland soon ; 
 Blair-Drummond sees the hoof strike 
 
 fire. 
 They sweep like breeze through 
 
 Ochtertyre ; 
 They mark just glance and disappear 
 The lofty brow of ancient Kier ; 
 They bathe their courser's sweltering 
 
 sides, 
 Dark Forth ! amid thy sluggish tides, 
 And on the opposing shore take 
 
 ground, 
 With plash, with scramble, and with 
 
 bound. 
 
52 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Eight-hand they leave thy cliffs, 
 
 Craig-Forth ! 
 And soon the bulwark of the North, 
 Grey Stirling, with her towers and 
 
 town, 
 Upon their fleet career look'd down. 
 XIX. 
 
 As Tip the flinty path they strain'd 
 Sudden his steed the leader reinAl ; 
 A signal to his squire he flung, 
 Who instant to his stirrup sprung : — • 
 "Seestthou, Do Vaux, yon woods- 
 man grey, 
 Who town-ward holds the rocky way, 
 Of stature tall and poor array ? 
 Mark'st thou the firm, yet active 
 
 stride, 
 With which he scales the mountain- 
 side? 
 Know'st thou from whence he comes, 
 
 or whom ?" — 
 "No, by my word ; — a hurley groom 
 He seems, who in the field or chase 
 A baron's train would nobly grace. " — ■ 
 " Out, out, De Vaux! can fear supply, 
 And jealousy, no sharper eye ? 
 Afar, ere to the hill he drew. 
 That stately form and step I knew ; 
 Like form in Scotland is not seen, 
 Treads not such step on Scottish 
 
 green, 
 'Tis James of Douglas, by Saint Serle ! 
 The uncle of the banish d Earl. 
 Away, away, to court, to show 
 The near approach of dreaded foe : 
 The King must stand upon his guard : 
 Douglas and ho must meet prepared. " 
 Then right-hand wheel'd their steeds, 
 
 and straight 
 They won the castle's postern gate. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The Douglas, who had bent his way 
 From Cambus-Kenneth's abbey grey, 
 Now, as he climb'd the rocky shelf. 
 Held sad communion with himself ! — 
 "Yes! all is true my fears could 
 
 frame : 
 A prisoner lies the noble Graeme, 
 And fiery Roderick soon will feel 
 The vengeance of the royal steel. 
 I, only I, can ward their fate, — 
 
 God grant the ransom come not late ! 
 The Abbess hath her promise given, 
 My child shall be the bride of Hea- 
 ven ; — 
 — Be pardon 'd one repining tear ! 
 For He, who gave her, knows how 
 
 dear, 
 How excellent ! but that is by, 
 And now my business is — to die. 
 — Ye towers! within whose circuit 
 
 dread 
 A Douglas by his sovereign bled ; 
 And thou ! sad and fatal mound ! * 
 That oft hast heard the death-axe 
 
 sound, 
 As on the noblest of the land 
 Fell the stern headsman's bloody 
 
 hand, — 
 The dungeon, block, and nameless 
 
 tomb 
 Prepare — for Douglas seeks his 
 
 doom ! 
 — But hark! what blithe and jolly peal 
 Makes tho Franciscan steeple reel ? 
 And see ! upon the crowded street, 
 la motley groups what masquers 
 
 meet! 
 Banner and pageant, pipe and drum, 
 And merry morrice-dancers come. 
 I guess, by all this quaint array. 
 The burghers hold their sports to- 
 day. 
 James will be there ; he loves such 
 
 show, 
 Where the good yoeman bends his 
 
 bow, 
 And the tough wrestler foils his foe, 
 As well as where, in proud career, 
 The high-born tilter shivers spear, 
 I'll follow to the Castle-park, 
 And play my prize ; — King James 
 
 shall mark, 
 If age has tamed these sinews stark, 
 Whose force so oft, in happier days. 
 His boyish wonder loved to praise." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The Castle gates were open flung, 
 The quivering drawbridge rock'd and 
 rung, 
 
 * A mound on theN.E. of Stirling Castle, 
 where State criminala were exeouteu. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 53 
 
 And edio'd loud the flinty street 
 Beneath the coursers' clattering feet, 
 As slowly down the steep descent 
 Fair Scotland's King and nobles 
 
 went, 
 "While all along the crowded way 
 "Was j ubilee and loud huzza. 
 And ever James was bending low, 
 To his white jennet's saddle-bow. 
 Doffing his cap to city dame, 
 Y/ho bmiled and blush 'd for pride 
 
 and shame. 
 And well the simperer might be 
 
 vain, — • 
 He chose the fairest of the train. 
 Gravely ho greets each city sire, 
 Commends each pageant's quaint at- 
 tire, 
 Gives to the dancers thanks aloud. 
 And smiles and nods upon the crowd. 
 Who rend the heavens with their 
 
 acclaims, 
 "Long live the Commons' King, 
 
 King James!" 
 Behind the King throng'd peer and 
 
 knight, 
 And noble dame and damsel bright, 
 "Whose fiery steeds ill brook' d the 
 
 stay 
 Of the steep street and crowded way. 
 — But in the train you might discern 
 Dark lowering brow and visage stern ; 
 There nobles mourn 'd their pride 
 
 restrain' d, 
 And the mean burgher's joys dis- 
 
 dain'd ; 
 And chiefs, who, hostage for their 
 
 clan, 
 Were each fjom home a banish'd 
 
 man. 
 There thought upon their own gray 
 
 tower, 
 Their waving woods, their feudal 
 
 power, 
 And deem'd themselves a shameful 
 
 part 
 Of pageant which they cursed in 
 
 heart. 
 
 XXII. 
 Now, in the CastJc-park, drew out 
 Their chequer'd bands the joyous 
 
 rout. 
 
 There morricers, with bell at heel. 
 And blade in hand, their mazes 
 
 wheel ; 
 But chief, beside the butts, there 
 
 stand 
 Bold Eobin Hood and all his band, — 
 Friar Tuck with quarterstaff and cowl. 
 Old Scathelocke with his surly scowl. 
 Maid Marion, fair as ivory bone, 
 Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John; 
 Their bugles challenge all that will, 
 In archery to prove their skill. 
 The Douglas bent a bow of might, — 
 His -first shaft centered in the white, • 
 And when in turn he shot again. 
 His second split the first in twain. 
 From the King's hand must Douglaa 
 
 take 
 A silver dart, the archer's stake; 
 Fondly he watch'd, with watery eye, 
 Some answering glance of sympa- 
 
 thy,- 
 No kind emotion made reply ! 
 Indifferent as to archer wight, 
 The monarch gave the arrow bright. 
 
 xxm. 
 
 Now, clear the ring ! for, hand to 
 
 hand, 
 The manly wrestlers take their stand. 
 Two o'er the rest superior rose. 
 And proud demanded mightier foes, 
 ITor call'd in vain; for Douglas came. 
 — For life is Hugh of Larbert lame; 
 Scarce better John of Alloa's fare, 
 Whom senseless home his comrades 
 
 bare. 
 Prize of the wrestling match, the 
 
 King 
 To Douglas gave a golden ring, 
 While coldly glanced his eye of blue. 
 As frozen drop of wintry dew. 
 Douglas would speak, but in his 
 
 breast 
 His btruggling soul his words sup- 
 
 press'd ; 
 Indignant then he turn'd him where 
 Their arms the brawny yeomen bare, 
 To hurl the massive bar in air. 
 When each his utmost strength had 
 
 shown, 
 The Dourrlas rent an earth-fast stone 
 
54 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS 
 
 From its deep bed, then heaved it 
 
 high, 
 And sent the fragment through the 
 
 sky, 
 A rood beyond the farthest mark; — 
 And still in Stirling's royal park, 
 The grey-hair'd sires, who know the 
 
 past, 
 To strangers point the Douglas-cast, 
 And moralize on the decay 
 Of Scottish strength in modern day. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The vale with loud applauses rang. 
 The Ladies' Rock sent back the clang. 
 The King, with look unmoved, be- 
 
 stow'd 
 A purse well-fill'd with pieces broad. 
 Indignant smiled the Douglas proud, 
 And threw the gold among the crowd. 
 Who now, with anxious wonder, scan, 
 And sharper glance, the dark grey 
 
 man; 
 Till whispers rose among the throng, 
 That heart so free, and hand so strong, 
 Must to the Douglas blood belong; 
 The old men mark'd, and shook the 
 
 head, 
 To see his hair with silver spread, 
 And wink'd aside, and told each son, 
 Of feats upon the English done, 
 Ere Douglas of the stalwart hand 
 Was exiled from his native land. 
 The women praised his stately form. 
 Though wreck'd by many a winter's 
 
 storm ! 
 The youth with awe and wonder saw 
 His strength surpassing Nature's law. 
 Thus judged, as is their v/ont, the 
 
 crowd, 
 Till murmur rose to clamours loud. 
 But not a glance from that proud ring 
 Of peers who circled round the King, 
 With Douglas held communion kind. 
 Or call'd the banish 'd man to mind; 
 No, not from those who, at the chase, 
 Once held his sido the honour'd place, 
 Begirt his board, and, in the Held, 
 Foiind safety underneath his shield; 
 For he, whom royal eyes disown, 
 When was hia form to courtiers 
 
 known! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The Monarch saw the gambols flag, 
 And bade let loose a gallant stag, 
 Whose pride, the holiday to crown, 
 Two favourite greyhounds should 
 
 pull down, 
 That venison free, and Bordeaux 
 
 wine, 
 Might serve the archery to dine. 
 But Lufra, — whom from Douglas' side 
 Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide. 
 The fleetest hound in all the North, — 
 Brave Lufra saw, and darted forth. 
 She left the royal hounds mid-way, 
 And dashing on the antler'd prey, 
 Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank, 
 And deep the flowing life-blood drank. 
 The King's stout huntsman sav/ the 
 
 sport 
 By strange intruder broken short, 
 Came up, and with his leash un- 
 
 • bound. 
 In anger struck the noble hound. 
 — The Douglas had endured, that 
 
 morn. 
 The King's cold look, the nobles' 
 
 scorn, 
 And last, and v/orst to spirit proud, 
 Had borne the pity of the crowd; 
 But Lufra had been fondly bred. 
 To share his board, to watcli his bed, 
 And oft would Ellen Lufra's neck 
 In maiden glee with garlands deck; 
 They were such playmates, that with 
 
 name 
 Of Lufra, Ellen's image came. 
 His stifled wrath is brimming high, 
 In darken'd brow and flashing eye: 
 As waves before the bark divide, 
 The crowd gave way before his stride; 
 Needs but a buffet and no more, 
 The groom lies senseless in his gore. 
 Such blow no other hand could deal, 
 Though gauntleted in glove of steel. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Then clamour'd loud the royal train, 
 And brandish'd swords and staves 
 
 amain. 
 But stern the Baron's warning— 
 
 "Back! 
 Back, on your lives, ye menial pack I 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 55 
 
 Beware the Douglas. — Yes ! behold, 
 King James ! the Douglas, doom'd 
 
 of old, 
 And vainly sought for near and far, 
 A victim to atone the war, 
 A willing victim, now attends, 
 Nor craves thy grace but for his 
 
 friends." — 
 "Thus is my clemency repaid? 
 Presumptuous Lord!" the monarch 
 
 said; 
 " Of thy misproud ambitious clan, 
 Thou, James of Bothwell, wert the 
 
 man, 
 The only man, in whom a foe 
 My woman-mercy would not know: 
 But shall a Monarch's presence brook 
 Injurious blow, and haughty look ? — 
 What ho ! the Captain of our Guard ! 
 Give the offender fitting ward, — • 
 Break off the sports!" — for tumult 
 
 rose, 
 And yeomen 'gan to bend their 
 
 bows, — 
 "Break off the sports ! " he said, and 
 
 frown' d, 
 "And bid our horsemen clear the 
 
 ground." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Then uproar wild and misarray 
 Marr'd the fair form of festal day. 
 The horsemen prickd among the 
 
 crowd 
 Bepeii'd by threats and insults loud; 
 To earth are borne the old and weak, 
 The timorous fly, the women shriek; 
 With flint, with shaft, with staff, 
 
 with bar, 
 The hardier urge tumultuous war. 
 At once round Douglas darkly sweep 
 The royal spears in circle deep, 
 And slowly scale the pathway steep ; 
 While on the rear in thunder pour 
 The rabble with disordered roar. 
 With grief the noble Douglas saw 
 The Commons rise against the law. 
 And to the leading soldier said, — 
 " Sir John of Hyndford ! 'twas my 
 
 blade 
 That knighthood on thy shoulder 
 
 laid; 
 
 For that good deed, permit me then 
 A word with these misguided men. 
 
 xxvni. 
 
 " Hear, gentle friends ! ere yet for me 
 Ye break the bands of fealty. 
 My life, my honour, and my cause, 
 I tender free to Scotland's laws. 
 Are these so weak as must require 
 The aid of your misguided ire ! 
 Or, if I suffer causeless wrong, 
 Is then my selfish rage so strong. 
 My sense of public weal so low, 
 That, for mean vengeance on a foe, 
 Those cords of love I should unbind. 
 Which knit my country and my kind ? 
 Oh no ! Believe, in yonder tower 
 It will not soothe my captive hour, 
 To know those spears our foes should 
 
 dread, 
 For me in kindred gore are red; 
 To know, in fruitless brawl begun. 
 For me, that mother wails her son; 
 For me, that widow's mate expires; 
 Forme,that orphans weep their sires: 
 That patriots mourn insulted laws; 
 And curse the Douglas for the cause. 
 let your patience ward such ill. 
 And keep your right to love me still !" 
 
 XXIX. 
 The crowd's wild fury sunk again 
 In tears, as tempests melt in rain. 
 With lifted hands and eyes, they 
 
 pray'd 
 For blessings on his generous head, 
 Who for his country felt alone, 
 And prized her blood beyond his own. 
 Old men, upon the verge of life, 
 Bless'd him who staid the civil strife; 
 And mothers held their babes on high, 
 The self-devoted Chief to spy, 
 Triumphant over wrongs and ire, 
 To whom the prattlers owed a sire : 
 Even the rough soldier's heart was 
 
 moved; 
 As if behind some bier beloved, 
 With trailing arms and drooping 
 
 head, 
 The Douglas up the hill he led, 
 And at the Castle's battled verge 
 With sighs resign'd his honour'd 
 
 charge. 
 
SCOTT S POETICAL WORKi 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The offended Monarch rode apart, 
 Vrith bitter thought and swelling 
 
 heart, 
 And would not now vouchsafe again 
 Through Stirling streets to lead his 
 
 train. 
 " Lennox, who would wish to rule 
 This changeling crowd, this common 
 
 fool? 
 Ilaar'st thou," he said, " the loud ac- 
 claim, 
 "With which they shout the Douglas' 
 
 name ! 
 With like acclaim, the vulgar throat 
 Strain'd for King James their morn- 
 ing note; 
 "With like acclaim they hail'd the day 
 When first I broke the Douglas' sway; 
 And like acclaim would Douglas 
 
 greet, 
 If he could hurl me from my seat. 
 Who o'er the herd would wish to 
 
 reign, _ 
 
 Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain ! 
 Vain as the leaf upon the stream, 
 And fickle as a changeful dream; 
 Fantastic as a woman's mood, 
 And fierce as Frenzy's fever'd blood. 
 Thou many-headed monster-thing, 
 
 who would wish to be thy king ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 "But soft ! what messenger of speed 
 Spurs hitherward his panting steed ? 
 
 1 guess his cognizance afar — 
 
 \Vhat from our cousin, John of 
 Mar?" 
 
 "He prays, my liege, your sports 
 keep bound 
 
 Within the safe and guarded ground: 
 
 For some foul purpose yet un- 
 known, — 
 
 Most sure for evil to the throne, — 
 
 The outlaw'd Chieftain, Eoderick 
 Dhu, 
 
 Has summoned his rebellious crew; 
 
 'Tis said, in James of Bothwell's aid 
 
 These loose banditti stand array'd. 
 
 The Earl of Mar, this morn, from 
 Doune, 
 
 To break their muster march'd, an-l 
 
 soon 
 Your grace will hear of battle fought; 
 But earnestly the Earl besought, 
 Till for such danger he provide. 
 With scanty train you will not 
 
 ride." — 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Thou warn'st me I have done 
 
 amiss, — 
 I should have earlier look'd to this : 
 I lost it in this bustling day. 
 — Retrace with speed thy former way; 
 Spare not for spoiling of thy steed, 
 The best of mine shall be thy meed. 
 Say to our faithful Lord of Marr, 
 We do forbid the intended war: 
 Roderick, this morn, in single fight, 
 Was made our prisoner by a knight; 
 And Douglas hath himself and cause 
 Submitted to our kingdom's laws. 
 The tidings of their leaders lost 
 Will soon dissolve the mountain host, 
 Nor would we that the vulgar feel. 
 For their Chief's crimes, avenging 
 
 steel. 
 Bear Mar out message, Braco: fly!" — 
 He turn'd his steed, — "My liege, I 
 
 hie. — 
 Yet, ere I cross this lily lawn, 
 I fear the broadswords will be drawu. " 
 The turf the flying courser spurn'd. 
 And to his towers the King return'd. 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Ill with King James's mood that day, 
 Suited gay feast and minstrel lay ; 
 Soon were dismiss'd the courtly 
 
 throng, 
 And soon cut short the festal song. 
 Nor less upon the sadden'd town 
 The evening sunk in sorrow down. 
 The burghers spoke of civil jar. 
 Of rumour'd feuds and mountain war, 
 Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu, 
 All up in arms: — the Douglas too. 
 They mourn'd him pent within the 
 
 hold. 
 "Where stout Earl Y/iliam was of 
 
 old"*— 
 
 * ne Lad been stabbed by James II. in 
 Stirling Castle. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 57 
 
 And there his word the speaker staid, 
 And finger on his lip he laid, 
 Or pointed to his dagger blade. 
 But jaded horsemen, from the west, 
 At evening to the Castle press'd; . 
 And busy talkers said they bore 
 Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore; 
 At noon the deadly fray begun, 
 And lasted till the set of sun. 
 Thus giddy rumour shook the town, 
 Till closed the Night her pennons 
 brown. 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 
 The Guard-Room. 
 L 
 The Bun, awakening, through the 
 smoky air 
 Of the dark city casts a sullen 
 glance, 
 Rousing each caitiff to his task of care, 
 Of sinful man the sad inheritance; 
 Sunmoning revellers from the lag- 
 ging dance, 
 Scaring the prowling robber to his 
 den; 
 Gilding on battled tower the warder's 
 lance, 
 And warning student pale to leave 
 his pen. 
 And yield his drowsy eyes to the 
 kind nurse of men. 
 
 What various scenes, and, ! what 
 scenes of woe. 
 Are witness'd by that red and 
 struggling beam ! 
 The fcver'd patient, from his pallet 
 low, 
 Through crowded hospital beholds 
 it stream ; 
 The ruin'd maiden trembles at its 
 gleam, 
 The debtor wakes to thought of 
 gyve and jail, 
 The love-lorn wretch starts from tor- 
 menting dream; 
 The wakeful mother, by the glim- 
 mering pale, 
 Trims her sice infant's couch, and 
 soothes his feeble wail. 
 
 II. 
 
 At dawn the towers of Stirling rang 
 With soldier-step and weapon-clang, 
 While drums, With rolling note, fore- 
 tell 
 Belief to weary sentinel. 
 Through narrow loop and casement 
 
 barr'd. 
 The sunbeams sought the Court of 
 
 Guard, 
 And, struggling with the smoky air, 
 Deaden'd tlie torciies' jellow glare. 
 In comfortless alliance shone 
 The lights through arch of blacken'd 
 
 stone, 
 And show'd wild shapes in garb of 
 
 war. 
 Faces deform'd with beard and scar, 
 All haggard from the midnight watch, 
 And fever 'd with the stern debauch ; 
 For the oak table's massive board, 
 Flooded with wine, with fragments 
 
 stored. 
 And beakers drain' d, and cups o'er- 
 
 thrown, 
 Show'd in what sport the night had 
 
 flown. 
 Some, weary, snored on floor and 
 
 bench. 
 Some labour'd stiU their thirst to 
 
 quench ; 
 Som3, chill'd with watching, spread 
 
 their hands 
 O'er the huge chimney's dying 
 
 brands, 
 While round them, or beside them 
 
 flung. 
 At every step their harness rung. 
 
 ni. 
 
 These drew not for their fields the 
 
 sword. 
 Like tenants of a feudal lord,_ 
 Nor own'd the patriarchal claim 
 Of chieftain in their leader's name ; 
 Adventurers they, from far who 
 
 roved, 
 To live by battle which they loved. 
 There the Italian's clouded face. 
 The swarthy Spaniard's there you 
 
 trace ; 
 The mountain-loving Switzer there 
 
58 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 More freely breathe. 1 in mountain- 
 air; 
 
 The Fleming there despised the soil, 
 
 That paid so ill the labourer's toil ; 
 
 Their rolls show'd French and Ger- 
 man names; 
 
 A.nd merry England's exiles came, 
 
 To share, with ill-conceal'd disdain, 
 
 Cf Scotland's pay the scanty gain. 
 
 All brave in arms, "well train' d to 
 "wield 
 
 The heavy halberd, brand, and shield; 
 
 In camps licentious, wild, and bold; 
 
 In pillage fierce and uncontroll'd; 
 
 And now, by holytido and feast, 
 
 From rules of discipline released. 
 
 They held debate of bloody fray. 
 Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and 
 
 Achray, 
 Fierce T>^as their speech, and, 'mid 
 
 their words. 
 Their hands oft grappled to their 
 
 swords ; 
 Nor sunk their tone to spare the 
 
 ear 
 Of wounded comrades groaning near, 
 Whose mangled limbs, and bodies 
 
 gored. 
 Bore token of the mountain sword, 
 Though, neigbouring to the Court of 
 
 Guard, 
 Their prayers and feverish wails were 
 
 heard; 
 Sad burden to the ruffian joke, 
 And savage oath by fury si^oke ! — 
 At length up-started John of Lrent, 
 A yeoman from the banks of Trent ; 
 A stranger to respect or fear. 
 In peace a chaser of the deer, 
 In host a hardy mutineer, 
 But still the boldest of the crew, 
 "When deed of danger was to do. 
 He grieved, that day, their games 
 
 cut short. 
 And marr'dthedicer's brawling sport. 
 And shouted loud, " lienew the bowl ! 
 And, while a merry catch I troll. 
 Let each the buxom chorus bear. 
 Like brethren of the brand and 
 
 spear.'' 
 
 V. 
 
 Soldier's Song. 
 Our vicar still preaches that Peter 
 
 and Poule 
 Laid a swinging long curse on the 
 
 bonny brown bowl. 
 That there's wrath and despair in the 
 
 bonny black-jack, 
 And the seven deadly sins in a llagon 
 
 of sack; 
 Yet whoop, Earnaby ! off with thy 
 
 liquor, 
 Drink upsees* out, and a fig for the 
 
 vicar ! 
 
 Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip 
 The lipe ruddy dew of a woman's 
 
 dear lip. 
 Says, that Beelzebub lurks in her 
 
 kerchief go sly, 
 And ApoUyon shoots darts from her 
 
 merry black eye. 
 Yet v/hoop. Jack ! kiss Gillian the 
 
 quicker, 
 Till she bloom like a rose^ and a fig 
 
 for the vicar ! 
 
 Our vicar thus preaches — and why 
 should he not. ? 
 
 For the dues of his cure are the 
 placket and pot; 
 
 And 'tis right of his office poor lay- 
 men to lurch, 
 
 Who infringe the domains of our 
 good luother Church. 
 
 Yet vv^hoop, bully-boys! off with your 
 liquor, 
 
 Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig 
 for the vicar ! 
 
 VL 
 
 The warder's challenge, heard with- 
 out, 
 Staid in mid-roar the merry shou 
 A soldier to the portal went, — 
 "Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent; 
 And, — beat for jubilee the drum ! 
 A maid and minstrel with him come." 
 Bertram, a Fleming, grey and scarr'd, 
 Yv^as entering now the Court of Guard, 
 A harper with him, and in plaid 
 
 * A Dutch health, or drinking; word. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 59 
 
 All muffled close, a moTintain maid, 
 vVho backward shrunk to 'scape the 
 
 view 
 Of tlie loose scene and boisterous 
 
 crew. 
 " "What news?'' they roar'd: — *'I only- 
 know, 
 From noon till eve we fought with foe, 
 As wild and cs untameable 
 As the rude mountains where they 
 
 dwell; 
 On both sides store of blood is lost, 
 >7or much success can either boast. " — 
 "But whence ihy captives, friend? 
 
 Buch spoil 
 As theirs must needs reward thy toil. 
 Old dost thou wax, and wars grow 
 
 sharp ; 
 Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp! 
 Get thee an ape, and trudge the land, 
 The leader of a juggler band." — 
 
 VII. 
 
 " No, comrade ; — no such fortune 
 
 mine. 
 After the fight these sought our line. 
 That aged harper and the girl, 
 And, having audience of tlie Earl, 
 Mar bade I should purvey them 
 
 steed. 
 And bring them hitherward with 
 
 speed, 
 Forbear your mirth and rude alarm, 
 Nor none shall do them shame and 
 
 harm." — 
 "Hear yo his boast?" cried John of 
 
 Brent, 
 Ever to Etrifo and jangling bent ; 
 "fohall he strike doe beside our 
 
 lodge, 
 And yet the jealous niggard grudge 
 To pay the forester Lis fee ? 
 i il have my share, hcwe'er it be, 
 Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee." 
 Bertram his forward step withstood ; 
 And, burning with his vengeful 
 
 mood. 
 Old Allan, though unlit for strife, 
 Laid hand upon his dagger-kniio ; 
 But Eilen boldly stcpp'd bctv/ecn, 
 And dropp'd at once the tartan 
 
 screen : — 
 
 So, from his morning cloud, appears 
 The sun of May, tnrough summer 
 
 tears. 
 The savage soldiery, amazed, 
 As on descended angel gazed ; 
 Even hardy Brent, abash'd and 
 
 tamed. 
 Stood half admiring, half ashamed. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Boldly she spoke, — "Soldiers, attend! 
 My father was the soldier's friend ; 
 Cheer'd him in camps, in marches 
 
 led. 
 And with him in the battle bled. 
 Not from the valiant, or the strong, 
 Should exile's daughter suh'er 
 
 wrong." — 
 Answer'd De Brent, most forwar 1 
 
 still 
 In every feat or good or ill, — 
 " I shame me of the part I play'd : 
 And thou an outlaw's child, poor 
 
 maid! 
 An outlaw I by forest laws. 
 And merry Needwood knows the 
 
 cause. 
 Poor Ptose, — if Rose be living now, " — 
 lie wiped his iron eye and brov/, — 
 " Must bear such age, I think, as 
 
 thou. — 
 Hear yc, my mates ; I go to call 
 The Captain of our watch to hall : 
 There lies my halberd on the floor ; 
 And he that steps my halberd o'er. 
 To do the maid injurious part, 
 My shaft shall quiver in his heart !— 
 Beware loose speech, or jesting rough: 
 Ye all know John de Brent. Enough.'' 
 
 IX. 
 
 Their Captain came, a gallant young. 
 (Of Tullibardinc's house he sprimg), 
 Nor wore ho yet the spurs of knight; 
 Gay was his mien, his humour light, 
 And, though by courtesy controU'd, 
 Forward his speech, his bearing bold. 
 The high-born maiden ill could brook 
 The scanning of his curious look 
 And dauntless eye ; — and yet, in 
 
 sooth, 
 Young Lewis was a generous youth ; 
 
Go 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 But Ellen's lovely face and mien, 
 111 suited to the garb and scene, 
 Might lightly bear construction 
 
 strange, 
 And give loose fancy scope to range. 
 "Welcome to Stirling towers, fair 
 
 maid ! 
 Come ye to seek a champion's aid, 
 On palfrey white, with harper hoar, 
 Like errant damosel of yore? 
 Does thy high quest a knight require, 
 Or may the venture suit a squire ?"— 
 Her dark eye flash'd ; — she paused 
 
 and sigh'd, — 
 " O what have I to do with pride ! — 
 Through scenes of sorrow, shame, 
 
 and strife, 
 A suppliant for a father's life, 
 I crave an audience of the King. 
 Behold, to back my suit, a ring. 
 The royal pledge of grateful claims, 
 Given by the Monarcn to Fitz-James." 
 
 X. 
 
 The signet-ring young Lewis took, 
 With deep respect and alter'd look; 
 And said, — "This ring our duties 
 
 own; 
 And pardon, if to worth unknown, 
 In semblance mean obscurely veil'd. 
 Lady, in aught my folly fail'd. 
 Soon as the day flings wide his gates, 
 The King shall know v/hat suitor 
 
 waits. 
 Please you, meanv/hilc, in fitting 
 
 bower 
 Hepose 3'ou till his waking hour; 
 Female attendance shall obey 
 Your hest, for service or array. 
 Permit I marshall you the way." 
 But', ere she followed, svith the grace 
 And open bounty of her r;ice. 
 She bade her slender purse be shared 
 Among the soldiers of toe guard. 
 The rest with thanks their guerdon 
 
 took; 
 But Brent, with shy and awkward 
 
 look, 
 On the reluctant maiden's hold 
 Forced bluntly back the proffer'd 
 
 gold;— 
 "Forgive a haughty English heart, 
 
 And O forget its ruder part ! 
 The vacant purse shall be my share, 
 Which in my barret-cap I'll bear. 
 Perchance, in jeopardy of war, 
 Where gayer crests may keep afar." 
 With thanks— 'twas all she could — the 
 
 maid 
 xlis rugged courtesy repaid. 
 
 XI. 
 
 When Ellen forth with Lewis went, 
 Allan made suit to John of Brent: — 
 " My lady safe, O let your grace 
 Give me to seo my master's face ! 
 His minstrel I, — to share his doom 
 Bound from the cradle to the tomb. 
 Tenth m descent, since first my sires 
 Waked for his noble house tlioir 
 
 lyres. 
 Nor one of all the race v.^as known 
 But prized its weal above their own. 
 With the Chief's birth begins our 
 
 care; 
 Our harp must soothe the infant 
 
 heir. 
 Teach the youth tales of fight, and 
 
 grace 
 His earliest feat of field or chase; 
 In peace, in war, our rank we keep, 
 We cheer his board, we soothe his 
 
 sleep, 
 Nor leave him till we pour our verse — 
 A doleful tribute !— o'er his hearse. 
 Then let me share his captive lot ; 
 It is my right — deny it not !" — 
 "Little we reck," said John of Brent, 
 " We Southern men, of long descent; 
 Nor wot we how a name — a word- 
 Wakes clansmen vassals to a lord: 
 Yet kind my noble landlord's part, — 
 God bless the house of Beaudesert ! 
 And, but I loved to drive the deer. 
 More than to guide the labouring 
 
 steer, 
 I had not dwelt an outcast here. 
 Come, good old Minstrel, follow me; 
 Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou 
 
 see." 
 
 xn. 
 
 Then, from a rusted iron hook, 
 
 A bunch of ponderous keys he took. 
 
 Lighted a torch, and Allan led 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 6i 
 
 Through grated arcli and passage 
 
 dread. 
 rort.Js tliey pass'd, where, deep 
 
 within, 
 Spcke prisoner's moan, and fetters' 
 
 din; 
 Through rugged vaults, where, loose- 
 ly stored, 
 Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's 
 
 sword, 
 And many an hideous engine grim, 
 For wrenching joint, and crushing 
 
 limb, 
 By artist form'd, who deem'd it 
 
 shame 
 And ein to give their work a name. 
 They halted at a low-brow'd porch, 
 And Brent to Allan gave the torch, 
 While bolt and chain he backward 
 
 roll'd, 
 And made the bar unhasp its hold. 
 They enter'd : — 'twas a prison-room 
 Of stern security and gloom. 
 Yet not a dungeon ; for the day 
 Through lofty gratings found its way, 
 And rude and antique garniture 
 Deck'd the sad walls and oaken floor, 
 Such as the rugged days of old 
 Deem'd fit for captive noble's hold. 
 *'Here," said De Brent, "thou may 'st 
 
 remain 
 Till the Leech visit him again. 
 Strict is his charge, the warders tell, 
 To tend the noble prisoner well." 
 Retiring then, the bolt he drew. 
 And the lock's murmurs growl'd 
 
 anew. 
 Roused at the sound, from lowly bed 
 A captive feebly raised his head; 
 The wondering Minstrel look'd, and 
 
 knew — 
 Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu ! 
 For, come from where Clan-Alpine 
 
 fought. 
 They, erring, deem'd the Chief he 
 
 sought. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 As the tall ship, whose lofty prore 
 Shall never stem the billows more, 
 Deserted by her gallant band, 
 Amid the brea::^'- i-^o f.6a\uiJ, - 
 
 So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dau ! 
 And oft his fever'd limbs he threw 
 In toss abrupt, as when her sides 
 Lie rocking in the advancing tides, 
 That shako her frame with ceaseless 
 
 beat, 
 Yet cannot heave her from her seat; — 
 O ! how unlike her course at sea ! 
 Or his free step on hill and lea ! — 
 Soon as the Minstrel he could scan, 
 "Whatof thy lady?— of my clan? — 
 My mother? — Douglas? — tell me all ! 
 Have they been ruin'd in my fall ? 
 Ah, yes ! or wherefore art thou here? 
 Yet speak, — speak boldly, — do not 
 
 foar." — • 
 (For Allan, v/ho his mood well knew, 
 ■\Vas choked with grief and terror 
 
 too.) — 
 ' ' "Who fought — who fled ? — Old man, 
 
 be brief; — 
 Some might — for they had lost their 
 
 Chief. 
 Who basely live ?— who bravely died?" 
 "O calm thee. Chief ! " the Minstrel 
 
 cried, 
 "Ellen is safe;"— "For that, thank 
 
 Heaven !" — 
 'And hopes are for the Douglas 
 
 given;— 
 The Lady Margaret, too, is well; 
 And, fur thy clan, — on field or fell. 
 Has never harp of minstrel told, 
 Of combat fought so true and bold. 
 Thy stately Pine is jet unbent, 
 Though many a goodly bough is 
 
 rent." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The Chieftain rear'd his form on high, 
 And fever's fire was in his eye; 
 But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks 
 Chequer'd his swarthy brow and 
 
 cheeks. 
 — " Hark, Minstrel ! I have heard thee 
 
 play, 
 y/ith measure bold, on festal day. 
 In yon lone isle, . . . again where 
 
 ne'er 
 ShaU harper play, or warrior hear !. . . 
 That stirring air that peels on high, 
 J'er Do-^mid's race our victor--. - 
 
Cm 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Strike it ! — and then, (for well thou 
 
 canst, ) 
 Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced, 
 Fling me the pictur'e of the fight. 
 When met my clan the Saxon might. 
 I'll listen, till my fancy hears 
 The clang of swords, the crash of 
 
 spears ! 
 These grates, these walls, shall vanish 
 
 then. 
 For the fair field of fighting men. 
 And my free spirit burst away. 
 As if it soar'd from battle fray." 
 The trembling Bard with awe obey'd, 
 Slow on the harp his hand he laid; 
 But soon remembrance of the sight 
 He witness'd from the mountain's 
 
 height, 
 "With what old Bertram tcld at night, 
 Awaken'd the full power of song, 
 And bore him in career alone ; — • 
 As shallop launch'd on river's tide, 
 That slow and fearful leaves the side, 
 But, when it feels the middle stream, 
 Drives downward swift as lightning's 
 
 beam. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Bailie of BeaV an Duine. 
 
 "The Minstrel came once more to 
 
 view 
 The eastern ridge of Benvenue, 
 For, ere he parted, he would say 
 Farewell to lovely Loch Achray — 
 Where shall he find, in foreign land, 
 So lone a lake, bo sweet a strand ! 
 There is no breeze upon the fern. 
 
 Nor ripple on the lake. 
 Upon her eyry nods the erne, 
 
 The deer has sought the brake; 
 The small birds will not sing aloud. 
 
 The springing trout lies still, 
 So darkly glooms yon thunder 
 
 cloud, 
 That swathes, as with a purple 
 shroud, 
 Benledi's distant hill. 
 Is it the thunder's solemn sound 
 That mutters deep and dread, 
 Or echoes from the groaning ground 
 The warrior's measured tread ? 
 
 Is it the lightning's quivering 
 piance 
 That on the thicket streams. 
 Or do they flash on spear and lance 
 The sun's retiring beams ? 
 —I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
 I see the Moray's silver star, 
 Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, 
 That up the lake comes winding far I 
 To hero bound for battle-strife, 
 
 Or bard of martial lay, 
 'Twere worthten years of peacefullife. 
 One glance at their array ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 'Their light-arm'd archers far and 
 near 
 Survey'd the tangled ground. 
 Their centre ranks, with pike and 
 spear, 
 A twilight forest frown'd, 
 Their barbed horsemen, in the rear, 
 
 The stern battalia crown 'd. 
 No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang, 
 
 Still were the pipe and drum ; 
 Save heavy tread, and armour's 
 clang, 
 The sullen march was dumb. 
 There breathed no windtheir crests 
 to shake, 
 Or wave their flags abroad; 
 Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to 
 quake. 
 That shadowd o'er their road. 
 Their vavvard scouts no tidings 
 bring, 
 
 Can rouse no lurking foe. 
 Nor spy a trace of living thing, 
 
 Save when they stirr'd the roe; 
 The host moves like a deep-sea 
 
 wave, 
 "Where rise no rocks its pride to 
 brave. 
 High-swelling, dark, and slow. 
 The lake is pass'd, and now they gain 
 A narrow and a broken plain, 
 Before the Trosach's rugged jaws; 
 And here the horse and spearmen 
 
 pause, 
 While to explore the dangerous glen. 
 Dive through the pass the archer- 
 men. 
 
TIIE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 63 
 
 XVII. 
 ** At once there rose so wild a yell 
 Within that dark and narrow dell, 
 As ail the fiends, from heaven that 
 
 fell, 
 Had peel'd the banner-cry of hell ! 
 Forth from the pass in tumult 
 
 driven, 
 Like chaff before the wind of hea- 
 ven, 
 The archery appear. 
 For life! for life ! their plight they 
 
 piy- 
 
 And suriek, and shout, and battle- 
 cry. 
 And plaids and bonnets waving 
 
 high, 
 And broadswords flashing to the 
 sky, 
 Ar3 maddening in the rear. 
 Onward they drive, in dreadful 
 race. 
 Pursuers and pursued; 
 Before that tide of flight and chase. 
 How shall it keep its rooted place, 
 The spearmen's twilight wood?— 
 ' Down ! down i' cried Mar, ' your 
 lances down ! 
 Bear back both friend and foe !' — 
 Like reeds before the tempest's 
 
 frown, 
 That seried grove of lances brown 
 
 At once lay level!' \ low; 
 And closely shouldering side by 
 
 side. 
 The bristling ranks the onset 
 
 bide.^ 
 'We'll quell the savage moun- 
 taineer, 
 As their Tinchel* cows the game ! 
 They come as fleet as forest deer, 
 We'll drive them back as tame.' — 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 "Bearing before them, in their course, 
 The relics of the archer force, 
 Like wave with crest of sparkling 
 foam, 
 
 * A circle of sportsmen, who. b> sunuui.cl- 
 iofr a great space, aud firadutiUy narrowin , 
 brought immense quantities of deer together, 
 "\hich usually made desperate efforts to break 
 through the Tinchei, 
 
 Right onward did Clan-Alpine come. 
 Above the tide, each broadsword 
 
 bright 
 Was brandishing like beam of 
 light. 
 Each targe was dark below; 
 And with tlie ocean's mighty swing, 
 When heaving to the tempest's 
 wing. 
 They hurl'd them on the foe. 
 I heard the lance's shivering crash, 
 As when the whirlwind rends the 
 
 ash. 
 I heard the broadsword's deadly 
 
 clang. 
 As if an hundred anvil's rang ! 
 But Moray whcel'd his rearward rank 
 Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank, 
 — ' My banner-man, advance ! 
 I see,' he cried, ' their column 
 
 shake. — 
 Now, gallants ! for your ladies' 
 sake, . 
 Upon them with the lance !' — 
 The horsemen dash'd among the 
 rout. 
 As deer break through the broom ; 
 Their steeas are stoutj their swords 
 are out. 
 They soon make lightsome room. 
 Clan-Alpine's best are backward 
 borne — 
 Where, where was Eoderick 
 then! 
 One blast upon his bugle horn 
 W^ere worch a thousand men ! 
 And refluent through the pass of 
 fear 
 The battle's tide was pour'd ; 
 Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling 
 spear, 
 Vanish'd the mountain-sword. 
 As Bracklinn's chasm, so black an 1 
 steep, 
 Heceives her roaring linn, 
 As the dark caverns ot the deep 
 Suck the wild wnirlpool in. 
 So did the deep and darKsome pass 
 Devour the battle's mingled mass : 
 None linger now upon tne plain, 
 Save those who ne'er snaU fight 
 again. 
 
64 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "Now westward rolls the battle's din, 
 That deep and doubling pass within, 
 — Minstrel, away, the work of fate 
 Is bearing on : its issue wait, 
 Where the ruJe Trosach's dr^ad 
 
 defile 
 Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. — • 
 Grey Benvenue I soon repass'd. 
 Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast. 
 The sun is set ; — the clou .^3 aro 
 met, 
 
 The lowering scowl of heaven 
 An inky view of vivid blue 
 
 To the deep lake has given ; 
 Strange gusts of wind from moun- 
 tain-glen 
 Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen. 
 I heeded not the eddying surge. 
 Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge, 
 Mine ear but heard the sullen sound. 
 Which like an earthquake shook the 
 
 ground. 
 And spoke the stern and desperate 
 
 strife 
 That parts not but with parting life, 
 Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll 
 The dirge of many a passing soul. 
 Nearer it comes — the dim-wood glen 
 The martial flood disgorged agen. 
 
 But not in mingled tide ; 
 The plaided warriors of the North 
 High on the mountain thunder forth 
 
 And overhang its side ; 
 While by the lake below appears 
 The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears. 
 At weary bay each shattered band. 
 Eyeing their foemen, sternly stand ; 
 Their banners stream like tatter'd 
 
 sail, 
 That flings its fragments to the gale. 
 And broken arms and disarray 
 Mark'd the fell havoc of the day. 
 
 XX. 
 
 ••Viewing the mountain's ridge ask- 
 ance, 
 
 The Saxon stood in sullen trance, 
 
 Till Moray pointed with his lance. 
 And cried — ' Behold yon isle ! — 
 
 See ! none are left to guard its strand. 
 
 But women weak, that wring the 
 
 hand : 
 'Tis there of yore the robber band 
 
 Their booty wont to pile ; 
 My purse, with bonnet-pieces store, 
 To him will swim a bow-shot o'er. 
 And loose a shallop from the shore. 
 Lightly we'll tame the war- wolf then. 
 Lords of his mate, and brood, and 
 
 den.'^ 
 Forth- from the ranks a spearman 
 
 sprung. 
 On earth his casque and corslet 
 
 rung, 
 He plunged him in the wave : — 
 All saw the deed— the purpose knew, 
 And to their clamours Benvenue 
 
 A mingled echo gave ; 
 The Saxons shout, their mate to 
 
 cheer. 
 The helpless females scream for 
 
 fear, 
 And yells for rage the mountaineer. 
 'Twas then, as by the outcry riven, 
 Pour'd down at once the lowering 
 
 heaven ; 
 A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's 
 
 breast. 
 Her billows rear'd their snowy crest. 
 Well for the swimmer swell'd they 
 
 high. 
 To mar the Highland marksman's 
 
 eye; 
 For round him shower'd, 'mid rain 
 
 and hail. 
 The vengeful arrows of the Gael. — 
 In vain — He nears the isle— and lo ! 
 His hand is on a shallop's bow. 
 — Just then a flash of lightning came. 
 It tinged the waves and strand with 
 
 flame ; — 
 I mark'd Duncraggan's widow'd 
 
 dame, 
 Behind an oak I saw her stand, 
 A naked dirk gleam'd in her hand: 
 It darken'd, — but amid the moan 
 Of waves, I heard a dying groan; 
 Another flash !— the si3earman floats 
 A weltering corse beside the boats, 
 And the stern matron o'er him stood, 
 Her hand and dagger streaming 
 
 blood. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 «5 
 
 XXI. 
 
 *• ' Revenge ! revenge !* the Saxons 
 
 cried, 
 The Gaels' exulting shout replied. 
 Despite the elemental rage, 
 Again they hurried to engage; 
 But, ere they closed in desperate 
 
 fight. 
 Bloody with spurring came a knight. 
 Sprung from his horse, and, from a 
 
 crag, 
 Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white 
 
 flag. 
 Clarion and trumpet by his side 
 Rung forth a truce-note high and 
 
 wide, 
 While, in the Monarch's name, afar - 
 An herald's voice forbade the war, 
 For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick 
 
 bold, 
 Were both, he said, in captive hold." 
 —But here the lay made sudden 
 
 stand ! — 
 The harp escaped the Minstrel's 
 
 hand ! — 
 Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy 
 How Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy : 
 At first, the Chieftain, to the chime. 
 With lifted hand kept feeble time; 
 That motion ceased, — yet feeling 
 
 strong. 
 Varied his look as changed the song; 
 At length, no more his deafen'd ear 
 The minstrel melody can hear; 
 His face grows sharp, — his hands are 
 
 clench'd, 
 As if some pang his heart-strings 
 
 wrench'd; 
 Set are his teeth, his fading eye 
 Is sternly fix'd on vacancy; 
 Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew 
 His parting breath, stout Roderick 
 
 Dhu!— 
 Old Allan Bane look'd on aghast, 
 While grim and still his spirit pass'd : 
 But when he saw that life was fled. 
 He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead. 
 XXII. 
 LammU 
 " And art thou cold and lowly laid, 
 Thy foemen's dread, thy people's aid, 
 
 Breadalbane's boast, Clan -Alpine's 
 
 shade ! 
 For thee shall none a requiem say ? 
 —For thee, — who loved the minstrel's 
 
 lay, 
 For thee, of Bothwell's house the 
 
 stay, 
 The shelter of her exiled line, 
 E'en in this prison-house of thine, 
 111 wail for Alpine's honour'd Pine ! 
 
 " What groans shall yonder vallevs 
 
 fill ! ^ 
 
 What shrieks of grief shall rend von 
 
 hill ! 
 What tears of burning rage shall 
 
 thrill, 
 When mourns thy tribe thy battles 
 
 done, 
 Thy fall before the race was won. 
 Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun ! 
 There breathes not clansman of thy 
 
 line. 
 But would have given his life for 
 
 thine. — 
 O woe for Alpine's honour'd Pine ! 
 
 " Sad was thy lot on mortal stage ! — 
 The captive thrush may brook the 
 
 cage. 
 The prison'd eagle dies for rage. 
 Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain ! 
 And. when its notes awake again, 
 Even she, so long beloved in vain. 
 Shall with my harp her voice com- 
 bine, 
 And mix her woe and tears with 
 
 mine, 
 To wail Clan- Alpine's honour'd Pine." 
 
 xxni. 
 
 EUen, the while, with bursting heart, 
 Remain'd in lordly bower apart, 
 Where play'd with many-colour'd 
 
 gleams, 
 
 storied pane the rising 
 
 beams. 
 
 In vain on gilded roof they fall, 
 And lighten'd up a tapestried wall. 
 And for her use a menial train 
 A rich collation spread in vain. 
 The banquet proud, the chamber gay, 
 Scarce drew one curious glance astray ; 
 
 Through 
 
66 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 Or, if sho look'd, 'twas but to say, 
 YV^ith better omen dawn'd the day 
 In that lone isle, where waved on high 
 The dun-deer's hide for canopy; 
 AVhere oft her noble father shared 
 The simple meal her care prepared, 
 Yv^'hile Lufra, crouching by her side. 
 Her station claim'd with j ealous pridCj 
 And Douglas, bent on woodland 
 
 game, 
 Spol:j of the chase to Malcolm 
 
 Graeme, 
 Y/hose answer, oft at random made, 
 The wanderinac of his thour^hts bo- 
 
 tray d. — 
 Those who Buch simple joys have 
 
 knov/n, 
 Are taught to prize them when they're 
 
 gone. 
 But sudden, sec, &ho lifts her head ! 
 The windowsecKswiih cautious tread. 
 What distant music has the power 
 To win her in tais woful hour ! 
 'Twas from a turret that o'erhung 
 Her latticed bov/cr, the strain was 
 
 sung. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman. 
 
 " My hawk is tired of perch and hood. 
 My idle greyhound loathes his food, 
 My horse ij weary of his stall. 
 And I a. a sic^c or captive thrall. 
 I wish I were, a^y I havo been, 
 Iluntin;^ the hart in forest green. 
 With bended bow and bloodhound 
 
 free, 
 For thai's the life is meet for me. 
 I hato to learn the ebb of time, 
 Irom yon dull steeple's drowsy 
 
 chime, 
 Or mark it as the sunbeams crav/l. 
 Inch after inch along the wall. 
 jihe lark was wont my matins ring, 
 The sable rook my vespers sing, 
 Thesa towers, altnougli a king's they 
 
 be, 
 Ilava not a hall of joy for me. 
 No more at dawning morn I rise, 
 And sun myself in Ellen's eyes. 
 Drive the fleet deer the forest through, 
 
 And homeward wend with evening 
 
 dew; 
 A blithesome welcome blithely meet. 
 And lay my trophies at her feet. 
 While fled the eve on wing of glee, — 
 That life is lost to love and me 1" 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The heart-sick lay was hardly said. 
 The list'ner had not turned her head," 
 It trickled still, the starting tear, 
 Y/hcn light a footstep struct her ear. 
 And Snowdoun's graceful knight was 
 
 near. 
 Ghe turn'd the hastier, lest again 
 The prisoner should renevr his 
 
 ctrain. — 
 * ' welcome, bravo Fitz-James !" she 
 
 said; 
 " now may an almost orphan maid 
 Pay the deep debt," — " O say not so 1 
 To me no gratitude you owe. 
 'Jot mine, alas ! the boon to give. 
 And bid thy noble father live; 
 I can but be thy guide, sweet maid. 
 With Scotland's Kin^ thy suit to aid. 
 No tyrant he, though ira and prida 
 May lay his better mood aside. 
 Come, Ellen, come ! 'tis moro than 
 
 time, 
 lie holds his court at morning prime. " 
 Y/ith beating heart, and bosom wrung. 
 As to a brother s arm she clung. 
 Grently he dried the failing tear, 
 And gently whisper'd hope and cheer; 
 Her faltering stejjs half led, half staid. 
 Through gallery fair, and high arcade. 
 Till, at its touch, its wings of pride 
 A portal arch unfolded wide. j 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Y/ithin 'twas brilliant all and light, 
 A thronging scene of figures bright ; 
 it glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight, 
 As when the setting sun has given 
 Ten thousand hues to summer even. 
 And from their tissue, fancy frames 
 Aerial knitrhts and fairy dames. 
 Gtill by Fitz-James her footing staid; 
 A few faint steps she forward made, 
 Then slow her drooping head she 
 raised, 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 67 
 
 And fearful round the presence gazod ; 
 For him she sought, who own'd this 
 
 state, 
 The dreaded prince whose will was 
 
 fate. 
 She gazed on many a princely port, 
 Might well have ruled a royal court ; 
 On many a sf>lendid garb she gazed, 
 Then turn'd bewilder 'd and amazed, 
 For all stood bare; and, in the room, 
 Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. 
 To him each lady's look was lent; 
 On him each courtier's eye was bent; 
 Midst fuis and silks.and jewels sheen, 
 He stood, in simple Lincoln green, 
 The centre of the glittering ring. 
 And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's 
 
 King. 
 
 XXVIL 
 
 As wreath of snow, on mountain- 
 breast. 
 
 Slides from the rock that gave it rest, 
 
 Poor Eden glided from her stay, 
 
 And at the Monarch's feet she lay; 
 
 No word her choking breast com- 
 mands, — 
 
 She show'd the ring, she clasp'd her 
 hands. 
 
 ! not a moment could he brook, 
 
 The generous prince, that suppliant 
 look! 
 
 Gently he raised her; and, the while 
 
 Check'd with a glance the circle's 
 smile; 
 
 Graceful, but grave, her brow he 
 kiss'd. 
 
 And bade her terrors be dismiss'd: — 
 
 •' Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz- 
 James 
 
 The fealty of Scotland claims. 
 
 To him thy woes* thy wishes, bring ; 
 
 He will redeem his signet ring. 
 
 Ask nought for Douglas ; yester even, 
 
 His prince and he have much for- 
 given. 
 
 Wrong hath he had from slanderous 
 tongue, 
 
 I, from his rebel kinsman, wrong. 
 
 -VVe would not, to the vulgar crowd. 
 
 Yield what they craved with clamour 
 loud; 
 
 Calmly we heard andjudgedhis cause, 
 
 Our council aided, and our laws. 
 
 I stanch'd thy father's death-feud 
 stern, 
 
 "With stout De Vaux and Grey Glen- 
 cairn ; 
 
 And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we 
 own 
 
 The friend and bulwark of our Throne. 
 
 But, lovely infidel, how now ? 
 
 What clouds thy misbelieving brow ? 
 
 Lord James of Douglas, lend thine 
 aid; 
 
 Thou must confirm this doubting 
 maid." 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 Then forth the noble Douglas sprung, 
 And on his neck his daugnter hung. 
 The Monarch drank, that happy hour, 
 The sweetest, holiest, draught of 
 
 Power, — 
 When it can say, with godlike voice. 
 Arise, sad Virtuo, and rejoice ! 
 Yet would not James the general eye 
 On Nature's raptures long should pry ; 
 He stepp'd between — "Nay, Doug- 
 las, nay, 
 Steel notiony proselyte away ! 
 ihe riddle 'ti:i my right to read, 
 That brought this happy chance to 
 
 speed. 
 Yes, Eilen, when disguised I stray 
 In life 3 more low but happier v/ay, 
 'Tis under flame vv^hich veils my 
 
 power, 
 Nor falsely veils — for Stirling's tower 
 Ofyore the name of bnowdoun claims, 
 And Normans call me James Fitz- 
 James. 
 Thus watch I o'er insulted laws, 
 Thus learn to ri^ht the iniured 
 
 cause. — 
 Then, in a tone apart and low, — 
 "Ah, little traitress ! none must know 
 What idle dream, what lighter 
 
 thought, 
 What vanity full dearly bought, 
 Join'd to thine eye's dark witc-icraft, 
 
 drew 
 My spell-bound steps to Benvenue, 
 In dangerous hour, and all but gave 
 
6S 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOBKIS 
 
 Thy Monarcli's life to mountain 
 
 glaivo !" — 
 Aloud he spoke— "Thou still dost 
 
 hold 
 That little talisman of gold, 
 Pledge of my faith , Fitz-James's rin g — 
 What seeks fair Ellen of the King?" 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Full "well the conscious maiden 
 
 guess'd 
 He probed the weakness of her breast ; 
 Bnt, with that consciousness, there 
 
 came 
 A lightening of her fears for Graeme, 
 And more Biie deem'd the Monarch's 
 
 ire 
 K''3idled 'gainst him, who, for her sire, 
 Eebelliouj broadsword boldly drew ; 
 And, to her generous feeling true, 
 She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu. 
 "Forbear thy suit :— the King oi 
 
 Kings 
 Alone can stay life's parting wings, 
 I know his heart, I know his hand. 
 Have shared his cheer, and proved 
 
 his brand; — 
 My fairest earldom would I give 
 To bid Clan-Alpine's Chioftaia live ! 
 IList thou DO other boon to cr:ivc ? 
 No other captive friend to save ?" 
 Blushing, she turn'd her from the 
 
 King, _ 
 
 And to tlio Douglas gave the ring, 
 As if she wlsh'd her sire to speak 
 Tlie suit that stain'd her glowing 
 
 cheek. — 
 "Nay, then, my pledge has lost its 
 
 force, 
 And stubborn justice holds her 
 
 course. — 
 Malcolm, come forth !"— And, at the 
 
 v/ord, 
 Down kneel'd the Grseme to Scotland's 
 
 Lord. 
 "For thee, rash youth, no suppliant 
 
 sues. 
 From thee may Vengeance claim her 
 
 dues, 
 Who, nurtured underneath our smile. 
 Has paid our care by treacherous 
 
 wile, 
 
 And sought amid thy faithful clan, 
 A refuge for an outlaw'd man. 
 Dishonouring thus thy loyal name. — 
 Fetters and warder for the Graeme !" — 
 His chain of gold the King unstrung, 
 The links o'er Malcolm's neck he 
 
 flung, 
 Then gently drew the glittering band. 
 And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand. 
 
 Hasp of the North, farewell ! The 
 hills grow dark, 
 On purple peaks a deejDer shade 
 descending; 
 In twilight copse the glow-worm : 
 lights her spark, 
 The deer, half-seen, are to the cov- 
 ert wending. 
 Eesume thy wizard elm ! the fountain 
 Isnding, 
 And the wild breeze, thy wil'ier 
 minstrelsy; 
 Thy numbers sweet with nature'^ 
 vespers blending, 
 With distant echo from the fold 
 and ba, 
 
 And hcrJl-boy's evening pipe, and ' 
 hum of housing boo. 
 
 Yet, onco agciln, farewell, thou Min- 
 strel harp ! 
 Yet, onco again, forgive my feeble 
 sway. 
 And little reck I of the censure sharp 
 
 May idly cavil r.t en idle lay. 
 Much have I owed thy strains on life's 
 long way. 
 Through secret woes the world has 
 never known, 
 When on the v/eary night dawn'd 
 wearier day, 
 And bitterer was the grief devour'd 
 alone. 
 That I o'erlive such woes. Enchant- 
 ress, i3 thine own. 
 
 Hark ! as my lingering footsteps slow 
 
 retire, 
 Some Spirit of the Air has wak'ci 
 
 thy string ! 
 'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch 
 
 of fire, 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 '6g 
 
 'Ti3 now the bush of Fairy's frolic 
 wing. 
 Receding now, the dying numbers 
 ring 
 
 Fainter and fainter down the rug- 
 ged dell, 
 
 And nowthe mountain breezes scarce- 
 ly bring 
 A wandering witch-note of the dis- 
 tant spell — 
 
 Andnow, 'tissilentall ! — Enchantress, 
 fare thee well ! 
 
 THE VISION or DON RODERICK. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I. 
 
 Lives there a strain, whose sounds 
 of mounting fire 
 May rise distinguish'd o'er the 
 din of war; 
 Or died it with yon Master of the 
 Y^re, 
 "VV'iio sung beleaguer'd Ilion's evil 
 star? 
 /^ucb, Wellington, might reach 
 thee from afar, 
 "Wafting its descant wide o'er 
 Ocean's range; 
 Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its 
 mood could mar. 
 All as it Bwell'd 'twixt each loud 
 trumpet change. 
 That clangs to Britain victory, to 
 Portugal revenge ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Yes! such a strain, with all o'er- 
 pouring measure. 
 Might melodize with each tumul- 
 tuous sound, 
 Each voice of fear or triumph, woe 
 or pleasure, 
 That rings Mondego's ravaged 
 shores around ; 
 The thundering cry of hosts with 
 conquest crown'd, 
 The female shriek, the ruin'd 
 peasant's moan, 
 The shout of captives from their 
 chains unbound, 
 The foil'd oppressor's deep and 
 sullen groan, 
 A Nation's choral hymn for tyranny 
 o'erthrown. 
 
 m. 
 
 But we, weak minsti els of a laggard 
 day, 
 SkiU'd but to imitate an elder 
 page. 
 Timid and raptureless, can we re- 
 pay 
 The debt thou claim's! m this 
 exhausted age? 
 Thou givest our lyres a theme, that 
 might engage 
 Those that could send thy name 
 o'er sea and land, 
 While sea and land shall last ; for 
 Homer's rage 
 A theme ; a theme for Milton's 
 mighty hand — 
 How much unmeet for us, a faint de- 
 generate band ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ye mountains stem ! within whose 
 rugged breast 
 The friends of Scottish freedom 
 found repose ; 
 Ye torrents ! whose hoarse sounds 
 
 have soothed their rest, 
 Keturning from the field of van- 
 quish 'd foes; 
 Say have ye lost each wild majestic 
 close. 
 That erst the choir of Bardp or 
 Druids flung; 
 What time their hymn of victory 
 arose. 
 And Cattraeth's glens with voice 
 of triumph rung, 
 And mystic Merlin harp'd, and grey- 
 hair'd Llywarch sung 1 
 
fO 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 V. 
 
 O! if your wilds such minstrelsy 
 retain, 
 As sure your cliangeful gales 
 seem oft to say, 
 When sweeping wild and sinking 
 soft again, 
 Like trumpet-jubilee, or harp's 
 wild sway; 
 If ye can echo such triumphant 
 lay, 
 Then lend the note to him has 
 loved you long ! 
 Who pious gather'd each traditioii 
 grey. 
 That lloats your solitary wastes 
 along, 
 And with affection vain gave them 
 new voice and song. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For not till now, how oft soe'er the 
 
 task 
 Of truant verse hath lighten'd 
 graver care, 
 From Muse or Sylvan was he wont 
 to ask, 
 In phrase poetic, inspiration fair; 
 Careless he gave his numbers to 
 the air. 
 They came unsought for, if ap- 
 plauses came; 
 Nor for himself prefers he now the 
 prayer; ^ 
 Let but his verse befit a hero's 
 fame, 
 Immortal be the verse ! — forgot th© 
 poet's name. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Hark, from yon misty cairn their 
 answer tost: 
 "Minstrel! the fame of whose 
 romantic lyre. 
 Capricious-swelling now, may soon 
 be lost, 
 Like the light flickering of a cot- 
 tage fire ; 
 If to such task presumptuous thou 
 aspire, 
 Seek not from us the meed to 
 warrior due: 
 
 Age after age hath gathered son to 
 sire. 
 Since our grey cliffs the din of 
 conflict knew, 
 Or, pealing through our vales, victo- 
 rious bugles blew. 
 
 vm. 
 
 '* Decay'd our old traditionary lore, 
 Save where the lingering fays re- 
 new their ring. 
 By milk-maid seen beneath the 
 hawthorn hoar. 
 Or round the marge of Minch- 
 more's haunted spring: 
 Save where their legends grey- 
 hair'd. shepherds sing, 
 That now scarce win a listening 
 ear but thine, 
 Of feuds obscure, and Border rav- 
 aging, 
 And rugged deeds recount in 
 rugged line, 
 Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, 
 Tweed, or Tyne. 
 
 IX. 
 
 * ' No ! search romantic lands, where 
 the near Sun 
 Gives with unstinted boon ethe- 
 . real flame, 
 Where the rude villager, his labour 
 done, 
 In verse spontaneous chants some 
 favour'd name. 
 Whether Olalia's charms his trib- 
 , ute claim, 
 
 Her eye of diamond, and her 
 locks of jet; 
 Or whether, kindling at the deeds 
 of Grgeme, 
 He sing, to wild Morisco meas- 
 ure set, 
 Old Albin's red claymore, green 
 Erin's bayonet ! 
 
 X. 
 
 "Explore those regions, where 
 the flinty crest 
 Of wild Nevada ever gleams with 
 snows, 
 
THE VISION OF DON BODERICK. 
 
 "Where in the proud Alhambra's 
 ruin'd breast 
 Barbaric monuments of pomp re- 
 pose ; 
 Or "where the banners of more ruth- 
 less foes 
 * Than the fierce Moor, float o'er 
 
 Toledo's fane, 
 From whose tall towers even now 
 the patriot throws 
 An anxious glance, to spy upon 
 the plain 
 The blended ranks of England, Por- 
 tugal, and Spain. 
 
 XI. 
 
 *' There, of Numantian fire a swar- 
 thy spark 
 . Still lightens in the sun-burnt 
 
 native's eye ; 
 The stately port, slow step, and 
 visage dark, 
 Still mark enduring pride and 
 constancy. 
 And, if the glow of feudal chivalry 
 Beam not, as once, thy' nobles' 
 dearest pride, 
 Iberia ! oft thy crestless peasantry 
 Have seen the plumed Hidalgo 
 quit their side. 
 Have seen, yet dauntless stood — 
 'gainst fortune fought and died. 
 
 XIT. 
 
 "And cherish 'd still by that un- 
 changing race. 
 Are themes for minstrelsy more 
 high than thine ; 
 Of strange tradition many a mystic 
 trace, 
 Legend and vision, prophecy and 
 sign ; 
 Where wonders wide of Arabesque 
 combine 
 With Gothic imagery of darker 
 shade, 
 Forming a model meet for minstrel 
 line. 
 Go, seek such theme !" — The 
 Mountain Spirit said : 
 With filial awe I heard — I heard, and 
 I uijoy'u. 
 
 I. 
 
 Keaking their crests amid the 
 cloudless skies. 
 And darkly clustering in the pale 
 moonlight, 
 Toledo's holy towers and spires 
 arise, 
 As from a trembling lake of 
 silver white. 
 Their mingled shadows intercept 
 the sight 
 Of the broad burial-ground out- 
 stretch'd below, 
 And nought disturbs the silence of 
 the night ; 
 All sleeps in sullen shade, or 
 silver glow, 
 All save the heavy swell of Teio's 
 ceaseless flow. 
 
 II. 
 
 All save the rushing swell of Teio's 
 tide. 
 Or, distant heard, a courser's 
 neigh or tramp ; 
 Their changing rounds as watchful 
 horsemen ride, 
 To guard the limits of King 
 Roderick's camp. 
 For, through the river's night-fog 
 rolling damp, 
 Was many a proud pavilion 
 dimly seen, 
 WTiich glimmer'd back against the 
 moon's fair lamp. 
 Tissues of silk and silver twisted 
 sheen, 
 And standards proudly pitch'd, and 
 warders arm'd between. 
 
 m. 
 
 But of their Monarch's person 
 keeping ward, 
 Since last the deep-mouth'd bell 
 of vespers toll'd. 
 
 The chosen soldiers of the royal 
 guard 
 The post beneath the proud Ca- 
 thedral hold ; 
 
 A band unlike their Gothic sires of 
 old, 
 
72- 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Who, for the cap of steel and 
 iron mace, 
 Bear slender darts, and casques be- 
 deck' d with gold, 
 While silver-studded belts their 
 shoulders grace. 
 Where ivory quivers ring in the broad 
 falchion's place. 
 
 rv. 
 
 In the light language of an idle 
 court, 
 They murmur'd at their master's 
 long delay. 
 And held his lengthen'd orisons in 
 sport: — 
 '* What ! will Don Koderick here 
 till morning stay, 
 To wear in shrift and prayer the 
 night away ? 
 And are his hours in such dull 
 penance past, 
 For fair Florinda's plunder'd 
 charms to pay ?" — 
 Then to the east their weary eyes 
 they cast. 
 And wish'd the lingering dawn would 
 glimmer forth at last. 
 
 V. 
 
 But, far within, Toledo's Prelate lent 
 An ear of fearful wonder to the 
 King; 
 The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent, 
 So long that sad confession wit- 
 nessing: 
 For Koderick told of many a hid- 
 den thing, 
 Such as are lothly utter'd to the 
 air. 
 When Fear, Bemorse, and Shame, 
 the bosom wring, 
 And Guilt his secret burden can- 
 not bear, 
 And Conscience seeks in speech a 
 respite from despair. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Full on the Prelate's face, and sil- 
 ver hair. 
 The stream of failing light was 
 feebly roll'd: 
 
 But Roderick's visage, though his 
 head was bare. 
 Was shadow'd by his hand and 
 mantle's fold. 
 While of his hidden soul the sins 
 he told. 
 Proud Alaric's descendant cotfld 
 not brook. 
 That mortal man his bearing should 
 behold, 
 Or boast that he had seen, when 
 Conscience shook, 
 Fear tame a monarch's brow, Re- 
 morse a warrior's look. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The old man's faded cheek wax'd yet 
 more pale. 
 As many a secret sad the King be- 
 wray'd; 
 As sign and glance eked out the un- 
 finished tale. 
 When in the midst his faltering 
 whisper staid. — 
 " Thus royal Witiza* was slain," — he 
 sai(?; 
 "Yet, holy Father, deem not it 
 was I.'" 
 Thus still Ambition strives her 
 crimes to shade. — 
 ' • Oh ! rather deem it 'twas stern 
 necessity ! 
 Self-preservation bade, and I must 
 kill or die. 
 
 vm. 
 
 *' And if Florinda's shrieks alarm'd 
 the air. 
 If she invoked her absent sire in 
 vain. 
 And on her knees implored that I 
 would spare. 
 Yet, reverend priest, thy sentence 
 rash refrain ! — 
 All is not as it seems — the female 
 train 
 Know by their bearing to dis- 
 guise their mood:" — 
 But Conscience here, as if in high 
 disdain, 
 
 * "Witiza was Roderick's predecessor on 
 the Spanish throne. He was slaia by Rod- 
 erick's connivance. 
 
THE VISION OF DON BODERICK. 
 
 IZ 
 
 Sent to the Monarcli's cheek the 
 blood — 
 He stay'd his speech abrupt — and up 
 the Prelate stood. 
 
 IX. 
 
 > 
 "O harden'd offspring of an iron 
 race ! 
 "What of thy crimes, Don Roder- 
 ick, shall I say ? 
 What alms, or prayers, or penance 
 can efface 
 Murder's dark spot, wash trea- 
 son's stain away ! 
 For the foul ravisher how shall I 
 pray, 
 "Who, scarce repentant, makes 
 his crime his boast ? 
 How hope Almighty vengeance 
 shall delay, 
 Unless in mercy to yon Christian 
 host, 
 He spare the shepherd, lest the guilt- 
 less sheep be lost." 
 
 X. 
 
 Then kindled the dark Tyrant in 
 his mood, 
 And to his brow retum'd its 
 dauntless gloom ; 
 **And welcome then," he cried, "be 
 blood for blood, 
 
 For treason treachery, for dishon- 
 our doom ! 
 Yet will I know whence come they, 
 or by whom. 
 Show, for thou canst — give forth 
 the fated key. 
 And guide me, Priest, to that mys- 
 terious room, 
 Where, if aught true in old tradi- 
 tion be. 
 His nation's future fates a Spanish 
 King shall see." — 
 
 XI. 
 
 "Ill-fated Prince! recall the des- 
 perate word, 
 Or pause ere yet the omen thou 
 obey? 
 
 Bethink, yon spell-bound portal 
 would afford 
 
 Never to former Monarch en- 
 trance-way ; 
 Nor shall it ever ope, old records 
 say, 
 Save to a King, the last of all his 
 line, 
 What time his empire totters to 
 decay, 
 And treason digs, beneath, her 
 fatal mine, 
 And, high above, impends avenging 
 wrath divine."— 
 
 xn. 
 
 "Prelate ! a Monarch's fate brooks 
 no delay; 
 Lead on !'' — The ponderous key 
 the old man took, 
 And held the winking lamp, and 
 led the way. 
 By winding stair, dark aisle, 
 and secret nook, 
 Then on an ancient gateway bent 
 his look; 
 And, as the key the desperate 
 King essay 'd. 
 Low mutter' d thunders the Cathe- 
 dral shook, 
 And twice he stopp'd, and twice 
 new effort made, 
 Till the huge bolts roU'd back, and 
 the loud hinges bray'd. 
 
 xm. 
 
 Long, large, and lofty, was that 
 vaulted hall; 
 Eoof , walls, and floor, were all of 
 marble stone, 
 Of polish 'd marble, black as funer- 
 al pall. 
 Carved o'er with signs and char- 
 acters unknown. 
 A paly light, as of the dawning, 
 shone 
 Through the sad bounds, but 
 whence they could not spy; 
 For window to the upper air was 
 none; 
 Yet, by that light, Don Eoderick 
 could descry 
 Wonders that ne'er till then were 
 seen by mortal eye. 
 
74 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XIV. 
 Grim sentinels, against the upper 
 •wall, 
 Of molten bronze, two Statutes 
 held their place; 
 Massive their naked limbs, their 
 stature tall, 
 Their frowning foreheads golden 
 circles grace. 
 Moulded they seem'd for kings of 
 giant race, 
 That lived and sinn'd before the 
 avenging flood; 
 This grasp' d a scythe, that rested 
 on a mace ; 
 This spread his wings for flight, 
 that pondering stood. 
 Each stubborn seem'd and stem, im- 
 mutable of mood. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Fix'd was the right-hand Giant's 
 brazen look 
 Upon his brother's glass of shift- 
 ing sand, 
 As if its ebb he measured by a 
 
 book, 
 • Whose iron volume loaded his 
 
 huge hand; 
 In which v/as wrote of many a fal- 
 len land. 
 Of empires lost, and kings to ex- 
 ile driven: 
 And o'er that pair their name in 
 scroll expand — 
 " Lo, Destiny and Time ! to 
 whom by Heaven 
 The guidance of the earth is for a 
 season given." — 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Even while they read, the sand- 
 glass wastes away ; 
 And, as the last and lagging 
 grains did creep, 
 That right-hand Giant 'gan his club 
 upsway, 
 As one tliat startles from a heavy 
 sleep. 
 Full on the upper wall the mace's 
 sweep 
 At once descended with the force 
 of thuaclcr, 
 
 And hurling down at once, in 
 crumbled heap. 
 The marble boundary was rent 
 asunder. 
 And gave to Eoderick's view new 
 sights of fear and wonder. 
 XVII. 
 
 For they might spy, beyond that 
 mighty breach, 
 Ilealms as of Spain in vision'd 
 prospect laid, 
 Castles and towers, in due pr.opor- 
 tion each, 
 As by some skilful artist's hand 
 portray'd . ■ , 
 
 Here, crossed by many a wild Sier- a | 
 ra's shade, ' 
 
 And boundless plains that tiro 
 the traveller's eye; 
 There, rich with vineyard and with 
 olive glade, 
 Or d eep- embrown' d by forests 
 huge and high. 
 Or wash'd by mighty streams, that 
 slowly murmur'd by. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And here, as erst upon the antique 
 stage, 
 Pass'd forth the band of mas- 
 quers trimly led, 
 In various forms, and various equi- 
 page. 
 While fitting strains the hearer's 
 fancy fed; 
 So, to sad Roderick's eye in order 
 spread, 
 Successive pageants fill'd that 
 mystic scene, 
 Showing the fate of battles ere 
 they bled. 
 And issue of events that had not 
 been ; 
 And, ever and anon, strange sounds 
 were heard between. 
 
 XIX. 
 First shrill'd an imrepeated female 
 shriek ! — 
 It seemed as if Don Eoderick 
 knew the call, 
 For the bold blood was blanching 
 in his cheek. — 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 :75' 
 
 Then answer'd kettle-drum and 
 atabal, 
 Gong- peal and cymbal-clank the 
 ear appal, 
 The Tecbir war-cry, and the 
 Lelie's yell, 
 Ring wildly dissonant along the 
 haU. 
 Needs not to Roderick their 
 dread import tell — 
 •♦The Moor!" he cried, -'The Moor !— 
 ring out the Tocsin bell ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 *' They come ! they come ! I see the 
 groaning lands 
 "White with the turbans of each 
 Arab horde; 
 Swart Zaarah joins her misbeliev- 
 ing bands. 
 Alia and Mahomet their battle- 
 word, 
 The choice they yield, the Koran 
 or the Sword — 
 See how the Christians rush to 
 arms amain ! — 
 In yonder shout the voice of con- 
 flict roar'd. 
 The shadowy hosts are closing 
 on the plain — 
 Now, God and Saint lago strike, for 
 the good cause of Spain ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "By Heaven, the Moors prevail! 
 the Christians yield ! 
 Their coward leader gives for 
 flight the sign ! 
 The sceptred craven mounts to quit 
 the field — 
 Is not yon steed Orelio?— Yes, 
 'tis mine ! 
 But never was she turn'd from bat- 
 tle-line : 
 Lo I where the recreant spurs 
 o'er stock and stone ! 
 Curses pursue the slave, and wrath 
 divine ! 
 Elvers ingulph him !"— "Hush," 
 in shuddering tone, 
 The Prelate said ;— * ' rash Prince, yon 
 vision'd form's thine own. " 
 
 xxn. 
 
 Just then, a torrent cross d the 
 flier's course; 
 The dangerous ford the Kingly 
 Likeness tried; 
 But the deep eddies whelm'd both 
 man and horse, 
 Swept like benighted peasant 
 down the tide ; 
 And the proud Moslemah spread 
 far and wide. 
 As numerous as their native 
 locust band; 
 Berber and Ismael's sons the spoils 
 divide, 
 With naked scimitars mete out 
 the land. 
 And for the bondsman base the free- 
 born natives brand. 
 
 xxni. 
 
 Then rose the grated Harem, to 
 enclose 
 The loveliest maidens of the 
 Cljristian line ; 
 Then, menials, to their misbeliev- 
 ing foes, 
 Castile's young nobles held for- 
 bidden wine; 
 Then, too, the holy Cross, salva- 
 tion's sign, 
 By impious hands was from the 
 altar thrown, 
 And the deep aisles of the polluted 
 shrine 
 Echo'd.for holy hymn and organ- 
 tone 
 The Santon's frantic dance, the Fa- 
 kir's gibbering moan. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 How fares Don Roderick? — E'en 
 as one who spies 
 Flames dart their glare o'er mid- 
 night's sable woof, 
 
 And hears around his children's 
 piercing cries. 
 And sees the pale assistants stand 
 aloof; 
 
 While cruel Conscience brings him 
 bitter proof, 
 
761 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 1 
 
 His folly or his crime have caused 
 his grief; 
 And while above him nods the 
 crumbling roof, 
 He curses earth and Heaven — 
 himself in chief - 
 Desperate of earthly aid, despairing 
 Heaven's relief ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 That scythe-arm'd Giant turn'd his 
 fatal glass 
 And twilight on the landscape 
 closed her wings; 
 Far to Asturian hills the war- 
 sounds pass, 
 And in their stead rebeck or tim- 
 brel rings; 
 And to the sound the bell-deck'd 
 dancer springs. 
 Bazaars resound as when their 
 marts are met, 
 In tourney light the Moor his 
 jerrid* flings, 
 And on the land as evening 
 seem'd to set, 
 The Imaum's chant was heard from 
 mosque or minaret. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 So pass'd that pageant. Ere an- 
 other came, 
 The visionary Bceno was wrapp'd 
 in smoke, 
 Whose sulph'rous wreaths were 
 cross'd by sheets of flame; 
 With every flash a bolt explo- 
 sive broke, 
 Till Koderick deem'd the fiends 
 had burst their yoke. 
 And waved 'gainst heaven the 
 infernal gonfalone.f 
 For War a new and dreadful lan- 
 guage spoke. 
 Never by ancient warrior heard 
 or known; 
 Lightning and smoke her breath, and 
 thunder was her tone. 
 
 * J^errid, javelin. 
 t Gon/alone, banner. 
 
 XXVII. 
 From the dim landscape roll the 
 clouds away — 
 The Christians have regain'd 
 their heritage; 
 Before the Cross has waned the 
 Crescent's ray 
 And many a monastery decks the 
 stage, 
 And lofty church, and low-brow'd 
 hermitage. 
 The land obeys a Hermit and ci 
 Knight, — 
 The Genii those of Spain for many 
 an age; 
 This clad in sackcloth, that in 
 armour bright. 
 And that was Valoue named, this 
 BiGOTKY was hight. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Valour was harness'd like a Chief 
 of old, 
 Arm'd at all points, and prompt 
 for knightly gest; 
 His sword was temper'd in the 
 Ebro cold, 
 Morena's eagle plume adom'd his 
 crest. 
 The spoils of Afric's lion bound his 
 breast. 
 Fierce he stepp'd forward and 
 flung down his gage; 
 As if of mortal kind to brave the 
 best. 
 Him follow'd his Companion, 
 dark and sage. 
 As he, my Master, sung the danger- 
 ous Archimage. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Haughty of heart and brow the 
 Warrior came, 
 In look and language proud as 
 proud might bo, 
 Vaunting his lordship, lineage, 
 fights, and fame : 
 Yet was that barefoot monk more 
 proud than ho : 
 And as the ivy climbs the tallest 
 tree, 
 So round the loftiest soul his 
 toils he wound, 
 
THE VISroy -OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 77 
 
 And with his spells subdued the 
 fierce and free, 
 Till ermined Age and Youth in 
 arms renown'd, 
 Honouring his scourge and haircloth, 
 meekly kiss'd the ground. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And thus it chanced that Valoue, 
 peerless knight. 
 Who ne'er to King or Kaiser 
 veil'd his crest, 
 'Victorious still in bull-feast or in 
 figtt. 
 Since first his limbs with mail 
 he did invest, 
 Stoop'd ever to that Anchoret's 
 behest ; 
 Nor reason'd of the right, nor of 
 the wrong. 
 But at his bidding laid the lance 
 in rest, 
 And wrought fell deeds the 
 troubled world along, 
 For he was fierce as brave, and piti- 
 less as strong. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Oft his proud galleys sought some 
 new-found world. 
 That latest sees the sun, or first 
 the morn ; 
 Still at the Wizard's feet their 
 spoils he hurl'd, — 
 Ingots of ore from rich Potosi 
 borne, 
 Crowns by Caciques, * aigrettes by 
 Omrahs worn. 
 Wrought of rare gems, but 
 broken, rent, and foul ; 
 Idols of gold from heathen temples 
 
 torn, 
 Bedabbled all with blood.— With 
 grisly scowl 
 The Hermit mark'd the stains, and 
 smiled beneath his cowl. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 Then did he bless the offering, and 
 bade make 
 Tribute to Heaven of gratitude 
 and praise ; 
 
 * Caciques and OnraJis, Peruvian and 
 Mexican chiefs or nobles. 
 
 And at his word the choral hymns 
 awake, 
 And m:;ny a hand the silver 
 censer sways, 
 But with the incense-breath these 
 censers raise, 
 Mix steams from corpses smoul- 
 dering in the fire ; 
 The groans of prison'd victims 
 mar the lays, 
 And shrieks of agony confound 
 the quire ; 
 While, 'mid the mingled sounds, the 
 darken'd scenes expire. 
 
 xxxin. 
 
 Preluding light, were strains of 
 music heard. 
 As once again revolved that 
 measured sand ; 
 Such sounds as when, for sylvan 
 dance prepared. 
 Gay Xeres summons forth her 
 vintage band ; 
 When for the light bolero ready 
 stand 
 The mozo blithe, with gay mu- 
 chacha met, 
 He conscious of his broider'd cap 
 and band, 
 
 She of her netted locks and light 
 corsette. 
 Each tiptoe perch'd to spring, and 
 shake the castanet. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 And well such strains the opening 
 scene became ; 
 For Valoub had relax'd his ar- 
 dent look. 
 And at a lady's feet, like lion tame. 
 Lay stretch'd, full loth the weight 
 of arms to brook; 
 And soften' d Bigotey, upon his 
 book, 
 Patter'd a task of little good or ill: 
 But the blithe peasant plied hij 
 pruning-hook, 
 Whistled the muleteer o'er vale 
 and hill. 
 And rung from village-green the 
 merry seguidille. 
 
78 
 
 SCOTT S POEJICAL WOllKS. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Grey Eoyalty, grown impotent of 
 toil, 
 Let the grave sceptre slip his 
 lazy hold; 
 And, careless, saw his rule become 
 the spoil 
 Of a loose Female and her min- 
 ion bold. • 
 But peace was on the cottage and 
 the fold, 
 From court intrigue, from bick- 
 ering faction far; 
 Beneath the chestnut-tree Love's 
 tale was told, 
 And to the tinkling of the light 
 guitar, 
 Sweet stoop'd the western sun, sweet 
 rose the evening star. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 As that sea-cloud, in size like hu- 
 man hand, 
 "When first from Carmel by the 
 Tishbite* seen, 
 Came slowly overshadowing Israel's 
 land, 
 A while, perchance, bedeck' d 
 with colours sheen, 
 While yet the sunbeams on its 
 skirts had been, 
 Limning with purple and with 
 gold its shroud. 
 Till darker folds obscured the blue 
 serene. 
 And blotted heaven with one 
 broad sable cloud, 
 Then sheeted ram burst down, and 
 whirlwinds howl'd aloud: — 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Even so, upon that peaceful scene 
 was pour'd. 
 Like gathering clouds, full many 
 a foreign band, 
 And PIe, their Leader, wore in sheath 
 his sword, 
 And offer'd peaceful from and 
 open hand, 
 
 * Elijah the Prophet, 
 xviii. 
 
 See 1 Kings, chap. 
 
 Veiling the perjured treachery he 
 plann'd, 
 By friendship's zeal and honour's 
 specious guise, 
 Until he won the passes of the land ; 
 Then burst were honour's oath, 
 and friendship's ties ! 
 He clutch'd his vulture grasp, and 
 call'd fair Spain his prize. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 An Iron Crown his anxious fore- 
 head bore; 
 And well such diadem his heart 
 became. 
 Who ne'er his purpose for remorse 
 gave o'er, 
 Or check' d his course for piety 
 or shame; 
 Who, train'd a soldier, deem'd a 
 soldier's fame 
 Might flourish in the wreath of 
 battles won, 
 Though neither truth nor honour 
 deck'd his name; 
 Who, placed by fortune on a 
 Monarch's throne, 
 Beck'd not of Monarch's faith, or 
 Mercy's kingly tone. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 From a rude isle his ruder lineage 
 came. 
 The spark, that, from a suburb- 
 hovel's hearth 
 Ascending, wraps some capital in 
 flame, 
 Hath not a meaner or more sor- 
 did birth. 
 And for the soul that bade him 
 waste the earth — 
 The sable land-flood from some 
 swamp obscure, 
 That poisons the glad husband- 
 field with dearth, 
 And by destruction bids its fame 
 endure, 
 Hath not a source more sullen, stag- 
 nant, and impure.* 
 
 *In liistorical truth, Napoleon I.'s family 
 was not plebeian. 
 
TEE VISION OF VOK TtODEEICK. 
 
 79 
 
 XL. 
 Before that Leader strode a shad- 
 owy i?'orm ; 
 Her limbs like mist, her torch 
 like meteor show'd, 
 With which she beckon'd him 
 through fight and storm, 
 And all he crush 'd that cross'd 
 his desperate road. 
 Nor thought, nor fear'd, nor look'd 
 on what he trode. 
 Realms could not glut his pride, 
 blood could not slake, 
 So oft as e'er she shook her torch 
 abroad — 
 It was Ambition bade her terrors 
 wake, 
 Nor deign'd she, as of yore, a milder 
 form to take. 
 
 XLL 
 
 No longer now she spurn'd at mean 
 revenge. 
 Or staid her hand for conquer'd 
 foeman's moan; 
 As when, the fates of aged Rome to 
 change, 
 By Caesar's side she cross'd the 
 Eubicoi^. 
 Nor joy'd she to bestow the spoils 
 she won. 
 As when the banded powers of 
 Greece were task'd 
 To war beneath the Youth of Mace- 
 don: 
 No seemly veil her modern min- 
 ion ask'd, 
 He saw her hideous face, and loved 
 the fiend unmask'd. 
 
 XLH. 
 
 That Prelate mark'd his march — 
 On banners blazed 
 "With battles won in many a dis- 
 tant land, 
 On eagle-standards and on arms he 
 gazed; 
 •'And hopest thou then," he 
 said, "thy power shall stand? 
 O, thou hast builded on the shift- 
 ing sand, 
 And thou hast temper'd it with 
 slaughter's flood; 
 
 And know, fell scourge in the Al- 
 mighty's hand, 
 Gore-moisten'd trees shall perish 
 in the bud. 
 And by a bloody death shall die the 
 Man of Blood!" 
 
 XLin. 
 
 The ruthless Leader beckon'd from 
 his train 
 A wan fraternal Shade, and bade 
 him kneel. 
 And paled his temples with the 
 crown of Spain, . 
 While trumpets rang, and her- 
 alds cried, "Castile!" 
 Not that he loved him — No !— In 
 no man's weal, 
 Scarce in his own, e'er joy'd that 
 sullen heart; 
 Yet round that throne he bade his 
 warriors wheel. 
 That the poor Puppet might per- 
 form his part. 
 And be a sceptred slave, at his stern 
 beck to start. 
 
 XLIV. 
 But on the Natives of that Land 
 misused, 
 Not long the silence of amaze- 
 ment hung, 
 Nor brook'd they long their friend- 
 ly faith abused ; 
 For, with a common shriek, the 
 general tongue 
 Exclaim'd, *' To arms !" and fast to 
 arms they sprung. 
 And Valour woke, that Genius 
 of the Land ! 
 Pleasure, and ease, and sloth, aside 
 he flung. 
 As burst th' awakening Nazarite 
 his band, 
 When 'gainst his treacherous foes he 
 clench'd his dreadful hand.* 
 XLV. 
 That Mimic Monarch now cast anx- 
 ioas eye 
 Upon the Satraps that begirt him 
 round, 
 
 * Samsoa. See Judges, chap. xv. 9—16. 
 
8o 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Now doff'd his royal robe in act to 
 
 fly, 
 
 And from his brow the diadem 
 unbound. 
 So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle 
 wound, 
 From Tarick's walls to Bilboa's 
 mountains blown, 
 These martial satellites hard labour 
 found, 
 To guard a while his substituted 
 throne — 
 Light recking of his cause, but bat- 
 tling for their own. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 From Alpuhara's peak that bugle 
 rung, 
 And it was echo'd from Corun- 
 na's wall; 
 Stately Seville responsive war-shot 
 flung, 
 Grenada caught it in her Moorish 
 hall; 
 Galicia bade her children fight or 
 fall. 
 Wild Biscay shook his mountain- 
 coronet, 
 Valencia roused her at the battle- 
 call, 
 And, foremost still where Val- 
 our's sons are met, 
 First started to his gun each fiery 
 Miquelet. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 But unappall'd and burning for 
 the tight, 
 The Invaders march, of victory 
 secure; 
 Skilful their force to sever or unite, 
 And train'd alike to vanquish or 
 endure. 
 Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to 
 ensure, 
 Discord to breathe, and jealousy 
 to sow, 
 To quell by boasting, and by bribes 
 to lure; 
 "While nought against them bring 
 the unpractised foe, 
 Save hearts for Freedom's cause, and 
 hands for Freedom's blow. 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 Proudly they march— but, O ! they 
 march not forth 
 By one hot field to crown a brief 
 campaign. 
 As when their Eagles, sweeping 
 through the North, 
 Destroy'd at every stoop an an- 
 cient reign ! 
 Far other fate had Heaven decreed 
 for Spain ; 
 In vain the steel, in vain the 
 torch was plied, 
 New Patriot armies started from 
 the slain, 
 High blazed the war, and long, 
 and far, and wide, 
 And oft the God of Battles blest the 
 righteous side. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Nor unatoned, where Freedom's 
 foes prevail, 
 Remain'd their savage waste. 
 With blade and brand. 
 By day the Invaders ravaged hill 
 and dale, 
 But, with the darkness, the 
 Guerilla band 
 Came like night's tempest, and 
 avenged the land, 
 And claim'd for blood the retri- 
 bution due, 
 Probed the hard heart, and lopp'd 
 the murd'rous hand; 
 And Dawn, when o'er the scene 
 her beams she threw. 
 Midst ruins they had made, the spoil- 
 ers' corpses knew. 
 
 L. 
 
 What minstrel voice may sing, or 
 tongue may tell, 
 Amid the vision 'd strife from sea 
 to sea, 
 How oft the Patriot banners rose 
 or fell. 
 Still honour'd in defeat as vic- 
 tory ! 
 For that sad pageant of events to be, 
 Show'd every form of fight by 
 field and flood; 
 
THE VI8T0N OF DON RODEBICK 
 
 81 
 
 Slaughter and Euin, shouting forth 
 their glee, 
 Beheld, while riding on the tem- 
 pest scud, 
 The waters choked with slain, the 
 earth bedrench'd with blood ! 
 
 LI. 
 
 Then Zaragoza— blighted be the 
 tongue 
 That names thy name without 
 the honour due ! 
 Forncver hath the harp of Minstrel 
 
 rung 
 Of faith so felly proved, so firmly 
 
 true ! 
 Mine, sap, and bomb, thy shat- 
 ter'd ruins knew, 
 Each art of war's extremity had 
 room. 
 Twice from thy half-sack'd streets 
 the foe withdrew. 
 And when at length stern fate 
 decreed thy doom, 
 They won not Zaragoza, but her chil- 
 dren's bloody tomb. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Yet raise thy head, sad city ! 
 Though in chains, 
 Enthrall'd thou canst not be! 
 Arise, and claim 
 Reverence from every heart where 
 Freedom reigns, 
 For what thou worshippest !— 
 thy sainted dame. 
 She of the Column, honour'd be 
 her name, 
 By all, whate'er their creed, who 
 honour love I 
 And like the sacred relics of the 
 flame, 
 That gave some martyr to the 
 bless'd above, 
 To every loyal heart may thy sad em- 
 bers prove 1 
 
 Lin. 
 
 Nor thino alone sucli wreck. Ge- 
 
 rona fair ! 
 Faithful to death thy heroes shall 
 
 be sung, 
 Manning the towers while o'er their 
 
 heads the air 
 
 Swart as the smoke frotn raging 
 furnace hung; 
 Now thicker dark'ning where the 
 mine was sprung, 
 Now briefly lightened by the 
 cannon's flare, 
 Now arch'd with fire-sparks as the 
 bomb was flung, 
 And redd'nmg now with confla- 
 gration's glare, 
 While by the fatal light the foes for 
 storm prepare. 
 
 UY. 
 
 While all around was danger, strife, 
 and fear, 
 While the earth shook, and dark- 
 en' dwaj the sky, 
 And wide Destruction stunn'd the 
 listening ear, 
 Appall'd tao heart, and stupified 
 the eye,— 
 Afar was heard that thrice-repeated 
 cry. 
 In which old Albion's heart and 
 tongue unite, 
 When'er her soul is up, and pulse 
 beats high. 
 Whether it hail the wine cup or 
 the fight, 
 And bid each arm be strong, or bid 
 each heart be light. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Don Roderick turn'd him as the 
 shout grew loud — 
 A varied scene the changeful 
 vision show'd, 
 For, where the ocean mingled with 
 the cloud, 
 A gallant navy stemm'd the bil- 
 lows broad. 
 From mast and stern St. George's 
 symbol flow'd, 
 Blent with the silver cross to 
 Scotland dear; 
 Mottling the sea their landward 
 barges row'd, 
 And flash' d the Fun on bayonet, 
 brand, and spear, 
 And the wild beach return'd the sea- 
 man's jovial cheer. 
 
Sa 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 LVI. 
 It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring 
 Biglit ! 
 The billows foam'd beneath a 
 thousand oars, 
 Fast cs they land the red-cross 
 ranks unite, 
 Legions on legions bright'ning 
 all the shores. 
 Then banners rise, and cannon- 
 signal roars, 
 Then peals the warlike thunder 
 of the drum, 
 Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet- 
 flourish pours, 
 And patriot hopes awake, and 
 doubts are dumb, 
 For, bold in Freedom's cause, the 
 bands of Ocean come ! 
 LVII. 
 A various host they came — whose 
 ranks display 
 Each mode in which the warrior 
 meets the fight. 
 The deep battalion locks its firm 
 array, 
 And meditates his aim the marks- 
 man light; 
 Far glance the light of sabres flash- 
 ing bright, 
 Wiiere mounted squadrons shake 
 the echoing mead. 
 Lacks not artillery breathing flame 
 and night, 
 Nor the fleet ordnance whirl'dby 
 rapid steed. 
 That rivals lightning's flash in ruin 
 and in speed. " 
 LVIIL 
 
 A various host — from kindred 
 realms they came, 
 Brethren in arms, but rivals in 
 renown — 
 For yon fair bands shall merry 
 England claim. 
 And with their deeds of valour 
 deck her crown. 
 Hers their bold port, and hers their 
 martial frown. 
 And hers their scorn of death ia 
 freedom's cause, 
 
 There eyes of azure, and their 
 locks of brovv^n. 
 And the blunt speech that bursts 
 without a pause. 
 And freeborn thoughts, which league 
 the Soldier with the Laws. 
 LIX. 
 
 And, O ! loved warriors of the Min- 
 strel's land ! 
 Yonder your bonnets nod, your 
 tartans wave ! 
 The rugged form may mark the 
 mountain band. 
 And harsher features, and a mien 
 more grave; 
 But ne'er in battle-field throbbed 
 heart so brave. 
 As that which beats beneath the 
 Scottish plaid; 
 And when the pibroch bids the bat- 
 tle rave. 
 And level for the charge your 
 arms are laid, 
 Where lives the desperate foe that for 
 such onset staid ! 
 
 LX. 
 
 Hark ! from yon stately ranks what 
 laughter rings, 
 Mingling wild mirth with war's 
 stern minstrelsy, 
 His jest while each blithe comrade 
 round him flings, 
 And moves to death with mili- 
 tary glee: 
 Boast, Erin, boast them ! tameless, 
 frank, and free, 
 In kindness warm, and fierce in 
 danger known. 
 Rough nature's children, humor- 
 ous as she: 
 And He, yon Chieftain — strike 
 the proudest tone 
 Of thy bold harp, green Isle! — the 
 Hero is thine own. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Now on the scene Vimeira* should 
 be shown, 
 
 * Tho battle of Vimeira was fought Au- 
 gust 21st, 1808; Corunns. January Ifi'th, 1809; 
 Talaveni, July 23tb, 1809; Busaco, Septem- 
 ber 27th, 1810. 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 83 
 
 On Talavera's fight should Rod- 
 erick gaze, 
 And hear Corunna wail her battle 
 won, 
 And see Busaco's crest with light- 
 ning blaze: — 
 But shall fond fable mix with he- 
 roes' praise ? 
 Hath Fiction's stage for Truth's 
 long triumphs room ? 
 And dare her wild- flowers mingle 
 with the bays, 
 That claim a long eternity to 
 bloom 
 Around the warrior's crest, and o'er 
 the warrior's tomb ! 
 
 XLn. 
 
 Or may I give adventurous Fancy 
 scope. 
 And stretch a bold hand to the 
 awful veil 
 That hides futurity from anxious 
 hope, 
 Bidding beyond it scenes of 
 glory hail, 
 And painting Europe rousing at 
 the tale 
 Of Spain's invaders from her con- 
 fines hurl'd, 
 While kindling nations buckle on 
 their mail, 
 And Fame, with clarion-blast 
 and wings unfurl'd, 
 To Freedom and Bevenge awakes an 
 injured World? 
 
 Lxm. 
 
 O vain, though anxious, is the 
 glance I cast, 
 Since Fate has mark'd futurity 
 her own: 
 Yet fate resigns to worth the glori- 
 ous past, 
 The deeds recorded, and the lau- 
 rels won. 
 Then, though the Vault of Destiny 
 be gone, 
 King, Prelate, all the phantasms 
 of my brain, 
 Melted away like mist-wreaths in 
 the sun, 
 
 Tet grant for faith, for valour, 
 and for Spain, 
 One note of pride and firo, a Patriot's 
 parting strain ! 
 
 Conclusion. 
 I. 
 " AYho shall command Estrella's 
 mountain tide 
 Back to the source, when tem- 
 pest-chafed, to hie ? 
 Y/ho, when Gascogne's vex'd gulf 
 is raging wide. 
 Shall hush it as a nurse her in- 
 fant's cry ? 
 His magic power let such vain 
 boaster try, 
 And when the torrent shall his 
 voice obey. 
 And Biscay's whirlwinds list his 
 lullaby. 
 Let him stand forth and bar mine 
 eagles' way. 
 And they shall heed his voice, and at 
 his bidding stay. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Else ne'er to stoop, till high on 
 Lisbon's towers 
 They close their wings, the sym- 
 bol of our yoke, 
 i\jid their own sea hath whelm'd 
 yon red-cross Powers ! " 
 Thus, on the summit of Alverca's 
 rock, 
 To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul's 
 Leader spoke. 
 While downward on the land his 
 legions press, 
 Before them it was rich with vine 
 and flock, 
 And smiled like Eden in her 
 summer dress; 
 Behind their wasteful march, a reek- 
 ing wilderness. 
 III. 
 And shall the boastful Chief main- 
 tain his word, 
 Though Heaven hath heard the 
 wailings of the land. 
 Though Lusitania whet her vengeful 
 sword, 
 
©4 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Though Britons arm, and "Wel- 
 lington command ! 
 No ! grim Busaco'siron ridge shall 
 stand 
 An adamantine barrier to his 
 force; 
 And from its base shall wheel his 
 shatter'd band, 
 As from the unshaken rock the 
 torrent hoarse 
 Bears ofE its broken waves, and seeks 
 a devious course. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet not because Alcoba's mountain- 
 hawk 
 Hath on his best and bravest 
 made her food, 
 In numbers confident, yon Chief 
 shall balk 
 His Lord's imperial thirst for 
 spoil and blood: 
 For full in view the promised con- 
 quest stood, 
 And Lisbon's matrons from their 
 walls might sum 
 The myriads that had half the world 
 subdued, 
 And hear the distant thunders of 
 the drum, 
 That bids the bands of France to 
 storm and havoc come. 
 
 V. 
 
 Four moons have heard these thun- 
 ders idly roll'd. 
 Have seen these wistful myriads 
 eye their prey, 
 As famish'd wolves survey a guard- 
 ed fold- 
 But in the middle path a Lion 
 lay! 
 At length they move — but not to 
 battle-fray, 
 Nor blaze yon fires where meets 
 the manly fight; 
 Beacons of infamy, they l^ht the 
 way 
 
 Where cowardice and cruelty 
 unite 
 To damn with double shame their 
 ignominious flight ! 
 
 TI. 
 O triumph for the Fiends of Iiust 
 and "Wrath ! 
 Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be 
 forgot, 
 "What wantom horrors mark'd their 
 wreckf ul path ! 
 The peasant butcher'd in his 
 ruin'd cot. 
 The hoary priest even at the altar 
 shot. 
 Childhood and age given o'er to 
 sword and flame, 
 "Woman to infamy; — no crime for- 
 got. 
 By which inventive demonsmight 
 proclaim 
 Immortal hate to man, and scorn of 
 God's great name I 
 
 VIL 
 
 The rudest sentinel, inBritain bom, 
 With horror paused to view the 
 havoc done, 
 Gave his poor crust to feed some 
 wretch forlorn, 
 Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer 
 grasp'd his gun. 
 Nor with less zeal shall Britain's 
 peaceful son 
 Exult the debt of sympathy to 
 
 Eiches nor poverty the tax shall 
 shun, 
 Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy 
 nor the gay, 
 Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor 
 bard's more worthless lay. 
 
 vin. 
 
 But thou — unfoughten wilt thou 
 yield to Fate, 
 Minion of Fortune, now miscall'd 
 in vain 1 
 Can vantage-ground no confidence 
 create, 
 Marcella's pass, nor Guarda's 
 mountain chain. 
 Vainglorious fugitive ! yet turn 
 again ! 
 Behold, where, named by some 
 prophetic Seer, 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 »5 
 
 FJows Honour's Fountain,* as fore- 
 doom'd the stain 
 From thy dishonour'd name and 
 arms to clear — 
 Fallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem 
 her favour here ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each 
 distant aid ; 
 Those chief that never heard the 
 lion roar ! 
 Within whose souls lives not a 
 trace portray'd 
 Of Talavera, or Mondego's shore ! 
 Marshal each band thou hast, and 
 summon more; 
 Of war's fell stratagems exhaust 
 the whole; 
 Bank upon rank, squadron on 
 squadron pour, 
 Legion ou legion on thy foeman 
 roll, 
 And weary out his arm — thou canst 
 not quell his soul. 
 
 X. 
 
 vainly gleams with steel Agueda's 
 shore, 
 Vainly thy squadrons hide As- 
 suava's jjlain, 
 And front tae flying thunders as 
 they roar. 
 With frantic charge and tenfold 
 odds, in vain ! 
 And what avails thee that, for Cam- 
 eron slain, 
 Wild from his plaided ranks the 
 yell was given- 
 Vengeance and grief gave moun- 
 tain-rage the rein, 
 And, at the bloody spear-point 
 headlong driven, 
 Thy Despot's giant guards fled like 
 the rack of heaven. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Go, baffled boaster ! teach thy 
 haughty mood 
 To plead at thine imperious mas- 
 ter's throne, 
 
 * The literal translation of Fuentes d" Ho- 
 noro. 
 
 Say, thou hast left his legions in 
 their blood, 
 Deceived his hopes, and frus- 
 trated thine own ; 
 Say, that thine utmost skill and 
 valour shown, 
 .By British skill and valour were 
 ourvied; 
 Last say, thy conqueror was Wel- 
 lington ! 
 And if he chafe, be his own for- 
 tune tried — 
 God and our cause to friend, the ven- 
 ture we'll abide. 
 XII. 
 But you, ye heroes of that well- 
 fought day, 
 How shall a bard, unknowing 
 and unknown, 
 His meed to each victorious leader 
 
 Or'bind on every brow the laur- 
 els won ? 
 Yet fain my harp would wake its 
 boldest tone, 
 O'er the wide sea to hail Cado- 
 GAN brave; 
 And he, perchance, the minstrel- 
 note might own, 
 Mindful of meeting brief that 
 Fortune gave 
 'Mid yon far western isles that hear 
 the Atlantic rave. 
 XIII. 
 Yes ! hard the task, when Britons 
 wield the sword, 
 To give each Chief and every field 
 its fame: 
 Hark ! Albuera thunders Beres- 
 
 FORD, 
 
 And Eed Barosa shouts for daunt- 
 less Grjeme ! 
 O for a verse of tumult and of 
 flame, 
 Bold as the bursting of their 
 cannon sound, 
 To bid the world re-echo to their 
 fame! 
 For never, upon gory battle- 
 ground. 
 With conquest's well-bought wreath 
 were braver victors crown'd ! 
 
86 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 O who shall grudge him Albuera's 
 bays, 
 "Who brought a race regenerate 
 to the field, 
 Koused them to emulate their 
 fathers* praise, 
 Temper'd their headlong rage, 
 their courage steel'd, 
 And raised fair Lusitania's fallen 
 shield, 
 And gave new edge to Lusitania's 
 sword, 
 And taught her sons forgotten arms 
 to wield— 
 Shiver' d my harp, and burst its 
 every chord, 
 If it forget thy worth, victorious 
 Beeesfokd ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Not on that bloody field of battle 
 won, 
 Though Gaul's proud legions 
 roli'd like mist away. 
 Was half his self-devoted valour 
 shown, — 
 He gaged but life on that illus- 
 trious day; 
 But when he toil'd those squadrons 
 to array, 
 Who fought like Britons in the 
 bloody game. 
 Sharper than Polish pike or asagay, 
 He braved the shafts of censure 
 and of shame, 
 And, dearer far than life, he pledged 
 a soldier's fame. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Nor be his praise o'erpast who 
 strove to hide 
 Beneath the warrior's vest affec- 
 tion's wound, 
 Whose wish Heaven for his coun- 
 try's weal denied ; 
 Danger and fate he gought, but 
 glory found. 
 
 From clime to clime, where'er war's 
 trumpets sound, 
 The wanderer went; yet, Cale- 
 donia ! still 
 Thine was his thought in march 
 and tented ground; 
 He dreamed 'mid Alpine cliflfs of 
 Athole's hill, 
 And heard in Ebro's roar his Lyn- 
 doch's lovely rill. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 O hero of a race renown'd of old, 
 Whose war-cry oft has waked 
 the battle-swell, 
 Since first distinguish'd in the on- 
 set bold. 
 Wild sdunding when the Roman 
 rampart fell ! 
 By Wallace' side it rung the South- 
 ron's knell, 
 Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber, 
 own'd its fame, 
 Tummell's rude pass can of its 
 terrors tell, 
 But ne'er from prouder field 
 arose the name. 
 Than when wild ronda learn' d the 
 conquering shout of Gk^me ! 
 
 xvni. 
 
 But all too long, through seas un- 
 known and dark, 
 (With Spencer's parable I close 
 my tale,) 
 By shoal and rock hath steer'd my 
 venturous bark, 
 And landward now I drive be- 
 fore the gale. 
 And now the blue and distant 
 shore I hail. 
 And nearer now I see the port 
 expand. 
 And now I gladly furl my weary 
 sail, 
 And as the prow light touches 
 on the strand, 
 I strike my red-cross flag and bind 
 my skiff to land. 
 
MARMIOK 
 
 S7 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 To the Right Honourable Henry Lokd Montagu, &c. &c. &o., this romance is inscribed by 
 
 the author. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIEST EDITION. 
 
 It is hardly to he expected, that an Author whom the Public have honoured with 
 some degree of applause, should not be again a trespasser on their kindness. Yet 
 the Author o/Mabmion must be supposed to feel some anxiety concerning its success^ 
 since he is sensible that he hazards, by this second intrusion, any reputation which 
 his first Poem may have procured him. The present story turns upon the private 
 adventures of a fictitious character f but is called a Tale of Flodden Field, because 
 the hero's fate is connected with that memorable defeat, and the causes which led to 
 it. The design of the Author was, if possible, to apprise his readers, at the outset, 
 of the date of his Story, and to prepare them for the manners of the Age in which it 
 is laid. Any Historical Narrative, far more an attempt at Epic composition, ex- 
 ceeded hi? plan of a Romantic Tale ; yet he may be permitted to hope, from the pop- 
 ularity <f The Lay of the Last Minstbel, that an attempt to paint the manners 
 of the feudal times, upon a broader scale, and in the course of a more interesting 
 story, will not be unacceptable to the Public. 
 
 The Poem opens about the commencement of August^ and concludes with the de- 
 feat of Flodden, dih September, 1513. 
 ASHESTIEL, 1808. 
 
 Alas ! that Scottish maid should sing 
 The combat av here her lover fell ! 
 
 That Scotiish bard should •wake the string. 
 The triumph of our foes to tell ! 
 
 Leyden. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
 FIRST. 
 
 TO WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest. 
 November's sky is chill and drear, 
 November's leaf is red and sear: 
 Late, gazing down the steepy linn, 
 That hem our little garden in, 
 Low in its dark and narrow glen, 
 You scarce the rivulet might ken. 
 So thick the tangled greenwood grew, 
 So feeble trill'd the streamlet through: 
 Now murmuring hoarse, and frequent 
 seen 
 
 Through bush and brier, no longer 
 
 green, 
 An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, 
 Brawls over rock and wild cascade. 
 And, foaming brown with doubled 
 
 speed, 
 Hurries its waters to the Tweed. 
 
 No longer Autumn's glowing red 
 Upon our Forest hills is shed; 
 ITo more, beneath the evening beam, 
 Fair Tvv^eed reflects their purple 
 
 gleam ; 
 Away hath pass'd the heather-bell 
 That bloom 'd so rich on Needpath- 
 
 fell; 
 
SCOTT* S JP OPTICAL WOJiKS. 
 
 Sallow Lis brow, and russet bare^ 
 Are now the sister-heights of Yair. 
 The sheep, before the pinching 
 
 heaven. 
 To shelter'd dale and down are driven, 
 Where yet some laded herbage pines. 
 And yet a watery sunbeam shines: 
 In meek despondency they eye 
 The wither'd sward and wintry sky. 
 And far beneath their summer hill. 
 Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill: 
 The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold, 
 And wraps him closer from the cold; 
 His dogs, no merry circles wheel. 
 But, shivering, follow at his heel; 
 A cowering glance they often cast, 
 As deeper moans the gathering blast. 
 
 My imps, though hardy, bold, and 
 
 wild, 
 As best befits the mountain child, 
 Feel the sad influence of the hour. 
 And wail the daisy's vanished flower; 
 Their summer gambols tell, and 
 
 mourn. 
 And anxious ask, — Will spring return, 
 And birds and lambs again be gay, 
 And blossoms clothe the hawthorn 
 
 spray ? 
 
 Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's 
 flower 
 Again shall paint your summer bower ; 
 Again the hawthorn shall supply 
 The garlands you delight to tic; 
 The lambs upon the lea shall bound, 
 The v.dld birds carol to the round, 
 And while you frolic light as they. 
 Too short shall seem the summer day. 
 
 To mute and to material things 
 New life revolving summer brings; 
 The genial call dead nature hears, 
 And in her glory reappears. 
 13ut oh ! my country's wintry state 
 What fcecond spring shall renovate? 
 What powei-ful call shall bid arise 
 The buried warlike and the wise; 
 The mind that thought for Britain's 
 
 weal, 
 The hand that grasp'd the victor 
 
 steel? 
 The vernal sun new life bestows 
 
 Even on the meanest flower that 
 
 blows; 
 But vainly, vainly may he shine. 
 Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's 
 
 shrine ; 
 And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, 
 That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowed 
 
 tomb ! 
 
 Deep graved in every British heart, 
 never let those names depart ! ^ 
 
 Say to your sons, — Lo, here his grave, 
 Y/ho victor died on Gadite wave;* 
 To him, as to the burning levin. 
 Short, bright, resistless course was : 
 
 given. 
 Where'er his country's foes were 
 
 found. 
 Was heard the fated thunder's sound, 
 Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, 
 KoU'd, blazed, destroyed, — and was 
 
 no more. 
 
 Nor mourn ye less his perish'd 
 
 worth. 
 Who bade the conqueror go forth. 
 And launch'd that thunderbolt of 
 
 war 
 On Egypt, Hafnia.f Trafalgar; 
 Who, born to guide such high em- 
 prize. 
 For Britain's weal was early wise; 
 Alas ! to whom the Almighty gave. 
 For Britain's sins, an early grave ! 
 Ilis worth, who, in his mightiest hour 
 A bauble held the pride of power, 
 Gpurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf. 
 And served his Albion for herself; 
 Y/Tio, when the frantic crowd amain 
 Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein, 
 O'er their wild mood full conquest 
 
 gain'd, 
 The pride, he would not crush, re- 
 
 strain'd, 
 Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier 
 
 cause. 
 And brought the freeman's arm, to 
 
 aid the freeman's laws. 
 
 * Nelson. Gadite wave, sea of Cadiz, or 
 Gades. 
 
 1 Copenhagen. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 89 
 
 Had'st thou but lived, though 
 stripp'd of power, 
 A watchman on the lonely tower, 
 Thy thrilling trump had roused the 
 
 land, 
 When fraud or danger were at hand; 
 By thee, as by the beacon-light, 
 Our pilots had kept course aright; 
 As some proud column, though 
 
 alone, 
 Thy strength had propp'd the totter- 
 ing throne: 
 Now is the stately column broke, 
 The beacon-light is quench'd in 
 
 smoke, 
 The trumpet's silver sound is still, 
 The warder silent on the hill ! 
 
 Oh think, how to his latest day. 
 When Death, just hovering, claim'd 
 
 his prey, 
 With Palinure's unalter'd mood, 
 Firm r-t his dangerous post he stood; 
 Each call for needful rest repell'd. 
 With dying hand the rudder held, 
 Till, in his fall, with fateful sway, 
 The steerage of the realm gave way ! 
 Tlien, while on Britain's thousand 
 
 plains, 
 One iTnpolluted church remains, 
 Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent 
 
 around 
 The bloody tocsin's maddening 
 
 sound, 
 But still, upon the hallow'd day, 
 Convoke the swains to praise and 
 
 pray; 
 While faith and civil peace are dear, 
 Grace this cold marble with a tear, — 
 He, who preserved them, Pitt, lies 
 
 here ! 
 
 Nor yet suppress the generous 
 sigh. 
 Because his rival slumbers nigh ; 
 Nor be thy requiescat dumb. 
 Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. 
 For talents mourn, untimely lost. 
 When best employ'd, and wanted 
 
 most; 
 Mourn genius high, and lore pro- 
 found, 
 
 And wit that loved to play, not 
 
 wound; 
 And all the reasoning powers divine, 
 To penetrate, resolve, combine; 
 And feelings keen, and fancy's 
 
 glow,— 
 They sleep with him who sleeps be- 
 low: 
 And, if thou mourn'st they could not 
 
 save 
 From error him who owns this grave, 
 Be every harsher thought suppress'd. 
 And sacred be the last long rest. 
 Here, where the end of earthly things 
 Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and 
 
 kings; 
 Where stiff the hand, and still the 
 
 tongue. 
 Of those who fought, and spoke, and 
 
 sung; 
 Here, where the fretted aisles prolong 
 The distant notes of holy song, 
 As if some angel spoke agen, 
 "All peace on earth, good-will to 
 
 men;" 
 If ever from an English heart, 
 O, here let prejudice depart, 
 And, partial feeling cast aside. 
 Record, that Fox a Briton died ! 
 When Europe crouch'd to France's 
 
 yoke. 
 And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, 
 And the firm Russian's purpose brave, 
 Was barter'd by a timorous slave, 
 Even then dishonour's peace he 
 
 spurn'd. 
 The sullied olive-branch return'd, 
 Stood for his country's glory fast. 
 And nail'd her colours to the mast ! 
 Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave 
 A portion in this honour'd grave, 
 And ne'er held marble in its trust 
 Of two such wondrous men the dust. 
 
 With more than mortal powers en- 
 dow'd, 
 How high they soar'd above the crowd! 
 Theirs was no common party race. 
 Jostling by dark intrigue for place; 
 Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 
 Shook realms and nations in its jar; 
 Beneath each banner proud to stand. 
 
190 
 
 SGOTT'S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 Look'd up the noblest ot the land, 
 Till through the British world were 
 
 known 
 The names of Pitt and Fox alone. 
 Spells of such force no wizard grave 
 E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, 
 Though his could drain the ocean dry, 
 And force the planets from the sky. 
 These spells are spent, and, spent 
 
 with these, 
 The wine of life is on the lees. 
 Genius, and taste, and talent gone, 
 For ever tomb'd beneath the stone, 
 Where— taming thought to human 
 
 pride ! — 
 The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 
 Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 
 'Twill trickle to his rival's bier; 
 O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem 
 
 sound. 
 And Fox's shall the notes rebound. 
 The solemn echo seems to cry, — 
 **Here let their discord with them die. 
 Speak not for those a separate doom, 
 "Whom Fate made Brothers in the 
 
 tomb; 
 But search the land of living men, 
 Where wilt thou find their like agen?" 
 
 Kest, ardent Spirits ! till the cries 
 Of dying Nature bid you rise; 
 Not even your Britain's groans can 
 
 pierce 
 The leaden silence of your hearse; 
 Then, O, how impotent and vain 
 This grateful tributary strain ! 
 Though not unmark'd from northern 
 
 clime, 
 Ye heard the Border Minstrel's rhyme; 
 His Gothic harp has o'er you rung ; 
 The Bard you deign'd to praise, your 
 
 deathless names has sung. 
 
 Stay yet, illusion, stay a while. 
 My wilder'd fancy still beguile ! 
 From this high theme how can I part, 
 Ere half unloaded is my heart ! 
 For all the tears e'er sorrow drew. 
 And all the raptures fancy knew, 
 And all the keener rush of blood, 
 That throbs through bard in bard- 
 like mood. 
 Were here a tribute mean and low, 
 
 Though all their mingled streams 
 
 could flow — 
 Woe, wonder, and sensation high, 
 In one spring-tide of ecstasy ! — 
 It will not be — it may not last — 
 The vision of enchantment's past: 
 Like frostwork in the morning ray. 
 The fancied fabric melts away; 
 Each Gothic arch, memorial-stone, 
 And long, dim, lofty aisle, are gone; 
 And, lingering last, deception dear, 
 The choir's high sounds die on my ear. 
 Now slow return the lonely down, 
 The silent pastures bleak and brown, 
 The farm begirt with copsewood wild, 
 The gambols of each frolic child, 
 Mixing their shrill cries with the tone 
 Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on. 
 
 Prompt on unequal tasks to run, 
 Thus Nature disciplines her son : 
 Meeter, she says, for me to stray. 
 And waste the solitary day, 
 In plucking from yon fen the reed, 
 And watch it floating down the 
 
 Tweed ; 
 Or idly list the shrilling lay. 
 With which the milkmaid cheers her 
 
 way, 
 Marking its cadence rise and fail, 
 As from the field, beneath her pail. 
 She trips it down the uneven dale : 
 Meeter for me, by yonder cairn, 
 The ancient shepherd's tale to learn ; 
 Though oft he stop in rustic fear, 
 Lest his old legends tire the ear 
 Of one, who, in his simple mind, 
 May boast of book-learn'd taste re- 
 fined. 
 
 But thou, my friend, canst fitly 
 tell, 
 (For few have read romance so well), 
 How still the legendary lay 
 O'er poet's bosom holds its sway ; 
 How on the ancient minstrel strain 
 Time lays his palsied hand in vain ; 
 And how our hearts at doughty deeds, 
 By warriors wrought in steely weeds. 
 Still throb for fear and pity's sake ; 
 As when the champion of the Lake 
 Enters Morgana's fated hou&e, 
 Or in the Chapel Perilous, 
 
MARMION. 
 
 91 
 
 Despising spells and demons' force, 
 Holds converse with the nnburied 
 
 corse ; 
 Or when, Dame Ganore's grace to 
 
 move, 
 (Alas, that lawless was their love !) 
 He sought proud Tarquin in his den, 
 And freed full sixty knights ; or 
 
 when, 
 A sinful man, and unconfess'd, 
 He took the Sangreal's holy quest. 
 And, slumbering, saw the vision high. 
 He might not view with waking eye. 
 
 The mightiest chiefs of Dritish 
 
 song 
 Scorn'd not such legends to prolong : 
 They gleam through Spenser's eliin 
 
 dream. 
 And mix in ^lilton's heavenly theme; 
 And Dryden, in immortal strain. 
 Had raised the Table Eound again, 
 But that a ribald king and court 
 Bade him toil on, to make them sport ; 
 Demanded for their niggard pay, 
 Fit for their souls, a looser lay. 
 Licentious satire, song, and play ; 
 The world defrauded of the high de- 
 sign, 
 Profaned the God-given strength, 
 
 and marr'd the lofty line. 
 
 "Warm'd by such names well may we 
 
 then. 
 Though dwindled sons of little men, 
 Essay to break a feeble lance 
 In the fa'r fields of old romance ; 
 Or seek the moated castle's cell, 
 "Where long through talisman and 
 
 spell, 
 While tyrants ruled, and damsels 
 
 wept. 
 Thy Genius, Chivalry, hath slept : 
 There sound the harpings of the 
 
 North, 
 Till he awake and sally forth. 
 On venturous quest to i)rick again. 
 In all his arms, with all his train, 
 Shield, lance, and brand, and plume, 
 
 and Bcarf , 
 Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf, 
 And wizard with his wand of might. 
 And errant maid on palfrey white. 
 
 Around the Genius weave theii 
 
 spells. 
 Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells • 
 Mystery, half veil'd and half reveal'd; 
 And Honour, with his spotless shield^ 
 Attention, with fix'd eye ; and Fear, 
 That loves the tale she shrinks to 
 
 hear ; 
 And gentle Courtesy ; and Faith, 
 Unchanged by sufferings, time, or 
 
 death ; 
 And Valour, lion-mettled lord, 
 Leaning upon his own good sword. 
 
 "Well has thy fair achievement 
 
 sliown, 
 A worthy meed may thus be won ; 
 Ytene's* oaks— beneath whose shade 
 Their theme the merry minstrels 
 
 made. 
 Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold. 
 And that Bed King.f who, while of 
 
 old. 
 Through Boldre wood the chase he led, 
 By his loved huntsman's arrow bled — 
 Ytene's oaks have heard again 
 Renewed such legendary strain ; 
 For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul, 
 That Amadis so famed in hall, 
 For Oriana, foil'd in fight 
 The Necromancer's felon might; 
 And well in modem verse hast wove 
 Pai'tenopex's mystic love 4 
 Hear, then, attentive to my lay, 
 A knightly tale of Albion's elder day. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 The Castle. 
 
 Day set on Norham's castled steep. 
 And Tweed's fair river, broad and 
 
 deep, 
 And Cheviot's mountains lone: 
 The battled towers, the donjon keep. 
 The loophole grates, where captives 
 
 weep, 
 
 * Tte7ie, ancient name of the Xew Forest, 
 Hants, 
 t William Rufus. 
 t Partenopex, a poem by "W. S. Rose. 
 
92 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The flanking walls that round it 
 sweep, 
 
 In yellow lustre shone. 
 The warriors on the turrets high, 
 Moving athwart the evening sky, 
 
 Seem'd forms of giant height: 
 Their armour, as it caught the rays, 
 Flash'd back again the western blaze, 
 
 In lines of dazzling light. 
 
 n. 
 
 Saint George's banner, broad and gay, 
 Now faded, as the fading ray 
 
 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 barr'd; 
 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. 
 
 ni. 
 
 A distant trampling sound he hears ; 
 He looks abroad, and soon appears, 
 O'er Horncliff-hill a plump of 
 spears,* 
 Beneath a pennon gay; 
 A horseman, darting from the 
 
 crowd. 
 Like lightning from a summer 
 
 cloud. 
 Spurs on his mettled courser proud. 
 
 Before the dark array. 
 Beneath the sable palisade, 
 That closed the Castle barricade, 
 
 His bugle horn he blew; 
 The warder hasted from the wall. 
 And warn'd the Captain in the hall, 
 For well the blast he knew; 
 And joyfully that knight did call, 
 To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ' ' Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie, f 
 Bring pasties of the doe, 
 
 * Body of men-at-arms. 
 1 Malmsey. 
 
 And quickly make the entrance free, 
 And bid my heralds ready be, 
 And every minstrel sound his glee, 
 
 And all our trumpets blow; 
 And, from the platform, spare ye not 
 To lire a noble salvo-shot; 
 
 Lcrd Makmion waits below !" 
 Then to the Ca.stle'3 lower ward 
 
 Sped forty yeomen tall. 
 The iron-studded gates unbarr'd, 
 Kaised the portcullis' ponderous 
 
 guard, 
 The lofty palisade unsparr'd 
 
 And let the drawbridge fall. 
 
 V. 
 
 Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode, 
 Proudly his red-roan charger trode, 
 His helm hung at the saddlebow ; 
 Well by his visage you might know 
 He was a stalworth knight, and keen, 
 And had in many a battle been; 
 The scar on his brown cheek reveal'l 
 A token true of Bosworth Held; 
 His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire, 
 Show'd spirit proud, and prompt to 
 
 ire; 
 Yet lines of thought upon his cheek 
 Did deep design and counsel speak. 
 His forehead, by his casque worn 
 
 bare, 
 His thick moustache, and curly hair. 
 Coal-black, and grizzled here and 
 
 there, 
 But more through toil than age; 
 His square-turn'd joints, and strength 
 
 of limb, 
 Show'd him no carpet knipjht so trim, 
 But in close fight a champion grim, 
 In camps a leader sage. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Well was he arm'd from head to heel, 
 In mail and plate of Milan steel; 
 But his strong helm, of mighty cost. 
 Was all with burnish'd gold emboss'd ; 
 Amid the plumage of the crest, 
 A falcon hover'd on her nest. 
 With wings outspread, and forward 
 
 breast; 
 E'en such a falcon, on his shield, 
 Soar'd sable in an azure field: 
 The golden legend bore aright, 
 
MARMTON. 
 
 91 
 
 WMz tljceka at me, la )itn\\ is 
 " Hcfbt. 
 
 Blue wasltbe charger's broider'd rein; 
 J31ue ribbons deck'd his arching 
 
 mane; 
 The knightly housing's ample fold 
 Was velvet blue, and trapp'd with 
 
 gold. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Behind him rode two gallant squires. 
 Of noble name, and knightly sires; 
 They burn'd the gilded spurs to 
 
 claim; 
 For well could each a war-horse tame, 
 Could draw the bow, the sword could 
 
 sway, 
 And lightly bear the ring away; 
 Nor less with courteous precepts 
 
 stored. 
 Could dance in hall, and carve at 
 
 board. 
 And frame love-ditties passing rare, 
 And sing them to a lady fair. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Four men-at-arms came at their 
 
 backs. 
 With halbert, bill, and battle-axe ; 
 They boro Lord Marmion's lance so 
 
 strong. 
 And led his sumpter-mules along, 
 And ambling palfrey, when at need 
 Him listed ease his battle-steed. 
 The last and trustiest of the four. 
 On high his forky pennon bore; 
 Like swallow's tail, in shape and hue, 
 Flutter' d the streamer glossy blue. 
 Where, blazon'd sable, as before, 
 The towering falcon seem'd to soar. 
 Last, twenty yeomen, two and two, 
 In hosen black, and jerkins blue, 
 With falcons broider'd on each breast. 
 Attended on their lord's behest. 
 Each, chosen for an archer good. 
 Knew hunting-craft by lake cr wood; 
 Each one a six-foot bow could bend. 
 And far a cloth-yard shaft could send; 
 Each held a boar-spear tough and 
 
 strong, 
 And at their 1 - 'vers rung. 
 
 Their dusty p vrray, 
 
 Show'd they had march'd a weary 
 way. 
 
 IX. ; 
 
 'Tis meet that I should tell you now, ' 
 How fairly arm'd, and order'd how, ' 
 
 The soldiers of the guard, \ 
 
 With musket, pike, and morion. 
 To welcome noble Marmion, 
 
 Stood in tho Castle-yard; 
 Minstrels and trumpeters were there. 
 The gunner held his linstock yare, 
 
 For welcome-shot prepared: 
 Enter'd the train, and such a clang, 
 As then through all his turrets rang. 
 
 Old Norham never heard. 
 
 X. 
 
 The guards their morrice-pikes ad- 
 vanced, 
 The trumpets flourish'd brave, 
 The cannon from the ramparts 
 glanced. 
 And thundering welcome gave. 
 A blithe salute, in martial sort. 
 
 The minstrels well might sound. 
 For, as Lord Marmion cross'd the 
 court, 
 He scatter'd angels* round. 
 "Welcome to Norham, Marmion ! 
 
 Stout heart, and open hand ! 
 Well dost thou brook thy gallant 
 roan, , 
 
 Thou flower of English land 1" 
 
 XI. 
 
 Two pursuivants, whom tabartsf deck. 
 With silver scutcheon round their 
 neck, 
 
 Stool on the steps of stone, 
 By whicli you reach the donjon gate, 
 And there, with herald pomp and 
 state, 
 
 They hail'd Lord Marmion: 
 They hail'd him Lord of Fontenaye^ 
 Of Lutterward, and Bcrivelbaye, 
 
 Of Tamworth tower and town; 
 And he, their courtesy to requite, 
 
 * A poll coin of the period, value abont 
 ten shillings. 
 I The I nibroidered overcoat c "^ " 'I^/^sseC-'a 
 
9 ^ 
 
 SCOTT S POETIC^ WOnivS. 
 
 Gave them a chain of twelve marks' 
 weight, 
 All as ho lighted down. 
 •*Now, largesse, largesse,* Lord Mar- 
 mion, 
 Knight of the crest of gold ! 
 A blazon'd shield, in battle won, 
 Ne'er guarded heart so bold." 
 
 XII. 
 
 They marshall'd him to the Castle- 
 hall, 
 
 AVhere the guests stood all aside, 
 And loudly flourish'd the trumpet- 
 call. 
 
 And the heralds loudly cried, 
 — "Room, lordings, room for Lord 
 Marmion, 
 
 With the crest and helm of gold ! 
 Full well wo know the trophies won 
 
 In the lists of Cottiswold: 
 There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove 
 
 'Gainst Marmion s force to stand; 
 To him he lost his lady-love, 
 
 And to the King his land. 
 Ourselves beheld the listed field, 
 
 A sight both sad and fair; 
 We saw Lord Marmion pierce his 
 shield, 
 
 And saw his saddle bare; 
 We saw the victor win the crest 
 
 lie wears with worthy pride; 
 And on th^ gibbet-tree, reversed, 
 
 Ilis foeman's scutcheon tied. 
 Place, nobles, fortheFalcon-IInight ! 
 
 Room, room, ye gentles gay, 
 For him who conquer'd in the right, 
 
 Marmion of Fontenaye !" 
 
 xni. 
 
 Then stepp'd to meet that noble Lord, 
 
 Sir Hugh the Heron bold, 
 Baron of Twisell, and of Ford, 
 
 And Captain of the Hold. 
 He led Lord Marmion to the deas, 
 
 Raised o'er the pavement high. 
 And placed him in the upper place — 
 
 They feasted full and high ; 
 
 * Tlio cry l^y wliioh the bounty of kuigMs 
 and iiobli 3 was thanked. The word is stUl 
 used iu the hop gardens of Kent and Sussex, 
 as a demand lor payment from strangers en- 
 tering them. 
 
 The whiles a Northern hai-per rude 
 Chanted a rhyr.ie of deadly feud, 
 '^ How ihejlcrce Thlrwalls, and Bid- 
 leys all, 
 Sioid Wdlimondsvoiclc, 
 And Ilardrklbvj iJick, 
 And lluglile of Ilawdon, and Will 0* 
 the U'all, 
 Ila ve set on Sir A Ihany Feathersionhaugh, 
 And taken his life at the DeadmarCs- 
 shaio." 
 Scantly Lord Marmion's ear could 
 brook 
 The harper's barbarous lay ; 
 Yet much he prais'd the pains he 
 took. 
 And well those pains did pay : 
 For lady's suit, and minstrel's strain, 
 Ey knight should ne'er be heard 
 in vain. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Now, good Lord Marmion," Heron 
 says, 
 
 ' ' Of your fair courtesy, 
 I pray you bide some little space 
 
 In this poor tower with me. 
 Here may you keep your arms from 
 ruEt, 
 
 Hay breathe your war-horse well ; 
 Seldom hath pass'd a week but giust 
 
 Or feat of arms befell : 
 The Coots can rein a mettled steed ; 
 
 And love to couch a npear ; — 
 Gaint George ! a stirring life they 
 lead, 
 
 That have such neighbours near. 
 Then stay with us a little space. 
 
 Our northern v/ars to learn ; 
 I pray you, for your lady's grace !" 
 
 Lord Marmion's brow grew stem. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Captain marli'd his alter'd look, 
 And gave a squire the sign; 
 
 A mighty wassail-bowl he took. 
 And crown'd it high in wine. 
 
 **Now pledge me here. Lord Mar- 
 mion : 
 But first I pray thee fair, 
 
 Where hast thou left that page of 
 thine. 
 
 That used to serve thy cup of wine, 
 
MARMION. 
 
 95 
 
 Y/hose beauty was so rare ? 
 When last in T^nhy towers we met, 
 
 The boy I closely eyed, 
 And often mark'd his cheeks were 
 wet, 
 
 Y/ith tears he fain would hide : 
 His was no rugged horse-boy's hand, 
 To burnish shield or sharpen brand, 
 
 Or saddle battle-steed; 
 But meeter seem'd for lady fair, 
 To fan her cheek, or curl her hair, 
 Or through embroidery, rich and 
 rare, 
 
 The slender silk to lead; 
 nis skin was fair, his ringlets gold, 
 
 His bosom — when he sigh'd, 
 The russet doublet's rugged fold 
 
 Could scarce r<-^pel its pride ! 
 Say, hast (hou given that lovely youth 
 
 To serve in lady's bower? 
 Or was the gentle page, in sooth, 
 
 A gentle paramour :*" 
 
 XYI. 
 
 Lord Marmion ill could brook such 
 
 jest; 
 He roll'd his kindling eye, 
 With pain hisrisingwrathsuppress'd, 
 
 Yet made a calm reply: 
 " That boy thou thought'st so goodly 
 
 fair, 
 He might not brook the northern air, 
 More of his fato if thou wouldst learn, 
 I left hira sick in Llndisfarn: 
 Enough of Lim. — Eut, Heron, say, 
 Why does tliy lovely lacy gty 
 Disdain to grace Iaq hall to-day ? 
 Or ha3 that dame, £0 fair and sage, 
 Gone on some i)ious pilgrimage?" — 
 He spoke in covert scorn, for fame 
 Whisper'd light tales of Heron's dame. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Unmark'd, at least unreck'd, the 
 taunt. 
 
 Careless the Knight replied, 
 "No bird, whose feathers gaily Haunt, 
 
 Delights in cage to bide: 
 Norham is grim and grated close, 
 Hemm'd in by battlement and iosse, 
 
 And many a darksome tower; 
 And better loves my lady bright 
 To git ia liberty and light, 
 
 In fair Queen Tilargaret's bower. 
 We hold our greyhound in our hand, 
 
 Our falcon on our glove ; 
 But where shall we find 1 eash or band, 
 
 For dame that loves to rove ? 
 Let the wild falcon soar her swing, 
 She'll stoop when she has tired her 
 wing." — 
 
 xvin. 
 
 •' Nay, if with Royal James's bride, 
 The lovely Lady Heron bide, 
 Behold me here a messenger. 
 Your tender greetings prompt to bear ; 
 For, to the Scottish court addressed, 
 I journey at our King's behest, 
 And pray you, of your grace, provide 
 For me, an I mine, a trusty guide. 
 I have not ridden in Sco .land since 
 James back'd the causa of that mock 
 
 prince 
 Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit, 
 Who on tae gibbet i^aid the cheat. 
 Then did I march with Surrey's 
 
 power. 
 What time we razed old Ay ton 
 
 tower." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "For such-like need, my lord, I trow, 
 Norham can find you guides enow ; 
 For hero be some have prick'd as far. 
 On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar; 
 Have drunk the monk3of St.i3othan's 
 
 ale. 
 And driven the beeves ci Lauderdale; 
 ilarried the wives of Greenlaw's 
 
 goods. 
 And given them light to set their 
 
 hoods." 
 
 XX. 
 
 "Now, in good sooth," Lord Mar- 
 mion cried, 
 " Y'ere I in warlike wise to ride, 
 A better guard I would not lack. 
 Than your stout forayers at my back, 
 But, as in form of peace I go, 
 A friendly messenger, to know, 
 \\'hy through all Scotland, near and 
 
 far, 
 Their kinj 13 mustering troops for 
 
 var, 
 The sight of plundering border spears 
 
SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Might justify suspicions fears, 
 And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil, 
 Break out in some unseemly broil : 
 A herald were my fitting guide ; 
 Or friar, sworn in peace to bide ; 
 Or pardoner, or travelling priest, 
 Or strolling pilgrim, at the least." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The Captain mused a little space, 
 And pass'd his hand across his face. 
 — '^Fam would I find the guide you 
 
 want. 
 But ill may spare a pursuivant, 
 The only men that safe can ride 
 Mine errands on the Scottish side: 
 And though a bishop built this fort, 
 Few holy brethren here resort ; 
 Even our good chaplain, as I ween. 
 Since our lastseige we have not seen: 
 The mass he might not sing or say, 
 Upon one stinted meal a-day ; 
 So, safe he sat in Durham aisle, 
 And pray'd for our success the while. 
 Our Korham vicar, woe betide, 
 Is all too well in case to ride ; 
 The priest of Shoreswood — he 
 
 could rain 
 The wildest war-horse in your train ; 
 But then, no spearman in the hall 
 Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl. 
 Friar John of Tillmouth were the 
 
 man : 
 A blithesome brother at the can, 
 A welcome guest in hall and bower, 
 He knows each castle, town, and 
 
 tower. 
 In which the wine and ale is good, 
 'Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood. 
 But that good man, as ill befalls, 
 Hath seldom left our castle walls. 
 Since, on the Vigil of St. Bede, 
 In evil hour he cross'd the Tweed, 
 To teach Dame Alison her creed. 
 Old Bughtrig found him with his 
 
 wife ; 
 And John, an enemy to strife, 
 Sans frock and hood, fled for his 
 
 life. 
 The jealous churl hath deeply swore, 
 That, if again he venture o'er, 
 He shall shrieve penitent no more. 
 
 Little he loves such risks, I know ; 
 Yet in your guard perchance will go.'* 
 
 xxn. 
 
 Young Selby, at the fair hall-board, 
 Carved to his uncle and that lord. 
 And reverently took up the word. 
 "Kind Uncle, woe were we each one, 
 If harm should hap to Brother John. 
 He is a man of mirthful speech, 
 Can many a game and gambol teach ; 
 Full well at tables can he play. 
 And sweep at bowls the stake away. 
 None can a lustier carol bawl. 
 The needfullest among us all. 
 When time hangs heavy in the hall. 
 And snow comes thick at Christmas 
 
 tide. 
 And we can neither hunt, nor ride 
 A foray on the Scottish side. 
 The vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude. 
 May end in worse than loss of hood. 
 Let Friar John, in safety, still 
 In chimney-corner snore his fill, 
 Koast hissing crabs, or flagons swill : 
 Last night, to Norham there came one, 
 Will better guide Lord Marmion. " — 
 " Nephew, "quoth Heron, *' by my fay. 
 Well hast thou spoke ; say forth thy 
 
 say." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 '♦ Here is a holy Palmer come. 
 
 From Salem first, and last from Rome; 
 
 One that hath kiss'd the blessed tomb, 
 
 And visited each holy shrine 
 
 In Araby and Palestine ; 
 
 On hills of Armenie hath been. 
 
 Where Noah's ark may yet be seen ; . 
 
 By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod. 
 
 Which parted at the prophet's rod ; 
 
 In Sinai's wilderness he saw 
 
 The mount where Israel heard the 
 
 law, 
 'Mid thunder-dint, and flashing 
 
 levin. 
 And shadows, mists, and darkness, 
 
 given. 
 He shows Saint James's cockle-shell, 
 Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell ; 
 
 And of that Grot where Olives nod. 
 Where, darling of each heart and 
 
 eye, 
 
MAEMION. 
 
 97 
 
 From all the youth of Sicily, 
 Saint Eosalie retired to God. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 "To stout Saint George of Norwich 
 
 merry, 
 Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, 
 Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 
 For his sins' pardon hath he pray'd. 
 He knows the passes of the North, 
 And seeks far shrines beyond the 
 
 Forth; 
 Little he eats, and long will wake, 
 And drinks but of the stream or 
 
 lake. 
 This were a guide o'er moor and 
 
 dale; 
 But, when our John hath quaff'd his 
 
 ale, 
 As little as the wind that blows. 
 And warms itself against his nose, 
 Kens he, or cares, which way he 
 
 goes." — 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Gramercy !" quoth Lord Marmion, 
 "Full loth were I, that Friar John, 
 That venerable man, for me, 
 Were placed in fear or jeopardy. 
 If this same Palmer will me lead 
 
 From hence to Holy-Rood, 
 Like his good saint, I'll pay his 
 
 meed, 
 Instead of cockle-shell, or bead, 
 
 With angels fair and good. 
 I love S'lch holy ramblers; still 
 They know to charm a weary hill. 
 
 With song, romance, or lay: 
 Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest, 
 Some lying legend, at the least, 
 
 They bring to cheer the way." — 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 "Ah ! noble sir," young Selby said, 
 
 And finger on his lip he laid, 
 
 " This man knows much, perchance 
 
 e'en more 
 Than he could learn by holy lore. 
 Still to himself he's muttering, 
 And shrinks as at some unseen 
 
 thing. 
 Last night we listen'd at his cell; 
 Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth 
 
 to tell, 
 
 He murmur'd on till morn, howe'er 
 No living mortal could be near. 
 Sometimes I thought I heard it 
 
 plain. 
 As other voices spoke again, 
 I cannot tell — I like it not — 
 Friar John hath told us it is wrote, 
 No conscience clear, and void of 
 
 wrong. 
 Can rest awake, and pray so long. 
 Himself still sleeps before his beads 
 Have mark'd ten aves, and two 
 
 creeds." 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 — "Let pass," quoth Marmion; "by 
 
 my fay. 
 This man shall guide me on my 
 
 way. 
 Although the great arch-fiend and 
 
 he 
 Had sworn themselves of company. 
 So please you, gentle youth, to call 
 This Palmer to the Castle-hall." 
 The summon'd Palmer came in 
 
 place; 
 His sable cowl o'erhung his face; 
 In his black mantle was he clad, 
 With Peter's keys, in cloth of red, 
 On his broad shoulders wrought; 
 The scallop shell his cap did deck: 
 The crucifix around his neck 
 Was from Loretto brought; 
 His sandals were with travel tore, 
 Stafi, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore; 
 The faded palm-branch in his hand 
 Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land. 
 
 xxvm. 
 
 When as the Palmer came in hall. 
 No lord, nor knight, was there more 
 
 tall, 
 Nor had a statelier step withal, 
 
 Or look'd more high and keen; 
 For no saluting did he wait, 
 But strode across the hall of state. 
 And fronted Marmion where he sate, 
 
 As he his peer had been. 
 But his gaunt frame was worn with 
 
 toil; 
 His cheek was sunk, alas the while ! 
 And when he struggled at a smile, 
 
 His eye look'd haggard wild ; 
 
)S 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 Poor wretch ! the mother that him 
 
 bare, 
 If she had been in presence there, 
 In his wan face, and sun-burn'dhair, 
 
 She had not known her child. 
 Danger, long travel, want, or woe, 
 Soon change the form that best we 
 
 know — 
 For deadly fear can time, outgo, 
 And blanch at once the hair; 
 Hard toil can roughen form and face, 
 And want can quench the eye's 
 
 bright grace, 
 Nor does old age a wrinkle trace 
 
 More d eeply than despair. 
 Happy whom none of these befall. 
 But this poor Palmer knew them all. 
 XXIX. 
 
 Lord Marmionthen his boon did ask; 
 The Palmer took on him the task. 
 So he would march with morning 
 
 tide, 
 To Scottish court to bo his guide. 
 •* But I have solemn vows to pay, 
 And may not linger by the way, 
 
 To fair St. Andrews bound, 
 Within the ocean-cave to pray, 
 Where good St. Kule his holy lay, 
 From midnight to the dawn of day. 
 
 Sung to the billows' sound; 
 Thence to St. Fillan's blessed well, 
 Whose spring can frenzied dreams 
 dispel. 
 
 And the crazed brain restore: 
 Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring 
 Could back to peace my bosom bring. 
 
 Or bid it throb no more !" 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And now the midnight draught of 
 
 sleep, 
 Where wine and spices richly steep. 
 In massive bowl of silver deej). 
 
 The paf e presents on knee. 
 Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, 
 The Captain pledged his noble guest. 
 The cup went through among the 
 rest. 
 Who drained it merrily; 
 Alone the Palmer pass'd it by, 
 Though Selby pressed him court- 
 eously. 
 
 This was a sign the feast was o'er; 
 It husli'd the merry wassel roar, 
 
 The minstrels ceased to sound. 
 Soon in the castle nought was heard. 
 But the slow footstep of the guard, 
 
 Pacing his sober round. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 With early dawn Lord l\Iarmion rose: 
 And first the chapel doors unclose ; 
 Then, after morning rites were done, 
 (A hasty mass from Friar John,) 
 And knight and squire had broke 
 
 their fast. 
 On rich substantial repast, 
 Lord Marmion's bugles blew to 
 
 horse: 
 Then camo the stirrup-cup in course: 
 Between the Baron and his host, 
 No point of courtesy was lost; 
 High thanks were by Lord Marmion 
 
 paid, 
 Solemn excuse the Captain made. 
 Till, filing from the gate, had pass'd 
 That noblo train, their Lord the last. 
 Then loudly rung tho trumpet call, 
 Thunder'd the cannon from the wall 
 
 And shook the Scottish shore; 
 Around the castle eddied slow. 
 Volumes of smoke as white as snow, 
 
 And hid its turrets hoar ; 
 Till they rolled forth upon the air, 
 And met the river breezes there, 
 Which gave again the prospect fair. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
 SECOND. 
 
 TO 
 
 T3E REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M. 
 Ashestlel, Eitrick Forest. 
 
 The scenes are desert now, and bare. 
 
 Where fl^uish'd once a forest fair, ' ^ 
 
 When these waste glens with copse 
 were lined. 
 
 And peopled wit^ the hart and hind. 
 
 Yon Thorn— perchance whose prick- 
 ly spears 
 
 Have fenced him for three hundred 
 years. 
 
 While fell around his green com- 
 peers — 
 
MARMlON. 
 
 Yon lonely Thorn, would lie could 
 
 teil 
 The changes of his parent dell, 
 Since he, so grey and stubborn now, 
 Waved in each breeze a sapling 
 
 bough; 
 "WouU ha 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," methinknhe'd 
 
 say, 
 " Tha mighty stag at noon-tide lay : 
 The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, 
 (The neighbouring dingle bears his 
 
 name,) 
 With lurching step around me prowl, 
 And stop, against the moon to howl ; 
 The mountain-boar, on battle set, 
 His tusks upon my stem would whet ; 
 While doe,and roe, and red-deer good, 
 Have bounded by, through gay green- 
 wood. 
 Then oft, from ITewark's riven tower, 
 Sallied a Scottish monarch's power: 
 A thousand vassals muster'd round, 
 With horso, and hawli, and horn, and 
 
 hound ; 
 And I might see the youth intent. 
 Guard every pass with crossbow 
 
 bent ; 
 And through the brake the rangers 
 
 stalk, 
 And falc'ners hold the ready hawk ; 
 And foresters, in greenwood trim. 
 Lead in the leash the gazehounds 
 
 grim, 
 Attentive, as the bratchet'sf bay 
 From the dark covert drove the prey. 
 To slip theiii as he broke away. 
 
 The startled quarry bounds amain, 
 As fast the startled greyhounds strain, 
 Whistles the arrow from tha bow. 
 Answers the harquebuss below ; 
 While all the rocking hills reply. 
 To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' 
 
 And bugles ringing lightsomely." 
 
 Of such proud huntings many tales 
 Yet linger in our lonely dales, 
 Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow, 
 Where erst the outlaw drew his ar- 
 row. { 
 But not more blithe that silvan 
 
 court. 
 Than we have been at humbler sport ; 
 Though small our pomp, and mean 
 
 our game. 
 Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the 
 
 same. 
 Kemember'st thou my greyhounds 
 
 true? 
 O'er holt or hill there never flow, 
 From slip or leash there never sprang, 
 Ilore fleet of foot, or sure of fang. 
 ITor dull, between each merry chase, " 
 Pass'd by the intermitted space ; 
 For we had fair resource in store. 
 In Classic and in Gothic lore : 
 \Iq mark'd each memorable scene. 
 And held poetic talk batwcen ; 
 llor hid, nor brook, we paced along. 
 Dub had its legend or its song. 
 All silent now — for no-y are still 
 Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhili !§ 
 ITo longer, from thy mountains dun, 
 Tho yeoman hears the well-known 
 
 And while his honest heart glows 
 
 warm. 
 At thought of his paternal farm, 
 Eound to his mates a brimmer fills. 
 And drinks, *'The Chieftain of the 
 
 Hills !" 
 No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers. 
 Trip o'er the walks,or tend the flowers. 
 Fair as the elves whom Janet saw 
 
 * Mountain ash. 
 t Slowliound. 
 
 I Murray, the Eobin Hood of Ettrick, but 
 inferior ia good qualities to our archer. 
 
 kj A seat of the Duko of Buocleuch on the 
 Yarrow. 
 
lod 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh ; 
 No youthful Baron's left to grace 
 The Forest-Sheriff s lonely chase, 
 And ape, in manly step and tone, 
 The majesty of Oberon : 
 And she is gone, whose lovely face 
 Is but her least and lowest grace; 
 Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere 
 
 given, 
 To show our earth the charms of 
 
 Heaven, 
 She could not glide along the air, 
 With form more light, or face more 
 
 fair. 
 No more the widow's deafen'd ear 
 Grows quick that lady's step to hear : 
 At noontide she expects her not, 
 Nor busies her to trim the cot ; 
 Pensive she turns her humming- 
 wheel, 
 Or pensive cooks her orphan's meal ; 
 Yot blesses, ere she deals their bread, 
 The gentle hand by which they're fed. 
 
 From Yair, — which hills so closely 
 
 bind, 
 Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, 
 Though much he fret, and chafe, and 
 
 toil, 
 Till all his eddying currents boil, — 
 Her long-descended lord is gone, 
 And left us by the stream alone. 
 And much I miss those sportive 
 
 boys. 
 Companions of my mountain joys. 
 Just at the aije 'twixt boy and youth, 
 When thought is speech, and speech 
 
 i3 truth. 
 Close to my side, with what delight 
 They press'd to hear of Wallace 
 
 wight. 
 When,' pointing to his airy mound, 
 I call'd his ramparts holy ground ! 
 Kindled their brows to heal: me 
 
 speak; 
 And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, 
 Despite the difference of our years, 
 Return again the glow of theirs. 
 Ah, happy boys ! such feelings pure, 
 They will not, cannot, long endure ; 
 Condemn'd to stem the world's rude 
 
 tide, 
 
 You may not linger by the side; 
 For Fate shall thrust you from the 
 
 shore. 
 And Passion ply the sail and oar. 
 Yet cherish the remembrance still, 
 Of the lone mountain, and the rill; 
 For trust, dear boys, the time will 
 
 come, 
 When fiercer transport shall be 
 
 dumb, 
 And you will think right frequently. 
 But, well, I hope, without a sigh, 
 On the free hours that we have spent 
 Together, on the brown hill's bent. 
 
 When, musing on companions 
 
 gone, 
 We doubly feel ourselves alone. 
 Something, my friend, we yet may 
 
 gain; " . 
 
 There is a pleasure in this pain: 
 It soothes the love of lonely rest, 
 Deep in each gentler heart impress'd. 
 'Tis silent amid worldly toils, 
 And stifled soon by mental broils; 
 But in a bosom thus prepared, 
 Its still small voice is often heard, 
 Y/hispering a mingled sentiment, 
 'Twixt resignation and content. 
 Oft in my mind such thoughts 
 
 awako, 
 By lone St. Mary's silent lake; 
 Thou know'st it well, — nor fen, nor 
 
 sedge. 
 Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; 
 Abrupt and sheer, the mountains 
 
 sink 
 At once upon the level brink; 
 And just a trace of silver sand 
 Marks where the water meets the 
 
 land. 
 Far in the mirror, bright and blue, 
 Each hill's huge outline you may 
 
 view; 
 Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare. 
 Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is 
 
 there, 
 Save where, of land, yon slender line 
 Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd 
 
 pine. 
 Yet even this nakedness has power, 
 And aids the feelino: of the hour: 
 
MAItMIOIf. 
 
 lot 
 
 Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, 
 Where living thing conceard might 
 
 lie; 
 Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, 
 Where swain, or woodman lone, 
 
 might dwell; 
 There's nothing left to fancy's guess, 
 You see that all is loneliness: 
 And silence aids— though the steep 
 
 hills 
 Send to the lake a thousand rills; 
 In summer tide, so soft they weep, 
 Ihe sound but lulls the ear asleep; 
 Your horses hoof-tread sounds too 
 
 rude, 
 So stilly is the solitude. 
 
 Nought living meets the eye or ear, 
 But well I ween the dead are near; 
 For though, in feudal strife, a foe 
 Hath laid Our Lady's chapsl low, 
 Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil, 
 The peasant rests him from his 
 
 toil, 
 And, dying, bids his bones be laid, 
 Where erst his simple fathers pray'd. 
 
 If age had tamed the passions' 
 
 strife, 
 And Fate had cut my ties to life, 
 Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet 
 
 to dwell, 
 And rear again the chaplain's cell, 
 Like that same peaceful hermitage, 
 Where Milton long'd to spend his 
 
 age. 
 'Twere sweet to mark the setting day. 
 On Bourhope's lonely top decay; 
 And, as it faint and feeble died 
 On the broad lake, and mountain's 
 
 side, 
 To say, " Thus pleasures fade away; 
 Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay. 
 And leave us dark, forlorn, and 
 
 grey;" 
 Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd 
 
 tower. 
 And think on Yarrow's faded Flower: 
 And when that mountain-sound I 
 
 heard, 
 Which bids us be for storm pre- 
 pared. 
 The distant rustling of his wings, 
 
 As up his force the Tempest brings, 
 'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, 
 To sit upon the Wizard's grave ; 
 That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are 
 
 thrust 
 From company of holy dust ; 
 On which no sunbeam ever shines — 
 (So superstition's creed divines) — 
 Thence view the lake with sullen roar. 
 Heave her broad billows to the shore; 
 And mark the wild swans mount the 
 
 Spread wide through mist their 
 
 snowy sail, 
 And ever stoop again, to lave 
 Their bosoms on the surging wave : 
 Then, when against the driving hail 
 No longer might my plaid avail. 
 Back to my lonely home retire. 
 And light my lamp, and trim my fire; • 
 There ponder o'er some mystic lay, 
 Till the wild tale had all its sway. 
 And, in the bittern's distant shriek, 
 I heard unearthly voices speak, 
 And thought the Wizard Priest was 
 
 come, 
 To claim again his ancient home ! 
 And bade my busy fancy range. 
 To &ame him fitting shape and 
 
 strange, 
 Till from the task my brow I clear'd, 
 And smiled to think that I had f ear'd. 
 
 But chief, 'twere sweet to think 
 
 such life, 
 (Though but escape from fortune's 
 
 strife, ) 
 Something most matchless good and 
 
 wise, 
 A great and grateful sacrifice ; 
 And deem each hour to musing given, 
 A step upon the road to heaven. 
 
 Yet him, "whose heart is ill at ease. 
 Such peaceful solitudes displease : 
 He loves to drown his bosom's jar 
 Amid the elemental war : 
 And my black Palmer's choice had 
 
 been 
 Some ruder and more savage scene. 
 Like that which frowns round dark 
 
 Lochskene. 
 
io:i 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOP.KS. 
 
 m 
 
 There eagles scream from isle to 
 
 shore ; 
 Down all the rocks the torrents roar ; 
 O'er the black waves incessant driven, 
 Dark mists infect the summer heaven ; 
 Through the rude barriers of the lake, 
 Away its hurrying waters break, 
 Faster and whiter dash end curl, 
 Till down yon dark abyss they hurl. 
 Rises the fog-smoke, white as snow, 
 Thunders the viewless stream below, 
 Diving, as if condemned to lave 
 Some demon's subterranean cave, 
 Who, prison'd by enchanter's r>pell, 
 Shakes the dark rock with groan and 
 
 yell. 
 And well that Palmer's form and 
 
 mien 
 Had suited with the stormy scene, 
 Just on the edge, straining his ken 
 To view the bottom of the den, 
 Where, deep dee^^ down, and far with- 
 
 Toils with the rocks the roaring linn ; 
 Then, issuing forth one foamy wave. 
 And wheeling round the Giant's 
 
 Grave, 
 White as the snowy charger's tail, 
 Drives down the pass of Moffatdale, 
 
 Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung, 
 To many a Border theme has rung : 
 Then list to me, and thou shalt know 
 Of this mysterious Man of Woe. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 The Convent. 
 
 I. 
 
 The breeze which swept away the 
 smoke, 
 Eound Norham Castle roU'd, 
 When all the loud artillery spoke, 
 With lightning flash and thunder- 
 stroke, 
 As Marmion left the Hold. 
 It curl'd not Tweed alone, that breeze, 
 For, far upon Northumbrian seas. 
 
 It freshly blew, and strong, 
 Where, from high Whitby's cloister'd 
 
 pile. 
 Bound to St. Cuthbert's Holy Isle, 
 
 It bore a bark along. 
 Upon the gale she stoop'd her side, 
 And bounded o'er the swelling tide, 
 
 As she were dancing home ; 
 The merry seamen laugh'd, to see 
 Their gallant ship so lustily 
 
 Furrow the green sea-foam. 
 Much joy'd they in their honour'd 
 
 freight ; 
 For, on the deck, in chair of state, 
 The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed, 
 With five fair nuns, the galley graced. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twas sweet to see these holy maids, 
 Like birds escaped to green-wood 
 shades, 
 
 Their first flight from the cage. 
 How timid, and how curious too, 
 r or all to them was strange and new. 
 And all the common sights they view, 
 
 Their wonderment engage. 
 Ono eyed the shrouds and swelling 
 sail. 
 
 With many a benedicite ; 
 One at the rippling surge grew pale. 
 
 And* would lor terror pray ; 
 Then shriek'd, because the sea-dog, 
 
 nigh. 
 His round black head, and sparkling 
 eye, 
 
 Bcar'd o'er the foaming spray; 
 And one v/ould still adjust her veil, 
 Disorder'd by the summer gale, 
 Perchance lest some more worldly eye 
 Her dedicated charms might spy ; 
 Perchance, because such action graced 
 Her f air-turn'd arm and slender waist. ' 
 Light was each simple bosom there, 
 Save two, who ill might pleasure 
 
 share, — 
 The Abbess and the Novice Clare. 
 
 III. 
 
 The Abbess was of noble blood. 
 
 But early took the veil and hood, 
 
 Ere upon life she cast a look, 
 
 Or knew the world that she forsook. 
 
 Fair too she was, and kind had been 
 
 As she was fair, but ne'er had seen 
 
 For her a timid lover sigh, 
 
 Nor knew the influence of her eye. 
 
 Love, to her ear, was but a name, 
 
MARMION. 
 
 103 
 
 Combined with vanity and shame; 
 Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 
 Bounded within the cloister wall: 
 The deadliest sin her mind could 
 
 reach, 
 "Was of monastic rule the breach; 
 And her ambition's highest aim 
 To emulate St. Hilda's fame. 
 For this she gave her ample dower, 
 To raise the convent's eastern tower; 
 For this, with carving rare and quaint, 
 She deck'd the chapel of the saint, 
 And gave the relic-shrine of cost, 
 With ivory and gems emboss'd. 
 The poor her Convent's bountv blest, 
 The pilgrim in its halls found rest, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Black was her garb, her rigid rule 
 Reform'd on Benedictine school; 
 Her cheek was pale, her form was 
 
 spare; 
 Vigils, and penitence austere. 
 Had early quench'd the light of youth, 
 But gentle was the dame, in sooth ; 
 Though vain of her religious sway. 
 She loved to see her maids obey. 
 Yet nothing stern was she in cell, 
 And the nuns loved their Abbess 
 
 well. 
 Sad was this voyage to the dame ; 
 Summon'd to Lindisfarne, she came, 
 There, with St. Cuthbert's Abbot old. 
 And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold 
 A chapter of St. Benedict, 
 For inquisition stern and strict, 
 On two apostates from the faith, 
 And, if need were, to doom to death. 
 
 V. 
 
 Nought say I here of Sister Clare, 
 Save this, that she was young and fair; 
 As yet, a novice unprofess'd, 
 Lovely and gentle, but distress'd. 
 She was betroth'd to one now dead, 
 Or worse, who had dishonour'd fled. 
 Her kinsmen bade her give her hand 
 To one, who loved bcr for her land: 
 Herself, almost heart-broken now, 
 Was bent to take the vestal vow, 
 And shroud within St. Hilda's gloom, 
 Her blasted hopes andwither'd bloom. 
 
 VI. 
 
 She sate upon the galley's prow, 
 And seem'd to mark the waves below; 
 Nay, seem'd, bo fix'd her look and eye, 
 To count them as they glided by. 
 She saw them not — 'twas seeming 
 
 all- 
 Far other scene her thoughts recall, — 
 A sun-scorch'd desert, waste and bare. 
 Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur'd 
 
 there ; 
 There saw she, where some careless 
 
 hand 
 O'er a dead corpse had heap'd the 
 
 sand. 
 To hide it till the jackals come. 
 To tear it from the scanty tomb. — 
 See what a woful look was given, ^ 
 
 As she raised up her eyes to heaven I 
 VII. 
 
 Lovely, and gentle, and distress'd — 
 These charms might tame the fierc- 
 est breast ; 
 Harpers have sung, and poets told. 
 That he, in fury uncontrolled. 
 The shaggy monarch of the wood. 
 Before a vigin, fair and good. 
 Hath pacified his savage mood. 
 But passions in the human frame. 
 Oft put the lion's rage to shame: 
 And jealousy, by dark intrigue. 
 With sordid avarice in league, 
 Had practised with their bowl and 
 
 knife, 
 Against the mourner's harmless life. 
 This crime was charged 'gainst those 
 
 who lay 
 Prison' d in Cuthbert's islet grey. 
 
 vin. 
 
 And now the vessel skirts the strand 
 Of mountainous Northumberland; 
 Towns, towers, and halls, successive 
 
 rise, 
 And catch the nun's delighted eyes. 
 Monk-Wearmouth soon behind tnem 
 
 lay; 
 And Tynemouth's priory and bay; 
 They mark'd, amid her trees, the hall 
 Of lofty Seaton-Delaval; 
 They saw the Blythe and Wansbeok 
 
 floods 
 
I04 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Bush to tlie sea through sounding 
 
 woods; 
 They pass'd the tower of Widdering- 
 
 ton, 
 Mother of many a valiant son ; 
 At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 
 To the good saint who own'd the 
 
 cell; 
 Then did the Alne attention claim, 
 And Warkworth, proud of Percy's 
 
 name; 
 And next, they cross'd themselves, to 
 
 hear 
 The whitening breakers sound so 
 
 near, 
 Where, boiling through the rocks, 
 
 they roar, 
 On Dunstaaborough's cavern'dshore; 
 Thy tower, proud Bamborough, 
 
 mark'd they there, 
 King Ida's castle, huge and square, 
 From its tall rock looic grimly down. 
 And on the swelling ocean frown; 
 Then from the coast they bore away, 
 And reach'd the Holy Island's bay. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The tide did now its flood-mark gain, 
 And girdled in the Saint's domain: 
 For, with the flow and ebb, its style 
 Varies from continent to isle; 
 Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, 
 The pilgrims to the shrine find way; 
 Twice every day, the waves eflface 
 Of staves andsandall'd feet the trace. 
 As to the port the galley flew, 
 Higher and higher rose to view 
 The Castle, with its battled walls, 
 The ancient Monastery's halls, 
 A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, 
 Placed on the margin of the isle. 
 
 X. 
 
 In Saxon strength that abbey frown'd. 
 With massive arches broad and 
 round, 
 That rose alternate, row and row. 
 On ponderous columns, short and 
 low, 
 Built ere the art was known, 
 By pointed aisle and shafted stalk. 
 The arcades of an alley'd walk. 
 
 To emulate in stone. 
 On the deep walls, the heathen Dane 
 Had pour'd his impious rage in vain: 
 And needful was such strength to 
 
 these. 
 Exposed to the tempestuous seas, 
 Scourged by the winds' eternal sway, 
 Open to rovers fierce as they. 
 Which could twelve hundred years 
 
 withstand 
 Winds, waves, and northern pirates* 
 
 hand. 
 Not but that portions of the pile, 
 Eebuilded in a later style, 
 Show'd where the spoiler's hand had 
 
 been; 
 Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen 
 Had worn the pillar's carving quaint. 
 And moulder'd in his niche the saint. 
 And rounded, with consuming power. 
 The pointed angles of each tower; 
 Yet still entire the Abbey stood. 
 Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Soon as they near'd his turrets 
 
 strong. 
 The maidens raised Saint Hilda's 
 song, 
 And with the sea-wave and the 
 
 wind. 
 Their voices, sweetly shrill, com- 
 bined. 
 And made harmonious close ; 
 Then, answering from the sandy 
 
 shore. 
 Half drown'd amid the breakers' 
 roar. 
 According chorus rose: 
 Down to the haven of the Isle, 
 The monks and nuns in order file, 
 From Cuthbert's cloisters grim ; 
 Banner, and cross, and relics there, 
 To meet St. Hilda's maids, they bare; 
 And, as they caught the sounds on air. 
 
 They echoed back the hymn. 
 The islanders, in joyous mood, 
 Rush'd emulously through the flood, 
 
 To hale the bark to land; 
 Conspicuous by her veil and hood. 
 Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, 
 And bless'd them with her hand. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 105 
 
 XII. 
 
 Suppose we now the welcome said, 
 Suppose the Convent banquet made : 
 
 All through the holy dome, 
 Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, 
 Wherever vestal maid might pry, 
 Nor risk to meet unhallow'd eye, 
 
 The stranger sibters roam: 
 Till fell the evening damp with dew. 
 And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, 
 For there, even summer night is chill. 
 Then, having stray'd and gazed their 
 fill, 
 
 They closed around the fire; 
 And ail, in turn, essay'd to paint 
 The rival merits of their saint, 
 
 A theme that ne'er can tire 
 A holy maid ; for, be it known. 
 That their saint's honour is their own, 
 
 XIII. . 
 Then Whitby's nuns exulting told, 
 How to their house three Barons bold 
 
 Must menial service do; 
 While horns blow out a note of 
 
 shame, 
 And monks cry " Fye upon your 
 
 name ! 
 In wrath, for loss of sylvan game, 
 Saint Hilda's priest ye slew." — 
 • This, on Ascension-day, each year. 
 While labouring on our llarbour-pier. 
 Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy 
 
 hear."- 
 They told, how in their convent cell 
 A Saxon Princess once did dwell, 
 
 The lovely Edelfled; 
 And how, of thousand snakes, each 
 
 one 
 Was changed into a coil of stone, 
 
 When holy Hilda pray'd ; 
 Themselves, within their holy bound, 
 Their stony folds had often found. 
 They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail 
 As over Whitby's towers they sail, 
 And, sinking down, with flutterings 
 
 faint. 
 They do their homage to the saint. 
 
 XIV. 
 Nor did St. Cuthbert's daughters fail. 
 To vie with these in holy tale; 
 
 His body's resting-place, of old, 
 How oft their patron changed, th.ey 
 
 told; 
 How, when the rude Dane bum'd 
 
 their pile, 
 The monks fled forth from Holy Isle; 
 O'er northern mountain, marsh, and 
 
 moor, 
 From sea to sea, from shore to shore, 
 Seven yeiirs Saint Cuthbert's corpse 
 they bore. 
 They rested them in fair Melrose; 
 But though, alive, he loved it 
 well. 
 Not there his relics might repose; 
 
 For, wondrous tale to tell ! 
 In his stone cof&n forth he rides, 
 A ponderous bark for river tides. 
 Yet light as gossamer it glides, 
 Downward to Tilmouth cell. 
 Nor long was his abiding there, 
 For southward did the saint repair; 
 Ghester-le-Street, and Eippon saw 
 His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw 
 
 Hail'd him with joy and fear; 
 And, after many wanderings past. 
 He chose his lordly seat at last. 
 Where his cathedral, huge and 
 vast, 
 Looks down upon the Wear: 
 There, deep in Durham's Gothic 
 
 shade, 
 His relics are in secret laid ; 
 
 But none may know the place. 
 Save of his holiest servants three, 
 Deep sworn to solemn secrecy. 
 Who share that wondrous grace. 
 
 XY. 
 
 Who may his miracles declare! 
 Even Scotland's dauntless king, and 
 
 heir, 
 (Although with them they led 
 Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale. 
 And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in 
 
 mail, 
 And the bold men of Teviotdale,) 
 
 Before his standard fled. 
 'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, 
 Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, 
 And turn'd the Conqueror back 
 
 again, 
 
io6 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 When, with his Norman bowyer band, 
 He came to waste Northumberland. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would 
 
 learn 
 If, on a rock by Lindisfarne, 
 Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 
 The sea-born beads that bear his 
 
 name: 
 Such tales had Whitby's fishers told, 
 And said they might his shape behold, 
 
 And hear his anvil sound; 
 A deaden'd clang, — a huge dim form, 
 Seen but, and heard, when gathering 
 
 storm 
 And night were closing round. 
 But this, as tale of idle fame, 
 The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 While round the fire such legends go, 
 Far different was the scene of woe, 
 Vv'here, in a secret aislo beneath, 
 Council was held of life and death. 
 
 It was more dark and lone that vault, 
 Than the worst dungeon cell: 
 
 Old Colwulf built it, for his fault, 
 In penitenco to dwell. 
 When he,for cowl and beads,laid down 
 The Saxon battle-axe and crown. 
 This den, which, chilhng every sense 
 
 Of feeling, hearing, sight. 
 Was call'd the Vault of Penitence, 
 
 Excluding air and light, 
 Was, by the prelate Sexbelm, made 
 A place of burial for such dead. 
 As, having died in mortal sin. 
 Might not bo l:ad the church tvithin. 
 'Twas now a place of punishment; 
 Whence if so loud a siiriek were sent. 
 
 As reach'd the upper air, 
 The hearers blessed themselves, and 
 
 said, 
 The spirits of the sinful dead 
 
 Bemoan'd their torments there. 
 
 xvin. 
 
 But though, in the monastic pile, 
 Did of this penitential aisle 
 Some vague^tradition go, 
 Few only, save the Abbot, knew 
 
 Where the place lay; and still more 
 few 
 
 Were those, who had from him the 
 clew 
 To that dread vault to go. 
 
 Victim and executioner 
 
 Were blindfold when transported 
 there. 
 
 In low dark rounds the arches hung, 
 
 From the rude rock the side-walls 
 sprung; 
 
 The grave-stones, rudely sculptured 
 o'er. 
 
 Hall sunk in earth, by time half wore, 
 
 Were all the pavement of the floor; 
 
 The mildew-drops fell one by one, 
 
 With tinkling plash, upon the stone. 
 
 A cresset,'' in an iron cliain, 
 
 Which served to light this drear do- 
 main, 
 
 V/ith damp and darkness seem'd to 
 strive. 
 
 As if it scarce might keep alive; 
 
 And yet it dimly served to show 
 
 The awful conclave met below. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 There, met to doom in secrecy. 
 Were placed the heads of convents 
 
 three : 
 All servants of Saint Benedict, 
 The statutes of whose order strict 
 
 On iron table lay; 
 In long black dress, on seats of stone. 
 Behind were these three judges 
 
 shown 1 
 
 By the pals cresset's ray: 
 The Abbess of Saint Hilda's there 
 Sat for a space with visage bare. 
 Until, to hide her bosom's swell, 
 And tear-drops that for pity fell. 
 
 She closely drew her veil: 
 Yon shrouded figure, as I guess, 
 By her proud mien and flowing dress. 
 Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, 
 
 And she with awe looks pale: 
 And he, that Ancient ilan, whose 
 
 sight 
 Has long been quench 'd by age's 
 
 night, 
 Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, 
 
 ■* Antique chandelier. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 107 
 
 Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace, is 
 shown, 
 
 Whose look is hard and stern, — 
 Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style; 
 For sanctity call'd, through the isle, 
 
 The Saint of Lindisf arne. 
 
 r 
 
 XX. 
 
 Before them stood a guilty pair; 
 But, though an equal fate they share, 
 Yet one alone deserves our care. 
 Her sex a page's dress belied; 
 The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, 
 Obscured her charms, but could not 
 hide. 
 Her cap down o'er her face she 
 drew; 
 Andj on her doublet breast. 
 She tried to hide the badge of blue, 
 Lor(J Marmion's falcon crest. 
 But, at the Prioress' command, 
 A Monk undid the silver band, 
 
 That tied her tresses fair. 
 And raised the bonnet from her 
 
 head, 
 And down her slender form they 
 spread, 
 In ringlets rich and rare. 
 Constance de Beverley they know, 
 Sister profess'd of Fontevraud, 
 Whom the church number' d with 
 
 the dead, 
 For broken vows, and convent fled. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 When thus her face was given to 
 
 view, 
 (Although so palid was her hue, 
 it did a ghastly contrast bear 
 To those bright ringlets glistering 
 
 fair. ) 
 Her look composed, and steady eye. 
 Bespoke a matchless constancy; 
 And there she stood so calm and 
 
 pale. 
 That, but her breathing did not fail, 
 And motion i^ light of eye and head, 
 And of her bosom, warranted 
 That neither sense nor pulse she 
 
 lacks, 
 You might have thought a form of 
 
 wax, 
 
 Wrought to the very life, was there; 
 So still she was, so pale, so fair. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 Her comrade was a sordid soul, 
 
 Such as doe^ murder for a meed; 
 Who, but of fear, knows no control, 
 Because his conscience, sear'd and 
 
 foul. 
 Feels not the import of his deed; 
 One, whose brute-feeling ne'er as- 
 pires 
 Beyond his own more brute desires. 
 Such tools the Tempter ever needs, 
 To do the savagest of deeds; 
 For them no vision' d terrors daunt, 
 Their nights no fancied spectres 
 
 haunt. 
 One fear with them, of all most base, 
 The fear of death, — alone finds place. 
 This wretch was clad in frock and 
 
 cowl. 
 And shamed not loud to moan and 
 
 howl. 
 His body on the floor to dash, 
 And crouch, like hound beneath the 
 
 lash ; 
 While his mute partner, standing 
 
 near, 
 Waited her doom without a tear. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Yet well the luckless wretch might 
 
 shriek, 
 Well might her paleness terror speak! 
 For there were seen in that dark wall, 
 Two niches, narrow, deep and tall; — 
 Who enters at such grisly door, 
 Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. 
 In each a slender meal was laid. 
 Of roots, of water, and of bread: 
 By each, in Benedictine dress, 
 Two haggard monks stood motion- 
 less; 
 Who, holding high a blazing torch, 
 Shpw'd the grim entrance of the 
 
 porch : 
 Reflecting back the smoky beam. 
 The dark-red walls and arches gleam. 
 Hewn stones and cement were dis- 
 
 play'd, 
 And building tools in order laid. 
 
Io5 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 These executioners were chose, 
 As men who were with mankind foes, 
 And with despite and envy fired, 
 Into the cloister had retired; 
 Or who, in desperate doubt of 
 
 grace, 
 Strove, by deep penance, to efface 
 
 Of some foul crime the stain ; 
 For, as the vassals of her will, 
 Such men the Church selected still, 
 As either joy'd m doing ill, 
 Or thought more grace to gain. 
 If, in her cause, they wrestled down 
 Feelings their nature strove to own. 
 By strange device were they brought 
 
 there, ' 
 
 They knew not how, nor knew not 
 where. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And now that blind old Abbot rose. 
 
 To speak the Chapter's doom. 
 On those the wall was to enclose, 
 
 Alive, within the tomb. 
 But stopp'd, because that woful 
 
 Maid, 
 Gathering her powers, to speak 
 
 essay'd. 
 Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain; 
 Her accents might no utterance gain ; 
 Nought but imperfect murmurs slip 
 Fromher convulsed and quivering lip ; 
 'Twixt each attempt all was so still, 
 You seem'd to hear a distant nil — 
 
 'Twas ocean's swells and falls ; 
 For though this vault of sin and 
 
 fear 
 Was to the sounding surge so near, 
 A tempest there you scarce could hear. 
 So massive were the walls. 
 XXVI. 
 
 At length, an effort sent apart 
 
 The blood that curdled to her heart, 
 
 And light came to her eye, 
 And colour dawn'd upon her cheek, 
 A hectic and a flutter'd streak. 
 Like that left on the Cheviot peak, 
 
 By Autumn s stormy sky ; 
 And when her silence broke at length, 
 Still as she spoke she gather'd 
 strength, 
 
 And arm'd herself to bear. 
 It was a fearful sight to see 
 Such high resolve and constancy, 
 
 In form so soft and fair. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " I speak not to implore your grace. 
 Well know I for one minute's space 
 
 Successless might I sue : 
 Nor do I speak your prayers to gain; 
 For if a death of lingering pain. 
 To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 
 
 Vam are your masses too. — 
 T listen'd to a traitor's tale, 
 I left the convent and the veil ; 
 For three long years 1 bow'd my pride, 
 A horse-boy in his train to ride ; 
 And well my folly's meed he gave. 
 Who forfeited, to be his slave. 
 All here, and all beyond the grave. — 
 He saw young Clara's face more fair. 
 He knew her of broad lands the heir, 
 Forgot his vows, his faith foreswore. 
 And Constance was belov'd no more. — 
 
 'Tis an old tale, and often told ; 
 But did my fate and wish agree, 
 
 Ne'er had been road, in story old, 
 
 Of maiden true betray'd for gold. 
 That loved, or was avenged, like 
 me ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " The King approved his favourite's 
 
 aim ; 
 In vain a rival barr'd his claim, 
 
 Whose fate with Clare's was plight, 
 For he attaints that rival's fame 
 With treason's charge — and on they 
 came. 
 In mortal lists to fight. 
 Their oaths are said, 
 Their prayers are prny'd, 
 ^heir lances m the rest are laid. 
 They meet in mortal shock; 
 And, hark ! the throng, with thun- 
 dering cry. 
 Shout ' Marmion, Marmion ! to the 
 sky, 
 Do Wilton to the block !' 
 Say ye, who preach Heaven shall de- 
 cide 
 When m the lists two champions ride, 
 Say, was Heaven's justice here ! 
 
MARMIOJSr. 
 
 109 
 
 When, loyal in his love and faithi, 
 Wilton found overthrow or death, 
 
 Beneath a traitor's spear ? 
 How false the charge, how true he fell. 
 This guilty packet best nan tell." — 
 Then drew a packet from her breast, 
 Paused, gather'd voice, and spoke 
 the rest. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 "Still was false Marmion's bridle 
 
 staid ; 
 To Whitby's convent fled the maid. 
 
 The hated match to shun. 
 ' Ho I shifts ske thus ? ' King Henry 
 
 cried, 
 • Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride, 
 
 If she were sworn a nun.' 
 One way remain'd — the King's com- 
 mand 
 Sent Marmion to the Scottish land : 
 I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd 
 
 For Clara and for me: 
 This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear, 
 He would to Whitby's shrine repair. 
 And, by his drugs, my rival fair 
 
 A saint in heaven should be. 
 But ill the dastard kept his oath, 
 Whose cowardice has undone us both. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 "And now my tongue the secret tells. 
 Not that remorse my bosom swells, 
 But to assure my soul that none 
 Shall over wed with Marmion. 
 Had fortune my last hope betray'd, 
 This packet, to the King convey'd. 
 Had given him to the headsman's 
 
 stroke, 
 Although my heart that instant 
 
 broke. — 
 Now, men of death, work forth your 
 
 will. 
 For I can suflfer, and be still; 
 And come he slow, or come he fast, 
 It is but Death who comes at last. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 "Yet dread me, from my living tomb, 
 Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome ! 
 If Marmion's late remorse should 
 
 wake, 
 Full soon such vengeance will he take, 
 
 That you shall wish the fiery Dane 
 Had rather been your guest again. 
 Behind, a darker hour ascends ! 
 The altars quake, the crosier bends, 
 The ire of a despotic King 
 Rides forth upon destruction's wing; 
 Then shall these vaults, so strong 
 
 and deep, 
 Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep ; 
 Some traveller then shall find my 
 
 bones 
 Whitening amid disjointed stones. 
 And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, 
 Marvel such relics here should be." 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 Fix'd was her look, and stern her air: 
 Back from her shoulders stream'd 
 
 her hair; 
 The locks, that wont her brow to 
 
 shade, 
 Stared up erectly from her head; 
 iler figure seemed to rise more high ; 
 Jer voice, despair's wild energy 
 Had given a tone of prophecy. 
 Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate; 
 With stupid eyes, the men of fate 
 Gazed on the lighb inspired form, 
 And listen'd for the avenging storm; 
 The judges felt tho victim's dread; 
 No hand was move J,no word was said, 
 Till thus tlie Abbot's doom was given, 
 Raising his sightless balls to heaven: — 
 '* Sister, let thy sorrows cease; 
 Sinful brother, part in peace ! ** 
 From that dire dungeon, place of 
 
 doom. 
 Of execution too, and tomb, 
 
 Paced forth the judges three; 
 
 Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell 
 
 The butcher-work that there befell, 
 
 "When they had glided from the cell 
 
 Of sin and misery. 
 
 xxxin. 
 
 An hundred winding steps convey 
 That conclave to the upper day ; 
 But, ere they breathed the fresher air, 
 They heard the shriekings of despair, 
 
 And many a stifled groan: 
 With speed their upward way they 
 take, 
 
no 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 (Such speed as age and fear can make, ) 
 And cross'd themselves for terror's 
 
 sake. 
 As hurrying, tottering on: 
 Even in the vesper's heavenly tone, 
 They seem'd to hear a dying groan, 
 And bade the passing kneU to toll 
 For welfare of a parting soul. 
 Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, 
 Northumbrian rocks in answer rung ; 
 To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd, 
 His beads the wakeful hermit told, 
 The Bamborough peasant raised his 
 
 head. 
 But slept ere half a prayer he said; 
 So far was heard the mighty knell, 
 The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, 
 Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 
 Listed before, aside, behind, 
 Then couch'd him down beside the 
 
 hind, 
 And quaked among the mountain 
 
 fern. 
 To hear that sound so dull and stern. 
 
 INTEODUCTION TO CANTO 
 
 THIED. 
 TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.* 
 Ashesiiel, Ettrick Forest. 
 
 LiKEApril morning clouds, that pass. 
 With varying shadow, o'er the grass, 
 And imitate, on field and furrow, 
 Life's chequer'd scene of joy and 
 
 sorrow ; 
 Like streamlet of the mountain 
 
 north, 
 Now in a torrent racing forth, 
 Now winding slow its silver train, 
 And almost slumbering on the plain; 
 Like breezes of the autumn day, 
 Whose voice inconstant dies away, 
 And ever swells again as fast, 
 When the ear deems its murmur past; 
 Thus various, my romantic theme 
 Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning 
 
 dream. 
 Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 
 Of Light and Shade's inconstant race; 
 
 * A Judge of the Court of Session, after- 
 wards, by title, Lord Kinnedder. He died in 
 1622. 
 
 Pleased, views the rivulet afar. 
 Weaving its maze irregular ; 
 And pleased, we listen as the breeze 
 Heaves its wild sigh through au- 
 tumn trees ; 
 Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or 
 
 gale, 
 Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale ! 
 
 Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell 
 I love the license all too well, 
 In sounds now lowly, and now strong, 
 To raise the desultory song ? — 
 Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime, 
 Some transient fit of lofty rhyme 
 To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse 
 For many an error of the muse, 
 Oft hast thou said, '• If, still mis- 
 spent. 
 Thine hours to poetry are lent. 
 Go, and to tame thy wandering 
 
 course. 
 Quaff from the fountain at the source; 
 Approach those masters, o'er whose 
 
 tomb 
 Immortal laurels ever bloom : 
 Instructive of the feebler bard. 
 Still from the grave their voice is 
 
 heard ; 
 From them, and from the paths they 
 
 show'd. 
 Choose honour'd guide and practised 
 
 road ; 
 Nor ramble on through brake and 
 
 maze. 
 With harpers rude, of barbarous days. 
 
 "Or deem'st thou not our later 
 time 
 Yields topic meet for classic rhyme? 
 Hast thou no elegiac verse 
 For Brunswick's venerable hearse ? 
 What, not a line, a tear, a sigh. 
 When valour bleeds for liberty ? — 
 Oh, hero of that glorious time, 
 When, with unrivall'd light sub- 
 lime, — 
 Though martial Austria, and though 
 
 all 
 The might of Russia, and the Gaul, 
 Though banded Europe stood her 
 
 foes — 
 The star of Brandenburgh arose ! 
 
MARMIOK 
 
 tit 
 
 Thou could'st not live to see her beam 
 Forever quench'd in Jena's stream. 
 Lamented chief ! — it was not given 
 To thee to change the doom of 
 
 Heaven, 
 And crush that dragon in its birth, 
 Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 
 Lamented chief.~not thine the power, 
 To save in that presumptuous hour, 
 When Prussia hurried to the field, 
 And snatch'd the spear, but left the 
 
 shield ; 
 Valour and skill 'twas thine to try, 
 And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die. 
 Ill had it seem'd thy silver hair 
 The last, the bitterest pang to share, 
 For princedoms reft, and scutcheons 
 
 riven. 
 And birthrights to usurpers given ; 
 Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to 
 
 feel, 
 And witness woes thou couldst not 
 
 heal! 
 On thee relenting Heaven bestows 
 Forhonour'd life an honour'd close ; 
 And when revolves, in time's sure 
 
 change. 
 The hour of Germany's revenge. 
 When, breathing fury for her sake, 
 Some new Arminius shall awake. 
 Her champion, ere he strike, shall 
 
 come, 
 To whet his sword on Beunswick's 
 
 tomb. 
 
 " Or of the Bed-Gross hero* teach. 
 Dauntless in dungeon as on breach : 
 Alike to him, the sea, the shore, 
 The brand, the bridle, or the oar : 
 Alike to him the war that calls 
 Its votaries to the shatter'd walls, 
 Which the grim Turk, besmear'd with 
 
 blood, 
 Against the Invincible made good ; 
 Or that, whose thundering voice 
 
 could wake 
 The silence of the polar lake, 
 When stubborn Buss, and metal'd 
 
 Swede, 
 On the warp'd wave their death- 
 game play'd; 
 
 Sir Sidney Smith. 
 
 Or that, where Vengeance and Af- 
 fright 
 Howl'd round the father of the fight, 
 Who snatch'd, on Alexandria's sand. 
 The conqueror's wreath with dying 
 
 hand.f 
 "Or, if to touch such chord be 
 
 thine, 
 Bestore the ancient tragic line, 
 And emulate the notes that wrung 
 From the wild harp, which silent 
 
 hung 
 By silver Avon's holy shore, 
 Till twice an hundred years. roU'd 
 
 o'er; 
 When she, the bold Enchantress J 
 
 came. 
 With fearless hand and heart on 
 
 flame ! 
 From the pale willow snatch'd the 
 
 treasure, 
 And swept it with a kindred measure. 
 Till Avon's swans, while rung the 
 
 grove 
 With Montfort's hate and Basil's love. 
 Awakening at the inspired strain, 
 Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived 
 
 again." 
 
 Thy friendship thus thy judgment 
 wronging, 
 With praises not to me belonging, 
 In task more meet for mightiest pow- 
 ers, 
 Wouldst thou engage my thriftless 
 
 hours. 
 But say, my Erskine, hast thou 
 
 weigh 'd 
 That secret power by atl obey'd. 
 Which warps not less the passive 
 
 mind. 
 Its source conceal'd or undefined ; 
 Whether an impulse, that has birth 
 Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 
 On e with our feelings and our powers. 
 And rather part of us than ours; 
 Or whether fitlier term'd the sway 
 Of habit form'd in early day ? 
 Howe'er derived, its force conf est 
 Bules with despotic sway the breast, 
 
 t Sir Ralph Aberoromby. 
 i Joanna Baillie. 
 
112 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And drags us on by viewless chain, 
 While taste and reason plead in vain. 
 Look east, and af k the iielgian why, 
 Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, 
 He seeks not eager to inhale 
 The freshness of the mountain gale. 
 Content to rear his whiten'd w^all 
 Beside the dunk and dull canal? 
 He'll say, from youth he loved to see 
 The white sail gliding by the tree. 
 Or see yon weather-beaten hind, 
 Whose sluggish herds before him 
 
 •wind, 
 Whose tatter' d plaid and rugged 
 
 cheek 
 His northern clime and kindred 
 
 speak; 
 Through England's laughing meads 
 
 hs goes. 
 And England's wealth around him 
 
 flows; 
 Ask, if it would content him well. 
 At ease in tliose gay plains to dwell, 
 Where hodge-rows spread a verdant 
 
 screen, 
 And spires v.-n.\ forests intervene, 
 And the neat cottage peeps between ? 
 Ko I not for these will he exchange 
 His darkLochaber's boundless range : 
 Kot for fair Devon's meads forsake 
 Bennevis grey, and Garry's lake. 
 
 Thus, while I ape the measure wild 
 Of tales that charmed me yet a child, 
 EuuG though they be, still with the 
 
 chime 
 Eeturn the thoughts of early time ; 
 And feelings, roused in liie's first day, 
 Glow in the line, and prompt the lay. 
 Then rise those crags, that mountain 
 
 tower, 
 V/hich charm'd my fancy's wakening 
 
 hour. 
 Though no broad river swept along. 
 To claim, perchance, heroic song; 
 Though sigh'd no groves in summer 
 
 gale, 
 To prompt of love a softer tale; 
 Though scarce a puny streamlet's 
 
 speed 
 Claim'd homage from a shepherd's 
 
 reed; 
 
 Yet was poetic impulse given. 
 
 By the green hill and clear blue 
 
 heaven. 
 It was a barren scene, and wild, 
 Where naked cliffs were rudely piled; 
 But ever and anon between 
 Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; 
 And well the lonely infant knew 
 Kecesses where the wall-flower grew, 
 And honey-suckle loved to crawl 
 Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. 
 I deem'd such nooks the sweetest 
 
 shade 
 The sun in all its round survey'd; 
 And still I thought that shatter'd 
 
 tower* 
 The mightiest work of human power; 
 And marvell'd as the aged hind 
 With some strange tale bowitch'd 
 
 my mind, 
 Of forayers, who, with headlong 
 
 fcirce, 
 Down from that strength had spurr'd 
 
 their horse, 
 Their southern rapine to renew. 
 Far in the distant Cheviots blue, 
 And, home returning, fill'd the hall 
 V/ith rovel, wassel-rout, and brawl. 
 Methought that still with trump and 
 
 clang, 
 The gateway's broken arches rang; 
 Methought grim features, seam'd 
 
 with scars. 
 Glared through the window's rusty 
 
 bars. 
 And ever, by the winter hearth. 
 Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, 
 Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms, 
 Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms ; 
 Of patriot battles, won of old 
 By Wallace wight and Bruce the 
 
 bold; 
 Of later fields of feud and fight. 
 When, pouring from their Highland 
 
 height, 
 The Scottish clans, in headlong 
 
 sway. 
 Had swept the scarlet ranks away. 
 While stretch'd at length upon the 
 
 floor. 
 
 Smailholm tower, in Berwickshire; 
 
MARMION. 
 
 113 
 
 Again I fouglit each combat o'er, 
 Pebbles and shells, in order laid, 
 The mimic ranks of war display'd; 
 And onward still the Scottish Lion 
 
 bore, 
 And still the scatter'd Southron fled 
 
 before. 
 
 Still, with vain fondness, could I 
 
 trace, 
 Anew, each kind familiar face, 
 That brighten'd at our evening fire ! 
 From tlie thatch'd mansion's grey- 
 
 hair'd Sire,* 
 "Wise without learning, plain and 
 
 good, 
 And sprung of Scotland's gentler 
 
 blood; 
 Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and 
 
 keen, 
 Show'd v.hat in youth its glance had 
 
 been; * 
 
 Whose doom discording neighbours 
 
 sougbt, 
 Content with equity unbought; 
 To Lim the venerable Priest, 
 Our frequent and familiar guest. 
 Whose life and manners well could 
 
 paint 
 Alike tlie student and the saint; 
 Alas ! whose speech too oft I broke 
 With gambol rude and timeless joke: 
 For I was wayward, bold, and wiiJ, 
 Aself-will'd imp, agrandame'scliild, 
 But half a plague, and half a jest. 
 Was still endured, beloved, caress'd. 
 
 For me, thus nurtured, dost thou 
 
 ask 
 The classic poet's well-conn'd task ? 
 Kay, Erskine, nay— On the wild hill 
 Let the wild heath-bell flourish 
 
 still; 
 Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, 
 But freely let the woodbine twine. 
 And leave untrimm'd the eglantine: 
 Nay, my friend, nay — Since olt thy 
 
 praise 
 Hath given fresh vigour to my lays; 
 Since oft thy judgment could retine 
 
 * Robert Scott of Saudyknows, the grantl- 
 fatber of tlie poet. 
 
 My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous 
 
 line; 
 Still kind, as is thy wont, attend, 
 And in the minstrel spare the friend. 
 Though wild as cloud, as stream, as 
 
 gale, 
 Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my 
 
 Tale! 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 The Hostel, or Inn, 
 
 L 
 
 The livelong day Lord Marmion 
 
 rode: 
 The mountain path the Palmer 
 
 show'd, 
 By glen and streamlet winded still, 
 V/here stunted birches hid the rill. 
 They might not choose the lowland 
 
 road, 
 For the Merse forayers were abroad, 
 Who, fired with hate and thirst of 
 
 prey. 
 Had scarcely fail'd to bar their way. 
 Oft on the trampling band, from 
 
 crown 
 Of some tall cliff; the deer look'd 
 
 down; 
 On wing of jet, from his repose 
 In the deep heath, the black-cock 
 
 rose; 
 Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, 
 Kor waited for the bending bow; 
 And when the stony path began, 
 By which the naked peak they wan, 
 Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. 
 The noon had long been pass'd before 
 They gain'd the height of Lammer- 
 
 moor; 
 Thence winding down the northern 
 
 way 
 Before them, at the close of day, 
 Old Giffbrd's towers and hamlet lay. 
 
 IL 
 
 No summons calls them to the tower. 
 
 To spend t e hospitable hour. 
 
 To Scotland's camp the Lord was gone; 
 
 His cautious dame, in bower alone, 
 
 Dreaded her castle to unclose, 
 
 So late, to unknown friends or foes. 
 
114 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 On through the hamlet as they paced, 
 Before a porch, whose front was 
 
 graced 
 With bush and fl9,gon trimly placed. 
 
 Lord Marmion drew his rein: 
 The village inn seem'd large, though 
 
 rude; 
 Its cheerful fire and hearty food 
 
 Might well relieve his train. 
 Down from their seats the horsemen 
 
 sprung, 
 "With jingling spurs the court-yard 
 
 rung; 
 They bind their horses to the stall, 
 For forage, food, and firing call, 
 And various clamour fills the hall: 
 Weighing the labour with the cost. 
 Toils everywhere the bustling host. 
 
 III. 
 Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze, 
 Through the rude hostel might you 
 
 gaze; 
 Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, 
 The rafters of the sooty roof 
 
 Bore wealth of winter cheer; 
 Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, 
 And gammons of the tusky boar, 
 
 And savoury haunch of deer. 
 The chimney arch projected wide; 
 Above, around it, and beside, 
 
 Were tools for housewives' hand; 
 Nor wanted, in that martial day. 
 The implements of Scottish fray. 
 
 The buckler, lance, and brand. 
 Beneath its shade, the place of state. 
 On oaken settle Marmion sate. 
 And view'd around the blazing hearth. 
 His followers mix in noisy mirth; 
 Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, 
 From ancient vessels ranged aside. 
 Full actively their host supplied. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Theirs was the glee of martial breast, 
 And laughter theirs at little jest; 
 And oft Lord Marmion deign'd to aid, 
 And mingle in the mirth they made; 
 For though, with men of high degree, 
 The proudest of the proud was he, 
 Yet, train'd in camps, he knew the art 
 To win the soldier's hardy heart. 
 They love a captain to obey, 
 
 Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; 
 With open hand, and brow as free, 
 Lover of wine and minstrelsy; 
 Ever the first to scale a tower, 
 As venturous in a lady's bower: — 
 Such buxom chief shall lead his host 
 From India's fires to Zembla's frost. 
 
 Resting upon his pilgrim stafif, 
 
 Right opposite the Palmer stood; 
 His thin dark visage seen but half. 
 
 Half hidden by his hood. 
 Still fix'd on Marmion was his look, 
 Which he, who ill such gaze could 
 brook, 
 
 Strove by a frown to quell ; 
 But notf or that, though more than once 
 Full met their stern encountering 
 glance, 
 
 The Palmer's visage fell. 
 
 VI. 
 
 By fits less frequent from the crowd 
 YV^as heard the burst of laughter loud; 
 For still, as squire and archer stared 
 On that dark luce and matted beard, 
 
 Their glee and game declined. 
 All gazed at length in silence drear, 
 Unbroke, save when in comrade's ear 
 Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, 
 
 Thus whisper d forth his mind:^ 
 "Saint Mary! saw'st thou e'er such 
 
 sight ? 
 now pale his cheek, his eye how 
 
 bright, 
 Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light 
 
 Glances beneath his cowl ! 
 Full on our Lord he sets his eye ; 
 For his best palfrey, would not I 
 
 Endure that sullen scowl." 
 
 VII. 
 
 But Marmion, as to chase the awe 
 Which thus had quell'd their hearts, 
 
 who saw 
 Tho ever- varying fire-light show 
 That figure stern and face of woe. 
 
 Now call'd upon a squire :— 
 ** Fitz-Eustace, know'bt thou not 
 
 some lay, 
 To speed the lingering night away ? 
 
 We slumber by the fire." — 
 
MARMIOK 
 
 "5 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "So please you," thus the youth re- 
 joined, 
 •'Our choicest minstrel's left behind. 
 Ill may we hope to please your ear, 
 Accustom'd Constants strains to hear. 
 The harp full deftly can he strike, 
 And wake the lover's lute alike; 
 To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush 
 Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush, 
 No nightingale her love-lorn tune 
 More sweetly warbles to the moon. 
 Woe to the cause, whate'er it be, 
 Detains from us his melody, 
 Lavish'd on rocks, and billows stern. 
 Or duller monks of Lindisfarne. 
 Now must I venture, as I may. 
 To sing his favourite roundelay." 
 
 IX. 
 
 A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had. 
 The air he chose was wild and sad; 
 Such have I heard, in Scottish land 
 Rise from the busy harvest band, 
 When falls before the mountaineer. 
 On Lowland plains, the ripen'd ear. 
 Now one shrill voice the notes pro- 
 long. 
 Now a wild chorus swells the song: 
 Oft have I listen'd, and stood still, 
 As it came Boften'd up the hill. 
 And deem'd it the lament of men 
 Who languish'd for their native glen; 
 And thought how sad would be such 
 
 sound 
 On Susquehana's swampy ground, 
 Kentucky's wood-encumber'd brake 
 Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, 
 Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain, 
 EecaU'd fair Scotland's hills again ! 
 
 X. 
 
 • Song. 
 
 Wh*^re shall the lover rest, 
 
 Whom the fates sever 
 From his true maiden's breast, 
 
 Parted for ever ! 
 Where,through groves deep and high. 
 
 Sounds the far billow, 
 Where early violets die, 
 
 Under the willow. 
 
 CHOBUS. 
 
 Elm lore, &c. Soft shall be his pillow. 
 
 There, through the summer day. 
 
 Cool streams are laving; 
 There, while the tempests sway, 
 
 Scarce are boughs waving ; 
 There, thy rest shall thou take. 
 
 Parted for ever. 
 Never again to wake, 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never I 
 XI. 
 
 Where shall the traitor rest. 
 
 He, the deceiver. 
 Who could win maiden's breast, 
 
 Euin, and leave her ? 
 In the lost battle, 
 
 Borne down by the flying. 
 Where mingles wars rattle 
 
 With groans of the dying, 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying. 
 
 Her wing shall the eagle flap 
 
 O'er the false-hearted; 
 His warm blood the wolf shall lap, 
 
 Ere life be parted. 
 Sliame and dishonour sit 
 
 By his grave ever; 
 Blessings shall hallow it, — 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never ! 
 XII. 
 
 It ceased, the melancholy sound; 
 And silence sunk on all around. 
 The air was sad ; but sadder still 
 
 It fell on Marmion's ear, 
 And plain'd as if disgrace and ill. 
 
 And shameful death, were near. 
 He drew his mantle past his face. 
 
 Between it and the band, 
 And rested with his head a space, 
 
 Reclining on his hand. 
 His thoughts I scan not; but I ween. 
 That, could their import have been 
 seen, 
 
1x6 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL WOMKS. 
 
 The meanest groom in all tlie hall, 
 That e'er tied courser to a stall, 
 Would scarce h&ve wish'd to be their 
 
 prey, 
 For Lutterward and Fontenaye. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 High minds, of native pride and 
 
 force, 
 Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse ! 
 Fear, for their scourge, mean villains 
 
 have, / 
 
 Thou art the torturer of the brave ! •^ 
 Yet fatal strength they boast to steel 
 Their minds to bear the wounds they 
 
 feel, 
 Even while they writhe beneath the 
 
 smart 
 Of civil conflict in the heart. 
 For soon Lord Marmion raised his 
 
 head, 
 And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said, — 
 *'Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, 
 Seem'd in mine ear a death-peal rung, 
 Such as in nunneries they toll 
 For some departing sister's soul ? 
 
 Say, what may this portend?" 
 Then first the Palmer silence broke, 
 (The livelong day he had not spoke, ) 
 " The death of a dear friend." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Marmion, whose steady heart and eye 
 Ne'er changed in worst extremity; 
 Marmion, whose soul could scantly 
 
 brook. 
 Even from his King, a haughty look ; 
 Whose accent of command controll'd, 
 In camps, the boldest of the bold — 
 Thought, look, and utterance failed 
 
 him now, 
 Fall'n was his glance, and flush'd his 
 brow; 
 
 For either in the tone, 
 Or something in the Palmer's look. 
 So full upon his conscience strook, 
 
 That answer he found none. 
 Thus oft it haps, that when within 
 They shrink at sense of secret sin, 
 
 A feather daunts the brave ; 
 A fool's wild speech coufouuds the 
 wise, 
 
 And proudest princes vail their eyes 
 Before their meanest slave. 
 
 XV. 
 
 "Well might he falter ! — By his aid 
 Was Constance Beverley betray'd. 
 Not that he augur'd of the doom, 
 Which oa the living closed the tomb: 
 But, tired to hear the desperate maid 
 Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid; 
 And wroth, because in wild despair, 
 Ghe practised on the life of Clare; 
 Its fugitive the Church he gave. 
 Though not a victim, but a slave; 
 And deem'd restraint in convent 
 
 strange 
 Woul .1 hide her wrongs, and her re- 
 venge. 
 Himself, proud Henry's favourite 
 
 peer, 
 Held Bomish thunders idle fear, 
 'secure his pardon he might hold, 
 For some slight mulct of penance- 
 gold. 
 Thus judging, he gave secret way. 
 When the stern priests surprised 
 
 their prey. 
 His train but deem'd the favourite 
 
 ■ P-'igQ 
 
 Was Icit behind, to spare his age; 
 Or other if they deem'd, none dared 
 To mutter what he thought and heard : 
 Woe to the vassal, who durst pry 
 Into Lord Marmion's privacy ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 His conscience slept — he deem'd her 
 
 well. 
 And safe secured in distant cell; 
 But, waken'd by her favourite lay. 
 And that strange Palmer's boding say. 
 That fell so ominous and drear, 
 Full on the object of his fear. 
 To aid remorse's venom'd throes^ 
 Davk tales of convent-vengeance rose; 
 And Constance, late betray'd and 
 
 scorn'd, 
 All lovely on his soul return'd ; 
 Lovely as when, at treacherous call. 
 She left her convent's peaceful wall, 
 Crimsonjjjt with shame, with terror 
 
 mvM, 
 
MARMIOK 
 
 117 
 
 Dreading alike escape, pursuit, 
 Till love, victorious o'er alarms. 
 Hid fears and blushes in his arms. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "Alas!" he thought, "how changed 
 
 that mien ! 
 How changed these timid looks have 
 
 been, 
 Since years of guilt, and of disguise, 
 Have steel'd her brow, andarm'd her 
 
 eyes ! 
 No more of virgin terror speaks 
 The blood that mantles in her cheeks; 
 Fierce, and unfeminine, are there, 
 Frenzy for jcy, for grief despair; 
 And I tho cause — for whom were 
 
 given 
 Her peace on earth, her hopes in 
 
 heaven ! — 
 Would," thought he, as the picture 
 
 grows, 
 " I on its stalk had left the rose ! 
 Oh, why should man's success re- 
 move 
 The very charms that wake his love ! 
 Her convent's peaceful solitude 
 Is now a prison harsh and rude. 
 And, pent within the narrow cell. 
 How will her spirit chafe and swell ! 
 How brook the stern monastic laws ! 
 The penance how — and I the cause I 
 Vigil and scourge — ^perchance even 
 
 worse !" — 
 And twice he rose to cry, "To 
 
 horse !" — 
 And twice his Sovereign's mandate 
 
 came, 
 Like damp upon a kindling flame ; 
 And twice he thought, "Gave I not 
 
 charge 
 She should be safe, though not at 
 
 large ? 
 They durst not, for their island, shred 
 One golden ringlet from her head." 
 XVIII. 
 
 While thus in Marmion's bosom 
 
 strove 
 Repentance and reviving love. 
 Like whirlwinds, whose contending 
 
 sway c. 
 
 I've seen Loch Vennachar obey, 
 
 Their Host the Palmer's speech had 
 
 heard. 
 And, talkative, took up the word : 
 
 "Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who 
 stray 
 From Scotland's simple land away, 
 
 To visit realms afar. 
 Full often learn the art to know 
 
 Of future weal, or future woe, 
 
 By word, or sign, or star ; 
 Yet might a knight his fortune hear, 
 If, knight-like, he despises fear, 
 ITot far from hence ; — if fathers old 
 Aright our hamlet legend told." — § 
 
 These broken words the menials 
 
 move, 
 (For marvels still the vulgar love,) 
 And, Marmion giving license cold, 
 Ilis tale the host thus gladly told : — 
 
 XIX. 
 The Iljsi's Tale. 
 
 "A clerk could tell what years have 
 
 flown 
 Since Alexander filled our throne, 
 ( Third monarch of that warlike name, ) 
 And eke t'le time when here he came 
 To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord : 
 A braver never drew a sword ; 
 A wiser never, at the hour 
 Of midnight Rpoke the word of power : 
 The same, whom ancient records call 
 The founder of the Goblin-Hall. 
 I would. Sir Knight, your longer stay 
 Gave you that cavern to survey. 
 Of lofty roof, and ample size. 
 Beneath the castle deep it lies : 
 To hew the living rock profound. 
 The floor to pave, the arch to round, 
 There never toil'd a mortal arm. 
 It all was wrought by word and charm ; 
 And I have heard my grandsire say, 
 That the wild clamour and afiray 
 Of those dread artisans of hell, 
 Who labour'd under Hugo's spell. 
 Sounded as loud as ocean's war. 
 Among the caverns of Dunbar. 
 
 XX. 
 
 "The King Lord Gifford'a castle 
 
 sought. 
 Deep labouring with uncertain 
 
 thought ; 
 
ii8 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Even tben be muster'cl all his host, 
 To meet upon the western coast : 
 For Norse and Danish galleys plied 
 Their oars within the frith of Clyde. 
 There floated Haco's banner trim, 
 Above Norweyan warriors grim, 
 Savage of heart, and large of limb ; 
 Threatening both continent and isle, 
 Bute, Arran, Cunninghame.and Kyle. 
 Lord Gifford, deep beneath the 
 
 ground, 
 Heard Alexander's bugle sound, 
 And tarried not bis garb to change, 
 But, in his wizard habit strange; 
 Came forth,— a quaint and fearful 
 
 sight ; 
 His mantle lined with fox-skins white ; 
 His high and wrinkled forehead bore 
 A pointed cap, such as of yore 
 Clerks say that Pharaoh's Magi wore : 
 His shoes were mark'd with cross 
 
 and spell. 
 Upon his breast a pentacle ; 
 His zone, of virgin parchment thin, 
 Or, as some te 1, of dead man's skin. 
 Bore many a planetary sign, 
 Combust, and retrograde, and trine; 
 And in his hand he held prepared, 
 A naked sword without a guard. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Dire dealings with the fiendish race 
 Had mark'd strange lines upon his 
 
 face ; 
 Yigil and fast had worn him grim, 
 His eyesight dazzled seem'd and 
 
 dim, 
 As one unused to upper day ; 
 Even his own menials with dismay 
 Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire, 
 In his unwonted wild attire ; 
 Unwonted, for traditions run, 
 He seldom thus beheld the sun. — 
 'I know/ he said — his voice was 
 
 hoarse, 
 And broken seem'd its hollow force, — 
 •I know the cause, although untold, 
 Why the King seeks his vassal's hold : 
 Vainly from me my liege would know 
 His kingdom's future weal or woe ; 
 But yet, if strong his arm and heart, 
 His courage may do more than art. 
 
 XXII. 
 *' 'Of middle air the demons proud, 
 Who ride upon the racking cloud, 
 Can read, in fix' d or wandering star. 
 The issue of events afar ; 
 But still their sullen aid withhold, 
 Save when by mightier force con- 
 
 troll'd. 
 Such late I summon'd to my hall ; 
 And though so potent was the call, 
 That scarce the deepest nook of hell 
 I deem'd a refuge from the spell. 
 Yet, obstinate in silence still. 
 The haughty demon mocks my skill. 
 But thou — who little know'st thy 
 
 might, 
 As born upon that blessed night 
 When yawning graves, and dying 
 
 groan, 
 Proclaim'd hell's empire over- 
 thrown,— 
 With untaught valour shalt compel 
 Ilesponse denied to magic spell.' 
 ' Gramercy,' quoth our Monarch free, 
 'Place him but front to front with 
 
 me, 
 And, by this good and honour'd brand, 
 The gift of Coeur-de-Lion's hand, 
 Soothly I swear that, tide what tide, 
 The demon shall a buffet bide.' — 
 His bearing bold the wizard view'd. 
 And thus, well pleased, his speech 
 
 renew'd :— 
 ' There spoke the blood of Malcolm ! 
 
 mark : 
 Forth pacing hence, at midnig' ' 
 
 dark. 
 The rampart seek, whose circling 
 
 crown 
 Crests the ascent of yonder down : 
 A southern entrance shalt thou find ; 
 There halt, and there thy bugle wind. 
 And trust thine elfin foe to see. 
 In guise of thy worst enemy : 
 Couch then thy lance, and spur thy 
 
 steed^ 
 Upon him, and St. George to speed! 
 If he go down, thou soon shalt knovr 
 Whate'er these airy sprites can 
 
 show ; — 
 If thy heart fail thee in the strife, 
 I am no warrant for thy life,' 
 
MARMION. 
 
 ii.j 
 
 xxm. 
 
 "Soon as the midnight bell did ring, 
 Alone and arm'd, forth rode the King 
 To that old camp's deserted round : 
 Sir Knight, yon well might mark the 
 
 mound. 
 Left hand the town, —the Pictish race. 
 The trench, long since, in blood did 
 
 trace ; 
 The moor around is brown and bare, 
 The space within is green and fair. 
 The spot our village children know, 
 For there the earliest wild-flowers 
 
 grow; 
 But woe betide the wandering wight, 
 That treads its circle in the night ! 
 The breadth across, a bowshot clear, 
 Gives ample space for full career: 
 Opposed to the four points of heaven. 
 By four deep gaps aye entrance given. 
 The southernmost our Monarch past, 
 Halted, and blew a gallant blast; 
 And on the north, within the ring, 
 Appear'd the form of England's King, 
 Who then, a thousand leagues afar. 
 In Palestine waged holy war: 
 Yet arms like England's did he wield, 
 Alike the leopards in the shield, 
 Alike his Syrian courser's frame. 
 The rider's length of limb the same: 
 Long afterwards did Scotland know. 
 Fell Edward* was her deadliest foe, 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ** The vision made our Monarch start. 
 But soon he mann'd his noble heart, 
 And in the first career they ran, 
 The Eifin Knight fell, horse and man ; 
 Yet did a splinter of his lance 
 Through Alexander's visor glance, 
 And razed the skin — a puny wound. 
 The King, light leaping to the ground, 
 With naked blade his phantom foe 
 Compell'd the future war to show. 
 Of Largs he saw the glorious plain. 
 Where still gigantic bones remain. 
 
 Memorial of the Danish war; 
 Himself he saw, amid the field. 
 On high his brandish'd war-axe wield. 
 
 And strike proud Haco from his car, 
 
 * EdAvard I. of England. 
 
 .While all around the shadowy Kings 
 Denmark's grim ravens cower'd 
 
 their wings. 
 Ti^ said, that, in that awful night, 
 Kemoter visions met his sight. 
 Foreshowing future conquests far, 
 When our sons' sons wage northern 
 
 war; 
 A royal city, tower and spire, 
 Bedden'd the midnight sky with fire, 
 And shouting crews her navy bore. 
 Triumphant, to the victor shore, f 
 Such signs may learned clerks ex- 
 plain, 
 They pass the wit of simple swain. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 "The joyful King tum'd home again. 
 Headed his host, and quell'd the 
 
 Dane; 
 But yearly, when retum'd the night 
 Of his strange combat with the sprite, 
 
 His wound must bleed and smart; 
 Lord Gifford then would gibing say, 
 'Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay 
 
 The penance of your start.' 
 Long since, beneath Dunlermline's 
 
 nave. 
 King Alexander fills his grave, 
 
 Our Lady give him rest ! 
 Yet still the knightly spear and 
 
 shield 
 The Elfin Warrior doth wield, 
 
 Upon the brown hill's breast; 
 And many a knight hath proved his 
 
 chance. 
 In the charm'd ring to break a lance. 
 
 But all have foully sped; 
 Save two, as legends tell, and they 
 Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert 
 
 Ilay.- 
 Gentles, my tale is said." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The quaighs X were deep, the liquor 
 
 strong. 
 And on the tale the yeoman-throng 
 Had made a comment sage and long, 
 But Marmion gave a sign : 
 
 i Aa allusion to the battle of Copenhagen, 
 1801. 
 ; Quaigh, a wooden cup. 
 
I 20 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And, with their lord, the squires re- 
 tire; 
 The rest, around the hostel fire, 
 
 Their drowsy limbs recline: 
 For pillow, underneath each head, 
 The quiver and the targe were laid. 
 Deep slumbering on the hostel floor, 
 Oppress'd with toil and ale, they 
 
 snore: 
 The dying flame, in fitful change, 
 Threw on the group its shadows 
 strange. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 Apart, and nestling in the hay 
 Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay; 
 Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were 
 
 seen 
 The foldings of his mantle green: 
 Lightly he dreamt, as youth will 
 
 dream, 
 Of sport by thicket, or by stream. 
 Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove, 
 Or, lighter yet, of lady's love. 
 A cautious tread his slumber broke, 
 And, close beside him, when he woke, 
 In moonbeam half, and half in 
 
 gloom. 
 Stood a tall form, with nodding 
 
 plume; 
 But, ere his dagger Eustace drew, 
 His master Marmion's voice he 
 
 knew. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 — "Fitz-Eustace ! rise, I cannot rest; 
 Yon churl's wild legend haunts my 
 
 breast, 
 And graver thoughts have chafed my 
 
 mood: 
 The air must cool my feverish blood; 
 And fain would I ride forth, to see 
 The scene of Elfin chivalry. 
 Arise, and saddle me my steed; 
 And, gentle Eustace, take good heed 
 Tliou dost not rouse these drowsy 
 
 slaves; 
 I would not, that the prating knaves 
 Had cause for saying, o'er their ale. 
 That I could credit such a tale." — 
 Then softly down the steps tiiey slid, 
 Eustace the stable door undid, 
 
 And, darkling, Marmion's steed ar- 
 
 ray'd, 
 While, whispering, thus the Baron 
 
 said: — 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 "Did'st never, good my youth, hear 
 tell, 
 
 That on the hour when I was bom, 
 Saint George, who graced my sire's 
 
 chapelle, 
 Down from his steed of marble fell, 
 
 A weary wight forlorn ? 
 The flattering chaplains all agree, 
 The chamjDion left his Bteed to me. 
 I would, the omen's truth to show, 
 That I could meet this Elfin Foe ! 
 Blithe would I battle, for the right 
 To ask one question at the sprite: — 
 Vain thought ! for elves, if elves 
 
 there be. 
 An empty race, by fount or sea. 
 To dashing waters dance and sing, 
 Or round the green oak wheel their 
 
 ring." 
 Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode. 
 And from the hostel slowly rode. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad, 
 And mark'd him pace the village 
 road. 
 And listen'd to his horse's tramp, 
 
 Till, by the lessening sound, 
 He judged that of the Pictish 
 camp 
 Lord Marmion sought the round. 
 "Wonder it seem'd, in the squire's 
 
 eyes, 
 That one, so wary held, and wise, — 
 Of whom 'twas said he scarce re- 
 ceived 
 For gospel, what the church be- 
 lieved, — 
 Should, stirr'd by idle tale, 
 Bide forth in silence of the night, 
 As hoping half to meet a sprite, 
 Array'd in plate and mail. 
 For little did Fitz-Eustace know, 
 That passions, in contending flow, 
 
 Unfix the strongest mind; 
 "Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 121 
 
 We welcome fond credulity, 
 Guide confident, though blind. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared, 
 But, patient, waited till he heard, 
 At distance, prick'd to utmost speed. 
 The foot-tramp of a flying steed, 
 
 Come town-ward rushing on; 
 First, dead, as if on turf it trode. 
 Then, clattering on the yillage 
 
 road, — 
 In other pace than forth he yode,* 
 
 Keturned Lord Marmion. 
 Down hastily he sprung from selle. 
 And, in his haste, well-nigh he fell; 
 To the squire's hand the rein he 
 
 threw, 
 And spoke no word as he withdrew : 
 But yet the moonlight did betray. 
 The falcon-crest was soil'd with clay; 
 And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see. 
 By stains upon the charger's knee, 
 And his left side, that on the moor 
 He had not kept his footing sure. 
 Long musing on these wondrous 
 
 signs, 
 At length to rest the squire reclines, 
 Broken and short ; for still, between. 
 Would dreams of terror intervene : 
 Eustace did ne'er so blithely ma^k 
 The first notes of the morning lark. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
 FOUETH. 
 
 TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.t 
 
 Ashestiel, Etlrick Forest. 
 An ancient Minstrel sagely said, 
 * ' Where is the life which late we led ?' ' 
 That motley clown in Arden wood, 
 Whom humourous Jacques with envy 
 
 view'd, 
 Not even that clown could amplify. 
 On this trite text, so long as I. 
 Eleven years we now may teU, 
 yince we have known each other well ; 
 Since, riding side by side, our hand 
 First drew the voluntary brand, 
 
 * Yode, used by old poets for %uent. 
 tJami^s Skene, Esq., of Rubislaw, Aber 
 deenshire. 
 
 And sure, through many a varied 
 
 scene, 
 Unkindness never came between. 
 Away these winged years have flov/n, 
 To join the mass of ages gone ; 
 And though deep-mark'd, like all 
 
 below, 
 With chequer'd shades of joy and 
 
 woe ; 
 Though thou o'er realms and sens 
 
 hast ranged, 
 Mark'd cities lost, and empires 
 
 changed, 
 While here, at home, my narrower ken 
 Somewhat of manners saw, and meu ; 
 Though varying wishes, hopes, an. I 
 
 fears. 
 Fever' d the progress of these years, 
 Yet now, days, weeks, and months, 
 
 but seem. 
 The recollection of a dream, 
 So still we glide down to the sea 
 Of fathomless eternity. 
 
 Even now it scarcely seems a day. 
 Since first I tuned this idle lay ; 
 A task so often thrown aside, 
 When leisure graver cares denied, 
 That now, November's dreary gale, 
 Whose voice inspired my opening 
 
 tale. 
 That same November gale once more 
 Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrov/ 
 
 shore. 
 Their vex'd boughs streaming to the 
 
 sky. 
 Once more our naked birches sigh. 
 And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick 
 
 Pen, 
 Have donn'd their wintry shrouds 
 
 again : 
 And mountain dark, and flooded 
 
 mead. 
 Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 
 Earlier than wont along the sky, 
 Mix'd with the rack, the snow mists 
 
 fly; 
 
 The shepherd, who in summer sun. 
 Had something of our envy won, 
 As thou with pencil, I with pen, 
 The features traced of hill and glen;— 
 He who,outstretch'd the livelong day, 
 
122 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 At ease among the heath-flowers lay, 
 View'd the light clouds with vacant 
 
 look, 
 Or slumber'd o'er his tatter'd book, 
 Or idly busied him to guide 
 His angle o'er the lessen'd tide ; — 
 At midnight now, the snowy plain 
 Finds sterner labour for the swain. 
 
 "When red hath set the beamless 
 sun, 
 Through heavy vapours dark and dun ; 
 When the tired 23loughman, dry and 
 
 warm, 
 Hears, half asleep, the rising storm 
 Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain. 
 Against the casement's tinkling pane ; 
 The sounds that drive wild deer, and 
 
 fox, 
 To shelter in the brake and rocks. 
 Are warnings which the shepherd ask 
 To dismal and to dangerous task. 
 Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, 
 The blast may s-ink in mellowing rain ; 
 Till, dark above, and white below 
 Decided drives the flaky snow, 
 And forth the hardy swain must go. 
 Long, with dejected look and whine, 
 To leave the hearth his dogs repine ; 
 Whistling and cheering them to aid, 
 Aroundhis backhe wreathes theplaid: 
 His flock he gathers, and he guides. 
 To open downs, and mountain-sides. 
 Where fiercest though the tempest 
 
 blow. 
 Least deeply lies the drift below. 
 The blast, that whistles o'er the fells, 
 Stiffens his locks to icicles; 
 Oft he looks back, while streaming 
 
 far. 
 His cottage window seems a star, — 
 Loses its feeble gleam, — and then 
 Turns patient to the blast again. 
 And, facing to the tempest's sweep, 
 Drives through the gloom his lag- 
 ging sheep. 
 If fails his heart, if his limbs fail, 
 Benumbing death is in the gale: 
 His paths, his landmarks, all un- 
 known, 
 Close to the hut, no more his own, 
 Close to the aid he sought in vain, 
 
 The morn may find the stifEen'd 
 
 swain: 
 The widow sees, at dawning pale. 
 His orphans raise their feeble wail ; 
 And, close beside him, in the snow. 
 Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe. 
 Couches upon his master's breast, 
 And licks his cheek to break his 
 
 rest. 
 
 Who envies now the shepherd's lot, 
 His healthy fare, his rural cot, 
 His summer couch by greenwood 
 
 tree. 
 His rustic kirn's* loud revelry, 
 His native hill-notes, tuned on high. 
 To Marion of the blithesome eye; 
 Ili.^ crook, his scrip, his oaten reed, 
 And all Arcadia's golden creed? 
 
 Changes not so with us, my Skene, 
 Of human life the varying scene ? 
 Our youthful summer oft we see 
 Danc3 by on wings of game and glee. 
 While the dark storm reserves its 
 
 rage. 
 Against the winter of our age: 
 As ho, the ancient Chief of Troy, 
 His manhood spent in peace and joy; 
 But Grecian fires, and loud alarms, 
 Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms. 
 Then happy those, since each must 
 
 drain 
 His share of pleasure, share of 
 
 pain, — 
 Then happy those, beloved of 
 
 Heaven, 
 To whom the mingled cup is given • 
 Whose lenient sorrows find relief, 
 Whose joys are chasten'd by their 
 
 grief. 
 And such a lot, my Skene, was thine. 
 When thou of late, wert doom'd to 
 
 twine, — 
 Just when thy bridal hour was by,— 
 The cypress with the myrtle tie. 
 Just on thy bride her Sire had 
 
 smiled, 
 And bless'd the union of his child, 
 When love must change its joyous 
 
 cheer, 
 
 Scottish harvest-home. 
 
MARMIOK 
 
 123 
 
 And wipe affection's filial tear. 
 Nor did the actions next his end, 
 Speak more the father than the 
 
 friend. 
 Scarce had lamented Forbes paid 
 The tribute to his Minstrel's shade; 
 The tale of friendship scarce was 
 
 told, 
 Ere the narrator's heart was cold — 
 1^'ar may we search before we find 
 .1 heart so manly and so kind ! 
 JJut nob around his honour'd urn, 
 Shall friends alone and kindred 
 
 mourn ; 
 The thousand eyes his care had 
 
 dried, 
 Pour at his name a bitter tide; 
 And frequent falls the grateful dew, 
 For benefits the world ne'er knew. 
 If mortal charity dare claim 
 The Almighty's attributed name, 
 Inscribe above his mouldering clay, 
 ' ' The widow's shield, the orphan's 
 
 stay. 
 Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, 
 
 deem 
 My verse intrudes on this sad theme ; 
 For sacred was the pen that wrote, 
 *' Thy father's friend forget thou 
 
 not:" 
 And grateful title may I plead. 
 For many a kindly word and deed, 
 To bring my tribute to his grave : — 
 •Tis little— but 'tis all I have. 
 
 To thee, perchance, this rambling 
 strain 
 Recalls our summer walks again ; 
 When, doing nought, — and, to speak 
 
 true. 
 Not anxious to find ought to do, — 
 The wild unbounded hills we ranged, 
 "While oft our talk its topic changed, 
 And, desultory as our way, 
 Eanged, unconfined, from grave to 
 
 gay- 
 Even when it flagg'd, as oft will 
 
 chance, 
 No effort made to break its trance. 
 We could right pleasantly pursue 
 Our sports in social silence too ; 
 Thou bravely labouring to portray 
 
 The blighted oak's fantastic spray; 
 I spelling o'er, with much delight, 
 The legend of that antique knight, 
 Tirante by name, yclep'd the White. 
 At cither's feet a trusty squire, 
 Pandour and Camp, * with eyes of fire, 
 Jealous, each other's motions view'd 
 And scarce suppress'd their ancient 
 
 feud. 
 The laverock t whistled from the 
 
 cloud ; 
 The stream was lively, but not loud ; 
 From the white thorn the May-flow- 
 er shed 
 Its dewy fragrance round our head: 
 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. 
 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. 
 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, — 
 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 
 Might gnaw her nails to hear our 
 
 shout. 
 Not but amid the buxom scene 
 
 * A favourite bull terrier of Sir Walter's. 
 
 t Laverock, the larJi. 
 
 + Colin Mackenzie, of Portmore. 
 
 § Sir Williain Bae, Bart., of St. Catharine's. 
 
124 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Some grave discourse might inter- 
 vene — 
 Of the good horse that bore him best, 
 His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest: 
 For, like mad Xom's* our chiefest 
 
 care, 
 Was horse to ride, and weapon wear. 
 Guch nights we've had ; and, though 
 
 the game 
 Of manhood be more sober tame, 
 And though the field-day, ortho drill, 
 Seem less important now — yet still 
 Such may we hope to share again. 
 The sprighly thought inspires my 
 
 strain ! 
 And mark, how, like a horseman true, 
 Lord Marmion's march I thus renew. 
 
 CANTO FOUETH. 
 
 The Camp, 
 
 I. 
 
 Eustace, I said, did blithely mark 
 The first notes of tlie merry lark. 
 The lark sang shrill, the cock ho crew, 
 And loudly Marmion's bugles blew, 
 And with their light and lively call, 
 Brought groom and yeoman to the 
 stall. 
 Whistling they came, and free of 
 heart. 
 
 But soon their mood was chang- 
 ed; 
 Complaint was heard on. every part, 
 
 Of something disarranged. 
 Some clamoured loud for armour lost ; 
 Some brawl'd and wrangled with the 
 
 host; 
 "ByBecket's bones," cried one, "I 
 
 fear, 
 That some false Scot has stolen my 
 
 spear!" — 
 Young Blount, Lord Marmion's sec- 
 ond squire, 
 Found his steed wet with sweat and 
 
 mire; 
 Although the rated horse-boy sware, 
 Last night he dress'd him sleek and 
 
 fair. 
 
 * Common name for an idiot ; assumed by 
 Edgar in King Lear. 
 
 While chafed the impatient squire 
 
 like thunder, 
 Old Hubert shouts, in fear and won- 
 der, — 
 "Help, gentle Blount! help, com- 
 rades all ! 
 Bevis lies dying in his stall: 
 To Marmioii who the plight dare tell, 
 Of the good steed he loved so well?" 
 Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw 
 The charger panting on his straw; 
 Till one, who would seem wisest, 
 
 cried — 
 "What else but evil could betide. 
 With that cursed Palmer for our 
 
 guide ? 
 Better we had through mire and bush 
 Been lantern-led by Friar Bush." 
 
 II. 
 
 Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but 
 guess'd, 
 Nor wholly understood, 
 His comrades' clamorous j^laints 
 suppress'd ; 
 He knew Lord Marmion's mood. 
 Him, ere he issued forth, he sought. 
 And found deep i^lunged in gloomy 
 thought, 
 And did his tale display 
 Simply as if he knew of nought 
 To cause such disarray. 
 Lord Marmion gave attention cold. 
 Nor marvell'd at the wonders told, — 
 Pass'd them as accidents of course. 
 And bade his clarions sound to horse. 
 
 ni. 
 
 Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the 
 
 cost 
 Had reckon' d with their Scottish 
 
 host; 
 And, as the charge he cast and paid, 
 "111 thou deserv'st thy hire," he said: 
 " Dost see, thou knave, my horse's 
 
 plight ? 
 Fairies have ridden him all the night. 
 
 And left him in a foam ! 
 I trust that soon a conjuring band, 
 With English cross and blazing 
 
 brand, 
 Shall drive the devils from this land, 
 To their infernal home ; 
 
MAEMION. 
 
 125. 
 
 ^ r in l!ii.i haunted den, I trow. 
 Ail niglit they trample to and fro." 
 The laughing host looked on the 
 
 hire, — 
 ' ' Gramercy, gentle southern squire, 
 And if thou comest among the rest, 
 V/ith Scottish broadsword to be blest, 
 Sharp be the brand, and sure the 
 
 blow, 
 And short the pang to undergo." 
 Here stay'd their talk, — for Marmion 
 Gave now the signal to set on. 
 The Palmer showing forth the way, 
 They journey'd all the morning day. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The green-sward way was smooth 
 
 and good. 
 Through Humbie's and through Sal- 
 
 toun's wood ; 
 A forest glade, which, varying still, 
 Here gave a view of dale and hill, 
 There narrower closed, till over head, 
 A vaulted screen the branches made. 
 ' ' A pleasant path, ' ' Fitz-Eustace said ; 
 " Such as where errant-knights might 
 
 see 
 Adventures of high chivalry ; 
 Might meet some damsel flying fast, 
 With hair unbound and looks aghast; 
 And smooth and level course were 
 
 here, 
 In her defence to break a spear. 
 Here, too, are twilight nooks and 
 
 dells ; 
 And oft, in such, the story tells, 
 The damsel kind, from danger freed, 
 Did grateful pay her champion's 
 
 meed." 
 He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's 
 
 mind : 
 Perchance to show his lore design' d ; 
 
 For Eustace much had pored 
 Upon a huge romantic tome, 
 In the hall "s\andow of his home. 
 Imprinted at the antique dome 
 
 Of Caxton, or De Worde.* 
 Therefore he spoke, — but spoke in 
 
 vain, 
 For Marmion answer'd nought again. 
 
 * William Caxton was the earliest Enerlish 
 printer; born in Kent, a. i>. 1412 ; Wynken 
 ae "NVord'O v, ag liis sucuobbv-r. 
 
 Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill. 
 In notes prolong'd by wood and hill, 
 
 "Were heard to echo far ; 
 Each ready archer grasp'd his bov:, 
 But by the flourish soon they know, 
 
 They breathed no point of war. 
 Yet cautious, as in foeman's land, 
 Lord Marmion's order speeds the 
 band, 
 
 Some opener ground to gain ; 
 And scarce a furlough had they rode, 
 "When thinner trees, receding, show'd 
 
 A little woodland plain. 
 Just in that advantageous glade, 
 The halting troop a line had made, 
 As forth from the opposing shade 
 
 Issued a gallant train. 
 
 YL 
 
 First came the trumpets at whose 
 clang 
 
 So late the forest echoes rang ; 
 
 On prancing steeds they forward 
 press'd, 
 
 "With scarlet mantle, azure vest ; 
 
 Each at his trump a banner wore, 
 
 Which Scotland's royal scutcheon 
 bore: 
 
 Heralds and pursuivants, by name 
 
 Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Eothsay, 
 came, 
 
 In painted tabards, proudly showing 
 
 Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glow- 
 ing, 
 Attendant on a King-at-arms, 
 
 Whose hand the armorial truncheon 
 held 
 
 That feudal strife had often quell'd, 
 When wildest its alarms. 
 
 vn. 
 
 He was a man of middle age; 
 In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 
 
 As on King's errand come; 
 But in the glancc-j of his eye, 
 A penetrating, keen, and sly 
 
 Expression found its home; 
 The flash of that satiric rage, 
 Which, bursting on the early stage. 
 Branded the vices of the age, 
 
126 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 On milk-white palfrey forth he 
 
 paced; 
 His c.ip of maintenance was graced 
 
 With t!ie proud heron-plume. 
 From his steed's shoulder, loin, 
 and breast, 
 Silk housings swept the ground, 
 With Scotland's arms, device, and 
 crest, 
 Embroider'd round and round. 
 The double treasure might you 
 see, 
 First by Achaius borne, 
 The thistle and the fleur-de-lis. 
 And gallant unicorn. 
 So bright the King's armorial coat, 
 That scarce the dazzled eye could 
 
 note, 
 In living colours, blazon' d brave, 
 The Lion, which his title gave; 
 A train which well beseem 'd his 
 
 state, 
 But f.ll unarm'd, around him wait. 
 Still is thy name in high account, 
 And still thy verse has charms, 
 Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, 
 Lord Lion King-at-arms I 
 
 VIIL 
 
 Down from his horse did Marmion 
 
 spring. 
 Soon as he saw the Lion-King; 
 For well the stately Baron knew 
 To him such courtesy was due, 
 Whom roy^ James himself had 
 
 crown'd, 
 And on his temples placed the round 
 
 Of Scotland's ancient diadem : 
 And wet his brow with hallow'd 
 
 wine, 
 And on his iinger given to shine 
 
 The emblematic gem. 
 Their mutual greetings duly made. 
 The Lion thus his messag3 said: — 
 " Though Scotland's King hath deep- 
 ly swore 
 Ne'er to knit faith with Henry 
 
 more. 
 And strictly hath forbid resort 
 From England to his royal court; 
 Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's 
 name, 
 
 And honours much his warlike 
 
 fame, 
 My liege hath deem'd it shame, and 
 
 lack 
 Of courtesy, to turn him back; 
 And, by his order, I, your guide. 
 Must lodging fit and fair provide. 
 Till finds King James meet time to 
 
 see 
 The flower of English chivalry.'' 
 
 IX. 
 
 Though inly chafed at this delay, 
 Lord Marmion bears it as he may, 
 The Palmer, his mysterious guide, 
 Beholding thu-j his place supj)lied. 
 
 Sought to take leave in vain; ^ 
 Strict was the Lion-King's command, 
 That none, who rode in Marmion's 
 band. 
 
 Should sever from the train: 
 " Englan 1 has here enow of ppies 
 In Lady Heron's witching eyes;" 
 To Marchmount thus, apart, he said. 
 But fair pretext to Marmion made. 
 The right hand jDath they now de- 
 cline. 
 And trace against the stream the 
 Tyne. 
 
 X. 
 
 At length up that wild dale they 
 wind. 
 Where Crichtoun Castle crowns 
 the bank; 
 For there the Lion's care assigned 
 A lodging meet for Marmion's 
 rank. 
 That Castle rises on the steep 
 Of the green vale of Tyne: 
 And far beneath, where slow they 
 
 creep. 
 From pool to eddy, dark and deep, 
 Where alders moist, and willows 
 weep, 
 You hear her streams repine. 
 The towers in different ages rose ; 
 Their various architecture shows 
 
 The builders' various hands ; 
 A mighty mass, that could oppose, 
 When deadliest hatred fired its foes, 
 The vengeful Douglas bands. 
 
mahmion. 
 
 127 
 
 XI. 
 
 Criclatoun ! thougli novf thy miry 
 court 
 But pens the lazy steer and sheep, 
 Thy turrets rude,aiid totter'd Keep; 
 Have been the minstrel's loved resort. 
 Oft have I traced, within t'ly fort, 
 Of mouldering shields the mystic 
 
 sense, 
 Scutcheons of honour, or pretence, 
 Quarter'd in old armorial sort, 
 
 Remains of rude magnificence. 
 Nor wholly yet had time defaced 
 
 Thy lordly gallery fair ; 
 Nor yet the stony cord unhraced, 
 Whose twisted knots,with roses laced, 
 
 A Jorn thy ruin'd stair. 
 Still rises unimpair'd below, 
 The courtyard's graceful portico ; 
 Above its cornice, row and row 
 Of fair hewn facets richly show 
 Their pointed diamond form, 
 Though there but houseless cattle 
 
 go. 
 To shield them from the storm. 
 And, shuddering, still may we explore, 
 Where oft whilom were captives 
 pent, 
 The darkness of the l\IasRy More ; 
 Or, from thy grass-grown battle- 
 ment, 
 May trace, in undulatin;^ line, 
 The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Another aspect Crichtoun show'd, 
 As through its portal Marmion rode ; 
 But yet 'twas melancholy state 
 Eeceived him t-t the outer gate ; 
 For none were in, the Castle then, 
 But women, boys, or aged men. 
 With eyes scarce dried, the sorrow- 
 ing dame, 
 To welcome noble Marmion, came ; 
 Her son, a stripling twelve years old, 
 Proffer'd the Baron's rein to hold ; 
 For each man that could draw a sword 
 Had march'd that morning with their 
 
 lord, 
 Earl Adam Hepburn, he who died 
 On Flodden, by his sovereign's side. 
 Long may his Lady look in vain ! 
 
 She ne'er shall see his gallant train. 
 Come sweeping back through Crich- 
 
 toun-Dean. 
 'Twas a brave race, before the name 
 Of hated Bothwell stain'd their fame. 
 
 xin. 
 
 And here two days did Marmion rest, 
 With every rite that honour claims. 
 Attended as the King's own guest: — 
 Such the command of Eoyal James, 
 Who marshall'd then his land's array, 
 Upon the Borough-moor that lay. 
 Perchance he would not foeman's eye 
 Upon his gathering host should pry, 
 Till full prepared v/as every band 
 To march against the English land. 
 Here while they dwelt, did Linde- 
 
 say's wit 
 Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit ; 
 And, in his turn, he knew to prize 
 Lord Marmion's x^owerful mind, and 
 
 wise. — 
 Train'd in the lore of Rome and 
 
 Greece, 
 And policies of war and peace. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It chanced, as fell the second night, 
 
 That on the battlements they 
 walk'd. 
 And, by the slowly fading light. 
 
 Of various topics talked ; 
 And, unaware, the Herald-bard 
 Said, Marmion might his toil have 
 spared, 
 
 In travelling so far ; 
 For that a messenger from heaven 
 In vain to James had counsel given 
 
 Against the English war ; 
 And, closer question'd, thus he told 
 A tale, which chronicles of old 
 In Scottish story have enroll'd : — 
 
 XV. 
 
 Sir David Lindesay's Tale. 
 "Of all the palaces so fair, 
 
 Built for the royal dwelling, 
 In Scotland, far beyond compare 
 
 Linlithgow is excelling: 
 And in its park in jovial June, 
 How sweet the merry linnet's tune, 
 
128 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 How blithe the blackbird's lay ! 
 The wild-buckbells from ferny 
 
 brake, 
 The coot dives merry on the lake, 
 The saddest heart might pleasure 
 take 
 
 To see all nature gay. 
 But June is to our sovereign dear 
 The heaviest month in all the year: 
 Too well his cause of grief you know, 
 June saw his fiither's overthrow. 
 "Woe to the traitors, who could bring 
 The princely boy against his King ! 
 Still in his conscience bums the sting. 
 In offices as strict as Lent, 
 King James's June is ever spent. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " When last this ruthfnl month was 
 
 come, 
 And in Linlithgow's holy dome 
 
 The King, as wont, was praying; 
 "While, for his royal father's soul, 
 The chanters sung, the bells did toll, 
 
 The Bishop mass was saying — 
 For now the year brought round again 
 The day the luckless king was slain — 
 In Katharine's aisle the Monarch 
 
 knelt, 
 "With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt, 
 And eyes with sorrow streaming; 
 Around him in their stalls of state, 
 The Thistle's Knight-Companions 
 sate, 
 Their banners o'er them beaming. 
 I too was there, and, sooth to tell, 
 Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell, 
 "Was watching where the sunbeams 
 fell. 
 Through the stain'd casement 
 gleaming; 
 But, while I mark'd what next befell, 
 
 It seem'd as I were dreaming. 
 Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostly 
 
 wight. 
 In azure gown, with cincture white; 
 His forehead bald, his head was bare, 
 Down hung at length his yellow 
 
 hair. — 
 Now, mock me not, when, good my 
 
 Lord, 
 I pledge to yTou my knightly word, 
 
 That, when I saw his placid grace, 
 
 Hia simple majesty of face, 
 
 His solemn bearing, and his pace 
 
 So stately gliding on, — 
 Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint 
 So just an image of tha Saint, 
 "Who propp'd the"Virgin in her faint, — 
 
 The loved Apostle John ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "He stepp'd before the Monarch's 
 
 chair. 
 And stood with rustic plainness there, 
 
 And little reverence made; 
 Nor head, nor body, bow'd nor bent, 
 But on the desk his arm he leant, 
 
 And words like these he said. 
 In a low voice, but never tone 
 So thrill' d through vein, and nerve 
 
 and bone: — 
 •My mother sent me from afar. 
 Sir King, to warn thee not to war, — 
 
 "Woe waits on thine array; 
 If war thou wilt, of woman fair. 
 Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 
 James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware: 
 God keep thee as he may !' 
 The wondering Monarch seem'd 
 to seek 
 For answer, and found none; 
 And when he raised his head to 
 speak, 
 The monitor was gone. 
 The Marshal and myself had cast 
 To stop him as he outward pass'd; 
 But, lighter than the whirlwind's 
 blast. 
 He vanish'd from our eyes. 
 Like sunbeam on the billow cast, 
 That glances but, and dies." 
 
 XVIIL 
 
 "While Lindesay told his marvel 
 strange. 
 The twilight was so pale. 
 He mark'd not Marmion's colour 
 change. 
 While listening to the tale; 
 But, after a suspended pause, 
 The Baron spoke: — "Of nature's 
 laws 
 So strong I held the force, 
 
MARMION. 
 
 129 
 
 Tliat never superhuman cause 
 
 Could e'er control their course. 
 And, three days since, had judged 
 
 your aim 
 "Was but to make your guest your 
 
 game. 
 But I have seen, since past the Tweed, 
 "What much has changed my sceptic 
 
 creed. 
 And made me credit aught." — He 
 
 staid. 
 And seepa'd to wish his words unsaid : 
 But, by that strong emotion press'd 
 Which prompts us to unload our 
 
 breast, 
 Even when discovery's pain. 
 To Lindesay did at length unfold 
 The tale his village host had told, 
 
 At Gifford, to his train. 
 Kought of the Palmer says he there, 
 And nought of Constance, or of Clare ; 
 The thoughts, which broke his sleep, 
 
 he seems 
 To mention but as feverish dreams. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 *' In vain," said he, '* to rest I spread 
 My burning limbs, and couch'd my 
 
 head : 
 Fantastic thoughts return' d ; 
 And, by their wild dominion led. 
 
 My heart within me burn'd. 
 So sore was the delirious goad, 
 I took my steed, and forth I rode. 
 And, as the moon shone bright and 
 
 cold. 
 Soon reach'd the camp upon the 
 
 wold. 
 The southern entrance I pass'd 
 
 through. 
 And halted, and my bugle blew. 
 Methought an answer met my ear, — 
 Yet was the blast so low and drear. 
 So hollow, and so faintly blown, 
 It might be echo of my own. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Thus judging, for a little space 
 I listen'd, ere I left the place ; 
 
 But scarce could trust my eyes, 
 Nor yet can think they served me true. 
 When sudden in the ring I view, 
 
 In form distinct of shape and hue, 
 
 A mounted champion rise. — 
 Pve fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, 
 In single fight, and mix'd affray, 
 And ever, I myself may say, 
 
 Have borne me as a kniglit ; 
 But when this unexpected foo 
 Seem'd starting from the gulf below,— 
 I care not though the truth I show, — 
 
 I trembled with affright ; 
 And as I j:) laced in rest my spear, 
 My hand so shook for very fear, 
 
 I scarce could couch it right. 
 
 XXL 
 
 " "Why need my tongue the issue toll ? 
 We ran our course, — my charger 
 
 fell;— 
 "What could lie 'gainst the shock of 
 hell?— 
 I roll'd upon the plain. 
 High o'er my head, with threatening 
 
 hand. 
 The spectre shook his naked brand, — 
 
 Yet did the worst remain : 
 My dazzled eyes I upward cast, — 
 Not opening hell itself could blast 
 
 Their sight, like what I saw ! 
 Full on his face the moonbeams 
 
 strook,— 
 A face could never be mistook ! 
 I knew the stern vindictive look, 
 
 And held my breath for awe. 
 I saw the face of one who, fled 
 To foreign climes, has long been 
 dead, — 
 I well believe the last ; 
 For ne'er, from visor raised, did stare 
 A human warrior, with a glare 
 
 So grimly and so ghast. 
 Thrice o'er my head he shook the 
 
 blade ; 
 But when to good St. George I pray'd, 
 (The first time e'er I ask'd his aid,) 
 
 He plunged it in the sheath ; 
 And, on his courser mounting light. 
 He seem'd to vanish from my sight : 
 The moonbeam droop'd, and deepest 
 night 
 Sunk down upon the heath. — 
 'Twere long to tell what cause I 
 have 
 
130 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL WOEKS. 
 
 To know his face, that met me 
 th 3ra, 
 Call'vl by his hatred from the grave, 
 To cumber upper air : 
 Dead or alive, good cause had he 
 To be my mortal enemy." 
 XXII. 
 
 Marvell'd Sir David of tho Mount ; 
 Then, learn' d in story, 'gan recount 
 
 Such chance had happ'd of old, 
 When once, near Norham, there did 
 
 A s'lectro fo!l of ficndich ini:;jht, 
 In Lkenes-} 01 a Scottish hnight. 
 
 With Brian Bulmer bold, 
 And train'd him nigh to disallow 
 The aid of his baptismal vow. 
 "And such a phantom, too, 'tis said, 
 With Highland broadsword, targe, 
 and plaid. 
 
 And Ungcrs, red with goro, 
 Is ceea in Rothiomurcus glade, 
 Or where the sablo pine-trees shade 
 Dark Tomantoul, an I Auchnaslaid, 
 
 Dromo'dchty, or Glcnraoro. 
 And yet, vhate'cr suv'h lejends say, 
 01 wa,rlike demon, g-iost, or fay, 
 
 On mountain, moor, or plain, 
 Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, 
 True son of chivrJry should hold, 
 
 These midnight terrors vain ; 
 For seldom have such s-.irits power 
 To harm, save in the evil hour. 
 When guilt we meditato within. 
 Or harhor unrepcntcd sin." — 
 Lord IJarmion turn'd him half aside. 
 And twice to clear his voice he tried. 
 
 Then press'd Sir David's hand, — 
 D"t nought, at length, in answer said; 
 And here their farther converse staid, 
 
 Each ordering that his band 
 Should bowno them with the rising 
 
 day, 
 To Scotland's camp to take their 
 way.— 
 
 Such was the Hing's command. 
 
 x:u:ii. 
 
 Early they took Dun-Edin's road, 
 And I CO aid trace each step they trode. 
 Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor 
 stone, 
 
 Lies on the path to me unknown. 
 Much might it boast of storied lore ; 
 But, passing such digression o'er. 
 Suffice it that the route was laid 
 Across the furzy hills of Braid. 
 They pass'd the glen and scanty 
 
 rill, 
 And climb'd the opposing bank, until 
 They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Blackford ! on whose uncultured 
 breast, 
 Among the broom, and thorn, 
 and whin, 
 A truant-boy, I sought the nest. 
 Or listed, as I lay at rest, 
 
 Yv^hile rose, on breezes thin, 
 The murmur of the city crowd, 
 And.from his steeple jangling loud, 
 
 Saint Giles's mingling din. 
 Now, from the summit to the plain, 
 Waves all the hill with yellow grain; 
 And o'er the landscape as I look, 
 ITought do I see unchanged remain. 
 Gave the rude cliiEj and chiming 
 brook. 
 To me they make a heavy moan, 
 Of early friendships joast and gone. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But different far the change has been, 
 
 Since Marmion, from the crown 
 Of Blackford, saw that martial scene 
 
 iJpon tliebent so brown: 
 Thousand pavilions, white as snow, 
 Spread all the Borough-moor below, 
 
 Upland, and dale, and down: — 
 A thousand did I say ? I ween. 
 Thousands on thousands there were 
 
 seen. 
 That chcquer'd all the heath between 
 
 The streamlet and the town; 
 In crossing i-anks extending far, 
 Forming a camp irregular; 
 Oft giving way. where stiil there stood 
 fjomo relics of the old oak wood. 
 That darkly huge did intervene, 
 And tamed the glaring white "with 
 
 green: 
 In these extended lines there lay 
 A martial kingdom's vast array. 
 
MAltMlON. 
 
 t\\ 
 
 XXVL 
 
 For from Hcbudes, dark t^itli rain, 
 To eastern Lodon's fertile i^lain, 
 And from the Southern Eedswire 
 
 edge, 
 To farthest Bosse's rocky ledge; 
 Fromwest toeast,from south to north, 
 Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 
 Marmion might hear the mingled hum 
 Of myriads up the mountain come; 
 The horses' tramp, and tingling clank, 
 Where chiefs review'd their vassal 
 rank. 
 
 And charger's shrilling neigh; 
 And see the shifting lines advance, 
 While frequent flash'd, from shield 
 and lance. 
 
 The sun's reflected ray. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 Thin curling in the morning air, 
 The "wreaths of failing smoke declare 
 To embers now the brands decay'd, 
 Where the night-watch their fires had 
 
 made. 
 They saw, slow rolling on the plain, 
 Full many a baggage cart and wain, 
 And dire artillery's clumsy car, 
 By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war ; 
 And there were Borthwick's' Sisters 
 
 Seven, * 
 And culverins which France had 
 
 given. 
 Ill-omen 'd gift ! the guns remain 
 The conqueror's spoil on Flodden 
 
 plain. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 Nor mark'd they less, where in the air 
 
 A thousand streamers flaunted fair ; 
 
 Various m shape, device, and hue, 
 
 Green, sanguine, purple, red, and 
 
 blue. 
 
 Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and 
 
 square, 
 Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there 
 
 O'er the pavilions flew. 
 Highest and midmost, was descried 
 The royal banner floating wide ; 
 
 * Seven culverins, bo called from bim who 
 cust them. 
 
 The staff, a jjine-tree, strong and 
 straight, 
 Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone. 
 Which still in memory is shown, 
 Yet bent beneath the standard's 
 weight 
 Whene'er the western wind uu- 
 roll'd. 
 With toil, the huge and cumbrous 
 fold, 
 And gave to view the dazzling field. 
 Where, in proud Scotland's royal 
 shield, 
 The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Lord Marmion view'd the landscape 
 
 bright, — 
 He view'd it with a chief's delight, — 
 Until within him burn'd his heart, 
 And lightning from his eye did part. 
 
 As on the battle-day ; 
 Such glance did falcon never dart. 
 When stooping on his prey. 
 "Oh ! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, 
 Thy Kin^ from warfare to dissuade 
 
 Were but a vain essay : 
 For, by St. George, were that host 
 
 mine. 
 Not power infernal nor divine. 
 Should once to peace my soul incline. 
 Till I had dimm'd their armour's 
 shine 
 In glorious battle-fray !" 
 Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood : 
 "Fair is the sight, — and yet 'twere 
 good, 
 That kings would think withal. 
 When peace and wealth their land 
 
 has bless'd, 
 'Tis better to sit still at rest, 
 Than rise, perchance to fall." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 still on the spot Lord Marmion stay 'd, 
 For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd. 
 When sated with the martial show 
 That peopled all the plain below. 
 The wandering eye could o'er it go. 
 And mark the distant city glow 
 With gloomy splendour red ; 
 For on the smoke-wreaths, huge 
 and slow, 
 
13^ 
 
 SCOTT* s Poetical works. 
 
 That round her sable turrets flow, 
 The morning beams were shed, 
 
 And tinged them with a lustre 
 proud, 
 
 Like that which streaks a thunder- 
 cloud. 
 Such dusky grandeur clothed the 
 
 height, 
 "Where the huge Castle holds its state, 
 
 And all the deep slope down, 
 Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky. 
 Piled deep and massy, close and high, 
 
 Mine own romantic town ! 
 But northward far, with purer blaze, 
 On Ochil mountains fell the rays, 
 And as each heathy top they kissed, 
 It gleam'd a purple amethyst. 
 Yonder the shores of Fife you saw ; 
 Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law : 
 
 And, broad between them roll'd, 
 The gallant Frith the eye might note, 
 "Whose islands on its bosom float. 
 
 Like emeralds chased in gold. 
 Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent ; 
 As if to give his rapture vent, 
 The spur he to his charger lent, 
 
 And raised his bridle hand, 
 And, making demi-volte in air, 
 Cried, ** Where's the coward that 
 would not dare 
 
 To fight for Buch a land?" 
 The Lindesay smiled his joy to see; 
 Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his 
 glee. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Thus while they look'd, a flourish 
 
 proud, 
 "Where mingled trump and clarion 
 
 loud, 
 And fife, and kettle-drum. 
 And sackbut deep, and psaltery, 
 And war-pipe with discordant cry. 
 And cymbal clattering to the sky, 
 Making wild music bold and high, 
 
 Did up the mountain come; 
 The whilst the bells, with distant 
 
 chime. 
 Merrily told the hour of prime. 
 And thus the Lindesay spoke: 
 "Thus clamour still the war-notes 
 
 when 
 
 1 
 
 The king to mass his way has ta'en, 
 Or to St. Katharine's of Sienne, 
 
 Or Chapel of St. Kocque. 
 To you they speak of martial fame, 
 But me remind of peaceful game, 
 
 "When blither was their cheer, 
 Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air. 
 In signal none his steed should 
 
 spare, 
 But strive which foremost might re- 
 pair J 
 
 To the downfall of the deer. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 ' ' Nor less," he said, — " when looking 
 
 forth, 
 I view yon Empress of the North 
 
 Sit on her hilly throne; 
 Her palace's imperial bowers, 
 Her castle, proof to hostile powers. 
 Her stately halls and holy towers — 
 
 Nor less," he said, "I moan, 
 To think what woe mischance may 
 
 bring. 
 And how these merry bells may ring 
 The death-dirge of our gallant king; 
 
 Or with the larum call 
 The burghers forth to watch and ward, 
 'Gainst Southern sack and fires to 
 guard 
 Dun-Edin's leaguer'd wall. — 
 But not for my presaging thought, 
 Dream conquest sure, or cheaply 
 bought ! 
 Lord Marion, I say nay: 
 God is the guider of the field. 
 He breaks the champion's spear and 
 shield, — 
 But thou thyself shalt say, 
 "When joins yon host in deadly 
 
 stowre, 
 That England's dames must weep in 
 bower, 
 Her monks the death-mass sing; 
 For never saw'st thou such a power 
 
 Led on by such a King." — 
 And now, down winding to the plain, 
 The barriers of the camp they gain, 
 
 And there they made a stay.— 
 There stays the Minstrel, till he fling 
 His hand o'er every Border string, 
 And fit his harp the pomp to sing, 
 
MARMIOK 
 
 ^33 
 
 Of Scotland's ancientCourt and King, 
 In the succeeding lay. 
 
 . INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
 FIFTH. 
 
 TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.* 
 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 When dark December glooms the 
 
 day, 
 And takes our autumn joys away; 
 When short and scant the sunbeam 
 
 throws, 
 Upon the weary waste of snows, 
 A cold and profitless regard. 
 Like patron on a needy bard; 
 When silvan occupation's done, 
 And o'er the chimney rests the gun, 
 And hang, in idle trophy, near, 
 The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and 
 
 spear; 
 When wiry terrier, rough and grim, 
 And greyhound, with his length of 
 
 limb, 
 And pointer, now employ'd no more. 
 Cumber our parlour's narrow floor ; 
 When in his stall the impatient steed 
 Is long condemn'd to rest and feed; 
 When from our snow-encircled home, 
 Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam. 
 Since path is none, save that to bring 
 The needful water from the spuing; 
 When wrinkled news-page, thrice 
 
 conn'd o'er, 
 Beguiles the dreary hour no more, 
 And darkling politician, cross'd, 
 Inveighs against the lingering post, 
 And answering housewife sore com- 
 plains 
 Of carriers' snow-impeded wains; 
 When such the country cheer, I come, 
 Well pleased, to seek our city home; 
 For converse, and for books, to change 
 The Forest's melancholy range, 
 And welcome, with renew'd delight, 
 The busy day and social night. 
 
 Not here need my desponding 
 rhyme 
 Lament the ravages of time, 
 
 * The learned editor of the " Specimens of 
 Ancieat English Romances. ' 
 
 As erst by Newark's riven towers, 
 And Ettrickstripp'd of forest bowers. 
 True,— Caledonia's Queen is chang- 
 ed, 
 Since on her dusky summit ranged. 
 Within its steepy limits pent, 
 By bulwark, line, and battlement, 
 And flanking towers, and laky flood. 
 Guarded and garrison'd she stood, 
 Denying entrance or re ort, 
 Save at each tall embattled port ; 
 Above whose arch, suspended, hung 
 Portcullis spiked with iron prong. 
 That long is gone, — but not so long 
 Since, early closed, and opening late, 
 Jealous revolved the studded gate, 
 Whose task, from eve to morning tide, 
 A wicket churlishly supplied. 
 Stern then, and steel-girt was thy 
 
 brow, 
 Dun-Edin ! O, how alter'd now. 
 When safe amid thy mountain court 
 Thou sit'st, like Empress at her sport. 
 And liberal, unconfined, and free, 
 Flinging thy white arms to the sea. 
 For thy dark cloud, with umber' d 
 
 lower, 
 That hung o'er cliff, and lake, and 
 
 tower, 
 Thou gleam 'st against the western ray 
 Ten thousand lines of brighter day. 
 
 Not she, the Championess of old, 
 In Spenser's magic tale enroU'd, 
 She, for the charmed spear renown'd, 
 Which forced each knight to kiss the 
 
 ground, — 
 Notshe »«re changed, when placed 
 
 at rest, 
 What time she wasMalbecco's guest. 
 She gave to flow her maiden vest; 
 When from the corslet's grasp re- 
 lieved, 
 Free to the sight her bosom heaved ; 
 Sweet was her blue eye's modest 
 
 smile, 
 Erst hidden by the aventayle ; 
 And down her shoulders graceful 
 
 roU'd 
 Her locks profuse, of paly gold. 
 They who whilom, in midnight fight, 
 Had marvell'd at her matchless might. 
 
134 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOltKS. 
 
 I'o less her maiden charms approved, 
 But looking liked, and liking loved. 
 The sight could jealous pangs beguile, 
 And charm Malbecco's cares a while ; 
 And he, the wandering Squire of 
 
 Dames, 
 Forgot his Columbella's claims. 
 And passion, erst unknown,could gain 
 The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane; 
 Nor durst light Paridel advance, 
 Bold as he was, a looser glance. 
 She charm'd, at once, and tamed the 
 
 heart, 
 Incomparable Britomarte !* 
 
 So thou, fair City ! disarray'd 
 Of battled wall, and rampart's aid, 
 As stately seem'st, but lovelier far 
 Than in that panoply of war. 
 Nor deem that from thy fenceless 
 
 throne 
 Strength and security are flown ; 
 Stiil, as of yore, Queen of the North ! 
 Still canst thou Bend thy children 
 
 forth. 
 Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's call 
 Thy burghers rose to man thy wall, 
 Than now, in danger, shall be thine, 
 Thy dauntless voluntary lino , 
 For fosse and turret proud to stand, 
 Their breasts the bulwarks of the land. 
 Thy thousands, train'd to martial toil, 
 Full red would stain their native soil, 
 Ere from thy mural crown there fell 
 The slightest knosp, or pinnacle. 
 And if it come, — as come it may, 
 Dun-Edin ! that eventful day, — 
 Kenown'd for hospitable deed, 
 That virtue much with Heaven may 
 
 plead, 
 In patriarchal times whose care 
 Descending angels deign'd to share; 
 That claim may wrestle blessings 
 
 down 
 On those who fight for The Good 
 
 Town, 
 Destined in every age to be ' 
 Refuge of injured royalty; 
 Since first, when conquering York 
 
 arose, 
 
 * The Maiden Knight in Spenser's " Fairy 
 Queen," book iii. canto 9. 
 
 To Henry meek she gave repose, f 
 Till late, with wonder, grief, and 
 
 awe, 
 Great Bourbon's relics, sad she saw. 
 
 Truce to these thoughts !— for, as 
 
 they rise. 
 How gladly I avert mine eyes, 
 Bodings, or true or false, to change. 
 For Fiction's fair romantic range, 
 Or for tradition's dubious light, 
 That hovers 'twixt the day and 
 
 night: 
 Dazzling alternately and dim, 
 Her wavering lamp I'd rather trim, 
 Knights, squires, and lovely dames 
 
 to see. 
 Creation of my fantasy, 
 Than gaze abroad on reeky fen, 
 And make of mists invading men. 
 Who loves not more the night of June 
 Than dull December's gloomy noon ? 
 The moonlight than the fog of frost? 
 And can we say, which cheats the 
 
 most? 
 
 But who shall teach my harp to 
 gain 
 A sound of the romantic strain, 
 Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere 
 Could win ihe royal Henry's ear, 
 Famed Beauclerc call'd, for that he 
 
 loved 
 The minstrelj and his lay approved? 
 "Who shall these lingering notes re- 
 deem, 
 Decaying on Oblivion's stream; 
 Such notes as from the Breton tongue 
 Marie^ translated, Blondel sung? — 
 ! born. Time's ravage to repair. 
 And make the dying muse thy care, 
 Who, when his scythe her hoary foe 
 Was poising for the final blow, 
 The weapon from his hand could 
 wring. 
 
 1 Henry VI. of England, -who sought ref- ^ 
 uge in bcotland after the fatal buttle of Tow- 
 tou. " The Meek Usurper,"' see Gray. 
 
 1 Pliilipde Than. 
 
 \ Alarie of France, who translated the 
 "Lais" of Brittany into Frencli. She re- 
 sided at the Court of Henry III. of England, 
 to whom she dedicated her book. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 'SS 
 
 And break his glass, and shear his 
 
 wing. 
 And bid, reviving in his strain, 
 The gentle poet live again; 
 Thou, who canst give to lightest lay 
 An unpedantic moral gay, 
 Nor less the dullest theme bid flit 
 On wings of unexpected wit; 
 In letters as in life approved, 
 Example honour'd, and beloved, — 
 Dear Ellis ! to the bard impart 
 A lesson of thy magic art. 
 To win at once the head and heart, — 
 At once to charm, instruct and mend, 
 My guide, my pattern, and my 
 
 friend ! 
 
 Such minstrel lesson to bestow 
 Be long thy pleasing task, — but, O ! 
 No more by thy example teach, 
 — What few can practise, all can 
 
 preach, — 
 With even patience to endure 
 Lingering disease, and painful cure. 
 And boast affliction's pang3 subdued 
 By mild and manly fortitude. 
 Enough, the lesson has been given; 
 Forbid the repetition, Heaven ! 
 
 Come listen, then ! for thou hast 
 known, 
 And loved the Minstrel's varying tone, 
 Who, like his Border sires of old. 
 Waked a wild measure rude and bold, 
 Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain, 
 With wonder heard the northern 
 
 strain. 
 Oome listen ! bold in thy applause. 
 The bard sha-ll scorn pedantic laws; 
 And, as the ancient art could stain 
 Achievements on the storied pane. 
 Irregularly traced and plannd. 
 But yet so glowing and so grand, — 
 So shall he strive, in changf ul hue, 
 Field, feast, and combat, to renew, 
 And loves, and arms, and harpers' glee, 
 And all the pomp of chivalry. 
 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 
 The Court. 
 
 I. 
 
 The crain has left the hills of Braid ; 
 The barrier guard have open made 
 
 (So Lindesay bade) the palisade, 
 That closed the tented ground ; 
 Their men the warders backward 
 
 drew, 
 And carried pikes as they rode 
 
 through, 
 Into its ample bound. 
 Fast ran the Scottish warriors there, 
 Upon the Southern band to stare. 
 And envy with their wonder rose. 
 To see such well-appointed foes ; 
 Such length of shafts, such mighty 
 
 bows, 
 So huge, that many simply thought, 
 But for a vaunt such weapons 
 
 wrought ; 
 And little deem'd their force to feel, 
 Through links of mail, and plates 
 
 of steel, 
 When rattling upon Flodden vale. 
 The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail. 
 
 n. 
 
 Nor less did Marmion's skilful view 
 Glance every line and squadron 
 
 through; 
 And much he marvell'd one small 
 
 land 
 Could marshal forth such various 
 
 band : 
 For men-at-arms were here, 
 Heavily sheathed in mail and plate, 
 Like iron towers for strength and 
 
 weight, 
 On Flemish steeds of bone and height. 
 
 With battle-axe and spear. 
 Young knights and squires, a lighter 
 
 train. 
 Practised their chargers on the plain, 
 By aid of leg, of hand, and rein, 
 
 Each warlike feat to show. 
 To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain. 
 And high curvett, that not in vain 
 The sword sway might descend 
 
 amain 
 On foeman's casque below. 
 He saw the hardy burghers there 
 March arm'd, on foot, with faces 
 
 bare, 
 For vizor they wore none, 
 Nor waving plume, nor crest of 
 
 knight ; 
 
136 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL" WORKS. 
 
 But burnished were their corslets 
 
 bright. 
 Their brigantines, and gorgets light, 
 
 Like very silver shone. 
 Long pikes they had for standing 
 fight, 
 Two-handed swords they wore, 
 And many wielded mace of weight, 
 And bucklers bright they bore. 
 
 m. 
 
 On foot the yeoman too, but dress'd 
 In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest, 
 
 With iron quilted well ; 
 Each at his back (a slender store) 
 His forty days' provision bore, 
 
 As feudal statutes tell. 
 His arms were halbert, axe,or spear, 
 A crossbow there, a hagbut here, 
 
 A dagger-knife, and brand. 
 Sober he seem'd, and sad of cheer, 
 As loth to leave his cottage dear. 
 And march to foreign strand ; 
 Or musing, who would guide his steer. 
 
 To till the fallow land. 
 Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye 
 Did aught of dastard terror lie ; 
 
 More dreadful far his ire. 
 Than theirs, who, scorning danger's 
 
 name, 
 In eager mood to battle came, 
 Their valour like light straw on flame, 
 
 A fierce but fading fire. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Not so the Borderer : — bred to war. 
 He knew the battle's din afar. 
 
 And joy'd to hear it swell. 
 His peaceful day was slothful ease ; 
 Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could 
 please 
 
 Like the loud slogan yell. 
 On active steed, with lance and blade. 
 The light-arm'd pricker plied his 
 trade, — 
 
 Let nobles fight for fame ; 
 Let vassals follow where they lead, 
 Burghers to guard their townships 
 bleed. 
 
 But war's the Borderer's game. 
 Their game,tbeir glory, their delight, 
 To sleep the day, maraud the night, 
 
 O'er mountain, moss, and moor ; 
 Joyful to flg^t they took their way. 
 Scarce caring who might win the day. 
 
 Their booty was secure. 
 These, as Lord Marmion's train 
 
 pass'd by, 
 Look'd on at first with careless eye, 
 Nor marvell'd aught, well taught to 
 
 know 
 The form and force of English bow. 
 But when they saw the Lord array' d 
 In splendid arms and rich brocade, 
 Each Borderer to his kinsman said, — 
 
 ' ' Hist, Bingan ! seest thou there ! 
 Canst guess which road they'll home- 
 ward ride ? — 
 ! could we but on Border side, 
 By Eusedale glen, or Liddell's tide. 
 
 Beset a prize so fair ! 
 That fangless Lion, too, their guide, 
 Might chance to lose his glistering 
 
 hide; 
 Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied, 
 
 Could make a kirtle rare." 
 
 V. 
 
 Next, Marmion mark'd the Celtic 
 
 race. 
 Of different language, form, and face, 
 
 A various race of man; 
 Just then the Chiefs their tribes ar- 
 
 ray'd. 
 And wild and garish semblance made. 
 The chequer' d trews, and belted 
 
 plaid, 
 And varying notes the war-pipes 
 
 bray'd. 
 To every varying clan; 
 Wild through their red or sable hair 
 Look'd out their eyes with savage 
 
 stare, 
 On Marmion as he pass'd; 
 Their legs above the knee were bare; 
 Their frame was sinewy, short, and 
 
 spare, 
 And harden'd to the blast; 
 Of taller race, the chiefs they own 
 Were by the eagle's plumage known. 
 The hunted red-deer's undress'd hide 
 Their hairy buskins well supplied; 
 The graceful bonnet deck'd their 
 
 head: 
 
MARMIOK 
 
 137 
 
 Back from their shoulders hung the 
 
 plaid ; 
 A broadsword of unwieldy length, 
 A dagger proved for edge and 
 strength, 
 A studded targe they wore, 
 And quivers, bows, and shafts, — but, 
 
 O! 
 Short was the shaft, and weak the bow, 
 
 To that which England bore. 
 The Isles-men carried at their backs 
 The ancient Danish battle-axe. 
 They raised a wild and wondering cry. 
 As with his guide rode Marmion by. 
 Loud were their clamouring tongues, 
 
 as when 
 The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen, 
 And, with their cries discordant mix'd, 
 Grumbled and yell'd the pipes be- 
 twixt. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thus through the Scottish camp they 
 
 pass'd, 
 And reach'd the City gate at last, 
 Where all around, a wakeful guard, 
 Arm'd burghers kept their watch and 
 
 ward. 
 Well had they cause of jealous fear, 
 When lay encamp'd, in field so near, 
 The Borderer and the Mountaineer. 
 As through the bustling streets they 
 
 go. 
 All was alive with martial show: 
 At every turn, with dinning clang. 
 The armourer's anvil clash'd and rang ; 
 Or toil'd the swarthy smith, to wheel 
 The bar that arms the charger's heel; 
 Or axe, or falchion, to the side 
 Of jarring grindstone was applied. 
 Page, groom, and squire, with hurry- 
 ing pace, 
 Through street, and lane, and mar- 
 ket-place. 
 Bore lance, or casque, or sword; 
 While burghers, with important face. 
 
 Described each new-come lord, 
 Discuss'd his lineage, told his name, 
 His following, and his warlike fame. 
 The Lion led to lodging meet. 
 Which high o'erlook'd the crowded 
 street; 
 
 There must the Baron rest, , 
 
 Till past the hour of vesper tide, 
 And then to Holy- Rood must ride, — 
 
 Such was the King s behest. 
 Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns 
 A banquet rich, and costly wines. 
 
 To Marmion and his train; 
 And when the appointed hour sue- 
 
 ceeds, 
 The Baron dons his peaceful weeds, 
 And following Lindesay as he leads. 
 
 The palace-halls they gain. 
 
 VIL 
 
 Old Holy-Rood rung merrily, 
 
 That night, with wassell, mirth, and 
 glee; 
 
 King James within her princely bow- 
 er, 
 
 Feasted the Chiefs of Scotland's pow- 
 er, 
 
 Summon'd to spend the parting hour; 
 
 For he had charged, that his array 
 
 Should southward march by break 
 of day. 
 
 Well loved that splendid monarch 
 aye 
 The banquet and the song. 
 
 By day the tourney, and by night 
 
 The merry dance, traced fast and 
 light. 
 
 The maskers quaint, the pageant 
 bright. 
 The revel loud and long. 
 
 This feast outshone his banquets past, 
 
 It was his blithest — and his last. 
 
 The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay. 
 
 Cast on the Court a dancing ray; 
 
 Here to the harp did minstrels sing; 
 
 There ladies touch'd a softer string; 
 
 With long-ear'd cap, and motley vest, 
 
 The liceiiised fool retail'd his jest; 
 
 His magic tricks the juggler plied; 
 
 At dice and draughts the gallants 
 vied; 
 
 While some, in close recess apart. 
 
 Courted the ladies of their heart. 
 Nor courted them in vain ; 
 
 For often, in the parting hour, 
 
 Victorious Love asserts his power 
 O'er coldness and disdain; 
 
 And flinty is her heart, can view 
 
138 
 
 scorrs poetical works. 
 
 To battle march a lover true — 
 Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, 
 Nor own her share of pain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Through this mix'd crowd of glee 
 
 and game, 
 The King to greet Lord Marmion 
 came, 
 
 "While, reverent, all made room. 
 An easy task it was, I trow, 
 King James's manly form to know. 
 Although, his courtesy to show. 
 He doff'd to Marmion bending low, 
 
 His broider'd cap and plume. 
 For royal was his garb and mien. 
 
 His cloak, of crimson velvet piled, 
 
 Trimm'd with the fur of martin 
 wild; 
 His vest of changeful satin sheen. 
 
 The dazzled eye beguiled; 
 nis gorgeous collar hung»adown. 
 Wrought with the badge of Scotland's 
 
 crown, 
 The thistle bravo, of old renown: 
 His trusty blade, Toledo right, 
 Descended from a baldric bright; 
 AVhite were his buskins, on the heel 
 His spurs inlaid of gold and steel; 
 His bonnet, all of crimson fair, 
 Y/as button'd with a ruby rare: 
 And Marmion deem'd he ne'er had 
 
 seen 
 A prince of such a noble mien. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The monarch's form was middle size; 
 For feat of strength, or exercise, 
 
 Shaped in proportion fair; 
 And hazel was his eagle eye, 
 And auburn of the darkest dye, 
 
 Ilis short curl'd beard and hair. 
 Light was his footstep in the dance, 
 
 And firm his stirrup in the lists; 
 And, oh ! he had that merry glance. 
 
 That seldom lady's heart resists. 
 Lif;htly from f:iir to fair he flew. 
 And loved to plead, lament, and 
 
 sue; — 
 Cuit lightly won, and short-lived 
 
 pain. 
 For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. 
 
 I said he joyM- in banquet bower; 
 
 But, 'mid his mirth, 'twas often 
 
 strange. 
 How suddenly his cheer would 
 change, 
 His look o'ercast and lower. 
 If, in a sudden turn, he felt 
 The pressure of his iron belt, 
 That bound his breast in penance 
 
 pain, 
 In memory of his father slain. 
 Even so 'twas strange how, evermore. 
 Soon as the passing pang was o'er 
 Forward he rush'd, with double glee. 
 Into the stream of revelry: 
 Thus, dim-seen object of affright 
 Startles the courser in his flight. 
 And half he halts, half springs aside ; 
 But feels the quickening spur ap- 
 plied. 
 And, straining on the tighten'd rein. 
 Scours doubly swift o'er hill and 
 plain. 
 
 X. 
 
 O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, 
 Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held 
 sway; 
 To Scotland's Court she came. 
 To be a hostage for her lord, 
 Who Cessford'3 gallant heart had 
 
 gored. 
 And with the King to make accord. 
 
 Had sent his lovely dame. 
 Nor to that lady free alone 
 Did the gay King allegiance own; 
 
 For the f :i:r Queen of France 
 Sent him a turquois ring and glove, 
 And charged him, as her knight and 
 love. 
 For her to break a lance; 
 And strike three strokes with Scot- 
 tish brand. 
 And march three miles on Southron 
 
 land. 
 And bid the banners of his band 
 
 In English breezes dance. 
 And thus, for France's Queen he drest 
 i.is manly limbs in mailed vest; 
 And thus admitted Enp;lish f^iir 
 His inmost counsels still to share; 
 And thus for both, he madly plann'd 
 The ruin of himself and land! 
 
MARMION. 
 
 ^ i39 
 
 And yet, the sooth to tell, 
 
 NorEngland's fair, nor France's Queen, 
 
 Were worth one pearl drop, bright 
 
 and sheen. 
 
 From Margaret's eyes that fell, — 
 
 His own Queen Margaret, who, in 
 
 Lithgow's bower, 
 All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour, 
 
 XL 
 
 The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile, 
 
 And weeps the weary day. 
 The war against her native soil. 
 Her Monarch's risk in battle broil: — 
 And in gay Holy-Rood, the while 
 Dame Heron rises with a smile 
 
 Upon the harp to play. 
 Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er 
 
 The strings her fingers flew; 
 And as shetouch'd and tuned them all, 
 Even her bosom's rise and fall 
 
 Was plainer £;iven to view ; 
 For, all for heat, was laid aside 
 Her wimple, and her hood untied. 
 And first she pitch'd her voice to sing. 
 Then glanced her dark eye on the 
 
 King, 
 And then around the silent ring; 
 And laugh'd, and blush'd, and oft did 
 
 say, 
 Her pretty oath, by Yea, and Nay, 
 She could not, would not, durst not 
 
 play! 
 At length, upon the harp, with glee, 
 Mingled with arch simplicity, 
 A soft, yet lively air she rung, 
 While thus the wily lady sung: — 
 
 XII. 
 
 LOCHINVAR. 
 
 Lady Heron's Song. 
 
 O, young Lochinvar is come out of 
 
 the west, 
 Through all the wide Border his steed 
 
 was the best; 
 And save his good broadsword he 
 
 weapons had none, 
 He rode all unarm 'd, and he rode all 
 
 alone. 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in 
 
 war, 
 
 There never was knight like the young 
 Lochinvar. 
 
 He staid not for brake, and hestopp'd 
 
 not for stone, 
 He swam the Eske river where ford 
 
 there was none; 
 But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
 The bride had consented, the gallant 
 
 came late; 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard 
 
 in war, 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave 
 
 Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he enter'dtheNetherby Hall, 
 Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, 
 
 and brothers, and all: 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his 
 
 hand on his sword, 
 (For the poor craven bridegroom said 
 
 never a word,) 
 "O come ye in peace here, or come 
 
 ye in war, 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young 
 
 Lord Lochinvar?" — 
 
 •*I long woo'd your daughter, my 
 
 suit you denied; — 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs 
 
 like its tide — 
 And now am I come, with this lost 
 
 love of mine. 
 To lead but one measure, drink one 
 
 cup of wine. 
 There are maidens in Scotland more 
 
 lovely by far. 
 That would gladly be bride to the 
 
 young Lochinvar. 
 
 The bride kiss'd the goblet: the 
 knight took it up. 
 
 He quaff'd off the wine, and he 
 threw down the cup. 
 
 She look'd down to blush, and she 
 look'd up to sigh. 
 
 With a smile on her lips, and a tear 
 in her eye. 
 
 He took her soft hand, ere her mo- 
 ther could bar, — 
 
 "Now tread we a measure!" said 
 young Lochinvar. 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely 
 her face, 
 
146 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 That never a hall snch a galliard did 
 
 grace; 
 Y/hile her mother did fret, and her 
 
 father did fume, 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling 
 
 his bonnet and plume; 
 And the bri.lc-maidens whisper'd, 
 
 " Twcre better by far, 
 To have match'd our fair cousin with 
 
 young Lochinvar." 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one 
 
 word in her ear, 
 When they reach'd the hall-door, and 
 
 the charger stood near; 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady 
 
 he swung, 
 So light to the saddle before her he 
 
 sprung ! 
 " She is won ! we are gone, over 
 
 bank, bush, and scaur; 
 They'll have fleet steeds that follow," 
 
 quoth young Lochinvar. 
 
 There was mounting 'mong Graemes 
 
 of the Netherby clan ; 
 Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, 
 
 they rode and they ran: 
 There was racing and chasing, on 
 
 Cannobie Lee, 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er 
 
 did they see. 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless 
 
 in war, 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like 
 
 young Lochinvar ? 
 
 xiri. 
 
 The Monarch o'er the siren hung 
 And beat the measure as she sung; 
 And, pressing closer, and more near. 
 He whisper'd praises in her ear. 
 In loud applause the courtiers vied; 
 And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside. 
 The witching dame to Marmion 
 threw 
 A glance, where seem'd to reign 
 The pride that claims applauses 
 
 due, 
 And of her royal conquest too, 
 A real or feign'd disdain: 
 Familiar was the look, and told, 
 Marmion and she were friends of old. 
 
 The King observed their meeting 
 
 eyes, 
 "With something like displeased sur- 
 prise; 
 For monarchs ill can rivals brook, 
 Even in a word, or smile, or look. 
 Straight took he forth the parchment 
 
 broad. 
 Which Marmion's high commission 
 
 show'd: 
 •'Our Borders sack'd by many a 
 
 raid. 
 Our peaceful liege-men robb'd," he 
 
 said: 
 " On day of truce our Warden slain, 
 Stout Barton kill'd, his vassals ta'cn — 
 Unworthy were we here to reign, 
 Should these for vengeance cry in 
 
 vain; 
 Our full defiance, hate, and scorn, 
 Our herald has to Henry borne.'' 
 
 XIV. 
 
 He paused, and led where Douglas 
 
 stood, 
 And with stern eye the pageant 
 
 view'd: 
 I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, 
 Yv'ho coronet of Angus bore, 
 And, when his blood and hoart were 
 
 high, 
 Did the third James in camp defy, 
 And all his minions led to die 
 
 On Lauder's dreary fl:^t; 
 Princes and favourites long grew 
 
 tame, 
 And trembled at the homely name 
 
 Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat; 
 The same who left the dusky vale 
 Of Hermitage in Liddisdalo, 
 
 Its dungeons, and its towers, 
 Where Bothwell's turrets brave the 
 
 air. 
 And Bothwellbank is blooming fair. 
 
 To fix his princely bowers. 
 Though now, in age, he had Lid down 
 His armour for the peaceful gown 
 
 And for a staff his brand, 
 Yet often would flash forth the fire, 
 That could, in youth, a monarch's ire 
 
 And minion's pride withstand ; 
 And even that day, at council board. 
 
MARMIOK. 
 
 141 
 
 Unapt to soothe his sovereign's 
 
 mood, 
 Against the war had Angus stood, 
 And chafed his royal lord. 
 
 AN. 
 
 His giant-form, like ruin'd tower, 
 Thou;^li fali'n its muscles' brawny 
 
 vaunt, 
 Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and 
 gaunt, 
 Secm'do'erthegaudy scene tolower: 
 His loclis and beard in silver grew; 
 His eyebrows kept their sable hue. 
 Near Douglas when the Monarch stood 
 His bitter speech be thus pursued: 
 "LordMarmion, since thescletters say 
 That inthcNorthyou needs must stay, 
 While slightest hopes of peace re- 
 main, 
 Uncourtcous speech itwere, and stern, 
 To say — Pteturn to Lindisfarne, 
 
 Until my herald come again. — 
 Then rest you in Tantallon Hold; 
 Your host shall bo the Douglas bold, — 
 A chief unlike Lis sires of old. 
 He wears their motto on his blade, 
 Theirblazon o'er his towers display'd; 
 Yet loves his sovereign to oppose, 
 More than to face his country's foes. 
 And, I bethink me, hy St. Stephen, 
 
 But e'en this morn to me was given 
 A prize, the first fruits of the war, 
 Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar, 
 
 A bevy of the maids of Heaven. 
 Under your guard, these holy maids 
 Shall safe return to cloister shades. 
 And, while they at Tantallon staj'-, 
 Kequiem for Cochran's soul may say." 
 And, with the slaughter'd favourite's 
 
 name, 
 Across the Monarch's brow there came 
 A cloud of ire, remorse and shame. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 In answer nought could Angus speak ; 
 His proud heart swell'd well nigh to 
 
 break; 
 He turn'd aside, and down his cheek 
 
 A burning tear there stole. 
 His hand the Monarch sudden took, 
 That sight his kind heart could not 
 
 brook: 
 
 "Now, by the Bruce's soul, 
 Angus, my hasty speech forgive ! 
 Tor sure as doth his spirit live. 
 As he said of the Douglas old, 
 
 I well may say of you, — 
 That never king did subject hold. 
 In speech more free, in war more bold. 
 
 More tender and more true : 
 Forgive me, Douglas, once again." — 
 And,whiletheKinghishanddidstrain, 
 X he old man's tears fell down like rain. 
 To seize the moment Marmion tried, 
 And whispcr'd to the King aside : 
 
 "Oh! let such tears unwonted plead 
 li or respite short from dubious deed! 
 A child wiil weep a bramble's smart, 
 A maid to see her sparrow part, 
 A stripling for a woman's heart: 
 Dut woe awaits a country, when 
 Che sees the tears of bearded men. 
 Then, oh! what omen, dark and high. 
 When Douglas wets his manly eye!" 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Displeased was James, that stranger 
 
 view'd 
 And tamper'd with his changing mood. 
 "Laugh those that can, weep those 
 
 that may," 
 Thus did the fiery Monarch say, 
 • ' Southward I march by break of day ; 
 And if within Tantallon strong. 
 The good Lord Marmion tarries long, 
 Perchance our meeting next may fail 
 At Tamworth, in his castlc-hall." — 
 The haughty Marmion felt the taunt. 
 And answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt: 
 "Much honour'd were my humble 
 
 home. 
 If in its halls King James should come ; 
 But Nottingham has archers good. 
 And Yorkshiremen are stern of mood ; 
 Northumbrian prickers wild and rude. 
 On Derby Hills the paths are steep; 
 In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep; 
 And many a banner will be torn, 
 And many a knight to earth bo borne, 
 And many a sheaf of arrows spent, 
 Ere Scotland's King shall cross the 
 
 Trent, 
 Yet pause, brave Prince, while yet 
 you may !" — 
 
142 
 
 SCOTrS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The Monarch lightly turn'd away, 
 And to his nobles loud did call,-- 
 ** Lords, to the dance,— a hall! a 
 
 hall !"* 
 Himself his cloak and sword flung by, 
 And led Dame Heron gallantly ; 
 And minstrels, at the royal order, 
 Eung out "Blue Bonnets o'er the 
 Border." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Leave we these revels now, to tell 
 What to St. Hilda's maids befell, 
 Whose galley, as they sail'd again 
 To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en. 
 Now at Dun-Edin did they bide, 
 Till James should of their fate decide ; 
 
 And soon, by his command. 
 Were gently Bummon'd to prepare 
 To journey under Marmion's care, 
 As escort honour'd, safe, and fair, 
 
 Again to English land. 
 The Abbess told her chaplet o'er. 
 Nor knew which saint she should 
 
 implore ; 
 For, when she thought of Constance, 
 sore 
 
 She fear'd Lord Marmion's mood. 
 And judge what Clara must have felt ! 
 The sword, that hung in Marmion's 
 belt, 
 
 Had drunk De Wilton's blood. 
 Unwittingly, King James had given. 
 
 As guard to Whitby's shades, 
 The man most dreaded under Heaven 
 
 By these defenceless maids : 
 Yet what petition could avail, 
 Or who would listen to the tale 
 Of woman, prisoner, and nun, 
 'Mid bustle of a war begun ? 
 They deem'd it hopeless to avoid 
 The convoy of their dangerous guide. 
 XIX. 
 
 Their lodging, so the King assign'd, 
 To Marmion's, as their guardian, 
 
 join'd ; 
 And thus it fell, that, passing nigh. 
 The Palmer caught the Abbess' eye, 
 
 Who warn'd him by a scroll, 
 She had a secret to reveal. 
 
 * The ancient cry to make room for a 
 dance or pageant. 
 
 That much concern'd the Church's 
 weal, 
 
 And health of sinner's soul. 
 And, with deep charge of secrecy, 
 
 She nam'd a place to meet. 
 Within an open balcony, 
 That hung from dizzy pitch and high, 
 
 Above the stately street ; 
 To which, as common to each home. 
 At night they might in secret come. 
 
 XX. 
 
 At night, in secret, there they came. 
 The Palmer and the holy Dame. 
 The moon among the clouds rosehigh. 
 And all the city hum was by. 
 Upon the street, where late before 
 Did din of war and warriors roar, 
 
 You might have heard a pebble fall, 
 A beetle hum, a cricket sing. 
 An owlet flap his boding wing 
 
 On Giles's steeple tall. 
 The antique buildings, climbing 
 
 high, 
 Whose Gothic frontlets sought the 
 sky. 
 Were here wrapt deep in shade ; 
 There on their brows the moon- 
 beam broke, 
 Through the faint wreaths of silvery 
 smoke. 
 And on the casements play'd. 
 And other light was none to see, 
 
 Save torches gliding far, 
 Before some chieftain of degree, 
 Who left the royal revelry 
 To bowne him for the war. — 
 A solemn scene the Abbess chose ; 
 A solemn hour, her secret to disclose. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " 0, holy Palmer !" she began, — 
 "For sure he must be sainted man. 
 Whose blessed feet have trod the 
 
 ground 
 Where the Kedeemer's tomb is 
 
 found, — 
 For His dear Church's sake, my tale 
 Attend, nor deem of light avail, 
 Though I must speak of worldly 
 
 love, — 
 How vain to those who wed above ! — 
 De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo'd 
 
UARMTOK 
 
 U3 
 
 Clara de Clare, of Gloster's blood ; 
 (Idle it were of Whitby's dame, 
 To say of that same blood I came ;) 
 And once, when jealous rage was 
 
 high. 
 Lord Marmion said despiteously, 
 T/ilton was traitor in his heart, 
 And had made league with Martin 
 
 Swart, 
 "When he came here on Simnel's part; 
 And only cowardice did restrain 
 His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain, — 
 And down he threw his glove : — the 
 
 thing 
 "Was tried, as wont, before the King; 
 Y.'here frankly did De Wilton own, 
 That Swart in Gueldres he had 
 
 known; 
 And that between them then there 
 
 went 
 Some scroll of courteous compliment. 
 For this he to his castle sent; 
 But when his messenger return'd. 
 Judge how De Wilton's fury burn'd ! 
 For in his packet there were laid 
 Letters that claim'd disloyal aid, 
 And proved King Henry's cause be- 
 
 tray'd. 
 His fame, thus blighted, in the field 
 He strove to clear, by spear and 
 
 shield ; — 
 To clear his fame in vain he strove, 
 For wondrous are His ways above ! 
 Perchance some form was unob- 
 served ; 
 Perchance in prayer, or faith, he 
 
 swerved ; 
 Else how could guiltless champion 
 
 quail, 
 Or how the blessed ordeal fail ? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 "His squire, who now De Wilton 
 
 saw 
 As recreant doom'd to suffer law, 
 
 Repentant, own'd in vain. 
 That, while he had the scrolls in care, 
 A stranger maiden, passing fair, 
 Had drenoh'd him with a beverage 
 rare ; 
 
 His words no faith could gain. 
 With Clare alone he credence won, 
 
 Who, rather than wed Marmion, 
 Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair. 
 To give our house her livings fair 
 And die a vestal vot'ress there. 
 The impulse from th.e earth was 
 
 given, 
 But bent her to the paths of heaven. 
 A purer heart, a lovelier maid. 
 Ne'er sheltered her in Whitby's shade. 
 No, not since Saxon Edelfled; 
 Only one trace of earthly strain. 
 
 That for her lover's loss 
 She cherishes a sorrow vain, 
 
 And murmurs at the cross. — 
 And then her heritage; — it goes 
 
 Along the bank of Tame; 
 Deep fields of grain the reaper 
 
 mows, 
 In meadows rich the heifer lows. 
 The falconer and huntsman knows 
 Its woodlands for the game. 
 Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear, 
 And I, her humble vot'ress here. 
 
 Should do a deadly sin, 
 Her temple spoil'd before mine eyes. 
 If this false Marmion such a prize ' 
 
 By my consent should win; 
 Yet hath our boisterous monarch 
 
 sworn 
 That Clare shall from our house be 
 
 torn, 
 And grievous cause have I to fear 
 Such mandate doth Lord Marmion 
 bear. 
 
 xxni. 
 
 "Now, prisoner, helpless, and be- 
 
 tray'd 
 To evil power, I claim thine aid. 
 
 By every step that thou hast trod 
 To holy shrine and grotto dim, 
 By every martyr's tortured limb, 
 By angel, saint, and seraphim, 
 
 And by the Church of God ! 
 For mark : — when Wilton was be- 
 
 tray'd, 
 And with his squire forged letters 
 
 laid, 
 She was, alas ! that sinful maid. 
 
 By whom the deed was done, — 
 O ! shame and horror to be said I 
 
 She was a perjured nun ! 
 
144 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 No clerk in all tho land, like her, 
 Traced quaint and varyinj^ character. 
 Perchance you may a marvel deem, 
 
 That Marmion's paramoi^r 
 (For such vile thing she was) should 
 scheme 
 
 Her lover's nuptial hour; 
 But o'er him thus she hoped to gain. 
 As privy to his honour's stain, 
 
 Illimitable power: 
 For this she secretly retain'd 
 
 Each proof that might the plot re- 
 veal, 
 
 Instructions with his hand and 
 ^al; 
 And thus Saint Hilda deign'd, 
 
 Through sinner's perlidy impure, 
 
 Her house's glory to secure, 
 And Clare's immortal weal. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 "Twere long, and needless, here to 
 
 tell, 
 How to my hand these papers fell ; 
 
 With me they must not stay. 
 Saint Kikla keep her Abbess true ! 
 Who knows v/hat outrage he might do 
 
 While journeying by the way ? — 
 O, blessed Saint, if e'er again 
 I venturous leave thy calm domain, 
 To travel or by land cr main, 
 
 Deep penance may I pay ! — 
 Now, saintly Palmcr,mark my jDrayer: 
 I give this packet to thy care, 
 For thee to stop they will not dare ; 
 
 And O ! with cautious speed, 
 To \Volscy's hand the papers bring, 
 That he may show them to the King: 
 
 And, for thy vv'cll-earn'd meed. 
 Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine 
 A weekly mass shall still bo thine, 
 
 While priests can sing and read. — 
 What ails't thou?— Speak !" for as he 
 
 took 
 The charge, a strong emotion shook 
 
 Ilis frame ; and, ere reply, 
 They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone. 
 Like distant clarion feebly blown, 
 
 That on the breeze did die ; 
 And loud the Abbess shriek'd in fear, 
 "Saint Withold, save us !" What is 
 here? 
 
 Look at yon City Cross ! 
 See on its battled tower appear 
 Phantoms^ that scutcheons seem to 
 rear. 
 
 And blazon'd banners toss 1" 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillar'd stone. 
 
 Hose on a turret octagon ; 
 
 (But now is razed that monument, 
 
 Whence royal edict rang, ^ 
 
 And voice of Scotland's law was sent 
 
 In glorious trumpet-clang, 
 
 ! be his tomb as lead to lead, 
 Upon its dull destroyer's head ! 
 A minstrel's malison,* is said.) 
 Then on its battlements they saw 
 A vision, passing nature's law. 
 
 Strange, wild, and dimly seen ; 
 Figures that seem'd to rise and die, 
 Gibber and sign, advance and fly, 
 While nought confirm 'd could ear or 
 eye 
 
 Discern of sound or mien. 
 Yet darkly cid it seem, as there 
 Heralds and Pursuivants prepare, 
 With trumpet sound and blazon fair, 
 
 A summons to proclaim ; 
 But indistinct the pageant proud. 
 As fancy forms of midnight cloud, 
 Y/hen flings the moon upon her 
 shroud 
 
 A wavering tinge of flame ; 
 It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud, 
 From midmost of the spectre crowd, 
 
 This awful summons came : — 
 
 XXYI. 
 
 "Prince, prelate, potentate, and 
 peer. 
 
 Whose names I now shall call, 
 Scottish or foreigner, give ear ; 
 Subjects of hiin who sent me here, 
 At his tribunrJ to appear, 
 
 I summon one and all : 
 
 1 cite you by each deadly sin. 
 That e'er hath soil'd your hearts 
 
 within : 
 I cite you by each brutal lust, 
 That e'er defll'd your earthly dust, — 
 By wrath, by pride, by fear, 
 
 * Curse. 
 
MABMION. 
 
 145 
 
 Cy eacli o'cr-mastering passion's tone, 
 By tlie dark grave, and dying groan ! 
 When forty days are pass'd and gone, 
 I cite you, at your ]\Ionarcli's throne, 
 
 To answer and appear." 
 Then thunder 'd forth a roll of names : 
 The first was thine, unhappy James ! 
 
 Then all thy nobles came ; 
 Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Ar- 
 gyll, 
 Boss, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, 
 
 Lylo,— 
 Why chould I tell their separate 
 stylo? 
 
 Each chief of birth and fame, 
 Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, 
 Forc-doom'd to Floddcn's carnage 
 pile, 
 
 \Jc2 cited there by name ; 
 And Ilarmion, Lord of Fcntcnaye, 
 Cf Lutterward, and Ccrivelbayc ; 
 Do Y/ilton, crct of Aberlcy, 
 The self-same thundering voice did 
 say.— 
 
 But then another spoho : 
 "Thy ioXcl Eummons I deny, 
 And thine infernal Lord defy, 
 Appealing me to Ilim on Ilic^, 
 
 ^7ho buret the cinncr's yohe." 
 At that dread accent, v/ith a scream. 
 Parted the pageant lilio a dream, 
 
 The Gummoncr was gone. 
 Prone on her face tho Abbess fell, 
 And fact, and fast, her beads did tell; 
 Her nuna came, startled by the yell, 
 
 And found her there alone. 
 She marli'd not, at the scene aghast, 
 WTiat time, or how, the Palmer x)ass'd. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Shift we the scene. — The camp doth 
 move, 
 
 Dun-Edin's streets are empty now. 
 Save when, for weal of those they love, 
 
 Topray the prayer, and vow the vov/, 
 The tottering child, the anxious fair, 
 The grey-hair'd sire, with pious care, 
 To chapels and to shrines repair — 
 Y/here is the Palmer now ? and where 
 The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare? — 
 Bold Douglas ! to Tantallon fair 
 
 They journey in thy charge: 
 
 Lord Marmion rode on his right 
 
 hand, 
 The Palmer still was with the band; 
 Angus, like Lindesay, did command, 
 
 That none should roam at large. 
 But in that Palmer's altered mien, 
 Awondrouschangemightnowbe seen, 
 
 Freely he spoke of war, 
 Of marvels wrought by single hand, 
 V/hen lifted for a native land; 
 And still look'd high, as if heplann'd 
 
 Some desperate deed afar. 
 Ilis courser would he feed and stroke, 
 And, tucking up his sable frocke, 
 Would first his mettle bold provoke, 
 
 Then soothe or quell his pride. 
 Old Hubert said, that never one 
 lie saw, except Lord Marmion, 
 
 A steed so fairly ride. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Gome naif-hour's march behind, there 
 came. 
 By Eustace govern'd fair, 
 A troop escorting Hilda's Dame, 
 With all her nuns, and Clare. 
 No audience had Lord Marmion 
 sought; 
 Ever be fear'd to aggravate 
 Clara do Clare's suspicious hate; 
 And safer 'twas, he thouj^ht. 
 To wait till, from the ni:ns removed. 
 The influence of kinsmen loved, 
 And suit by Henry's self approved, 
 Her slow consent had wrought. 
 His wasno flickering flame, that dies 
 Unless when fann'd by looks and 
 
 sighs. 
 And lighted oft at lady's eyes; 
 He long'd to stretch his vade com- 
 mand 
 O'er luckless Clara's ample bnd: 
 BesidcSjWhenWilton v/lth him vied, 
 Although the pang of humbled pride 
 The place cf joalousy supplied. 
 Yet conquest by that meanness won 
 He almost loath'd to think upon. 
 Led him, at times, to hate the cause, 
 WTiich made him burst through hon- 
 our's laws. 
 If e'er ho loved, 'twas her alone. 
 Who died within that vault of stone. 
 
14^ 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And now. when close at hand they saw 
 North Berwick's town, and lofty Law, 
 Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile, 
 Before a venerable pile,* 
 
 Whose turrets \iew'd, afar, 
 The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 
 
 The ocean's peace or war. 
 At tolling of a bell, forth came 
 The convent's venerable Dame, 
 And pray'd Saint Hilda's Abbess rest 
 With her, alovedandhonour'd guest, 
 Till Douglas should a bark prepare 
 To waft her back to Whitby fair. 
 Glad was the Abbess, you may guess, 
 And thank'd the Scottish Prioress; 
 And tedious were to tell, I ween, 
 The courteous speech that pass'd be- 
 tween. 
 
 O'erjoy'd the nuns their palfreys 
 leave ; 
 But when fair Clara did intend, 
 Like them, from horseback to descend, 
 
 Fitz-Eustace said, — "I grieve. 
 Fair lady, grieve e'en from my heart, 
 Such gentle company to part; — 
 
 Think not discourtesy. 
 But lords' commands must be obey 'd ; 
 And Mai*mion and the Douglas said, 
 
 That you must wend with mo. 
 Lord Marmion hath a letter broad, 
 Which to the Scottish Earl ho Lhow'd, 
 Commanding that, beneath his care, 
 Without delay, you shall repair 
 To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz- 
 Clare." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The startled Abbess loud exclaim'd ; 
 
 But she, at whom the blow was aim'd. 
 
 Grew pale as death, and cold as 
 lead, — 
 
 She deem'd she heard her death- 
 doom read. 
 
 "Cheer thee, my child!" the Ab- 
 bess said, 
 
 " They dare not tear thee from my 
 hand. 
 
 To ride alone with armed band.'* 
 " Nay, holy mother, nay," 
 
 * A convent of Cistertian nuns, founded by 
 the Earl of File in 1216. 
 
 Fitz-Eustace said, " the lovely Clare 
 Will be in Lady Angus' care. 
 
 In Scotland while we stay; 
 And, when we move, an easy ride 
 Will bring us to the English side. 
 Female attendance to provide 
 
 Befitting Gloster's heir: 
 Nor thinks nor dreams my noble lord. 
 By slightest look, or act, or word, 
 
 To harass Lady Claro. 
 Her faithful guardian he will be, 
 Nor sue for slightest courtesy 
 
 That e'en to stranger falls, 
 Till he shall place her, safe and free. 
 
 Within her kinsman's halls." 
 He spoke, and blush'd with earnest 
 
 grace; 
 His faith was painted on his face, 
 
 And Clare's worst fear relieved. 
 The Lady Abbess loud exelaim'd 
 On Henry, and the Douglas blamed. 
 
 Entreated, threaten'd, grieved; 
 To martyr, saint, and prophet pray'd. 
 Against Lord ]\Iarmion inveigh'd. 
 And call'd the Prioress to aid. 
 To curse with candle, bell, and book. 
 Her head the grave Cistertian shook: 
 " The Douglas, and the King,'' she 
 
 said, 
 "In their commands will be obey'd; 
 Grieve not, nor dream that harm can 
 
 fall^ 
 The maiden in Tantallon hall." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The Abbess, seeing strife was vain. 
 Assumed her wonted state again, — 
 
 For much of state she had, — 
 Composed her veil, and raised her 
 
 head, 
 And — "Bid," in solemn voice she 
 said, 
 " Thy master, bold and bad. 
 The records of his house turn o'er. 
 And, when he shall there written 
 
 see, 
 That one of his own ancestry 
 Drove the monks forth of Coven- 
 ,try,_ 
 Bid him his fate explore ! 
 
 Prancing in pride of earthly trust. 
 His charger hurl'd him to the dust. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 147 
 
 And, by a base plebeian thrust, 
 He died his band before. 
 God judge 'twixt Marmion and me; 
 He is aChief of high degree, 
 And I a poor recluse: 
 " Yet oft, in holy writ, we see 
 
 Even such weak minister as me 
 May the oppressor bruise : 
 For thus, inspired, did Judith slay 
 
 The mighty in his sin, 
 And Jaelthus, and Deborah," — 
 Here hasty Blount broke in: 
 " Fitz-Eustace, we must march our 
 
 band, 
 St. Anton' fire thee ! wilt thou stand 
 All day, with bonnet in thy hand, 
 
 To hear the lady preach ? , 
 By this good light ! if thus we stay, 
 'Lord Marmion, for our fond delay, 
 
 "Will sharper sermon teach. 
 Come, don thy cap, and mount thy 
 
 horse; 
 The Dame must patience take per- 
 force." — 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 said 
 
 "Submit we then to force, 
 
 Clare, 
 "But let this barbarous lord despair 
 
 His purposed aim to win; 
 Let him take living, land, and life : 
 But to be Marmion's wedded wife 
 
 In me were deadly sin: 
 And if it be the King's decree 
 That I must hnd no sanctuary. 
 In that inviolable dome, 
 Where even a homicide might come, 
 
 And safely rest his head. 
 Though at its open portals stood. 
 Thirsting to pour forth blood for 
 blood, 
 
 The kinsmen of the dead; 
 Yet one asylum is my own 
 
 Against the dreaded hour; 
 A low, a silent, and a lone, 
 
 AVhere kings have little power. 
 One victim is before me there. — 
 Mother, your blessing, and in prayer, 
 Bemember your unhappy Clare !" 
 Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows 
 
 Kind blessings many a one: 
 "Weeping and wailing loud arose, 
 
 Round patient Clare, the clamorous 
 woes 
 Of every simple nun. 
 His eyes the gentle Eustace dried, 
 And scarce rude Blount the sight 
 could bide. 
 Then took the squire her rein. 
 And gently led away her steed. 
 And, by each courteous word and 
 deed. 
 To cheer her strove in vain. 
 
 xxxin. 
 
 But scant three miles the band had 
 rode, 
 When o'er a height they pass'd, 
 And, sudden, close before them 
 show'd 
 His towers, Tantallon vast; 
 Broad, massive, high, and stretching 
 
 far, 
 And held impregnable in war. 
 On a projecting rock they rose. 
 And round three sides the ocean 
 
 flows, 
 The fourth did battled walls enclose. 
 
 And double mound and fosse. 
 By narrow drawbridge, outworks 
 
 strong. 
 Through studded gates, an entrance 
 long. 
 To the main court they cross. 
 It was a wide and stately square: 
 Around were lodgings, fit and fair, 
 
 And towers of various form. 
 Which on the court projected far. 
 And broke its lines quadrangular. 
 Here was square keep, there turret 
 
 high, 
 Or pinnacle that sought the sky, 
 Whence oft the warder could descry 
 The gathering ocean storm. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Here did they rest, — the princely care 
 Of Douglas, why should I declare, 
 Or say they met reception fair ? 
 
 Or why the tidings say, 
 Which, varying, to Tantallon came, 
 By hurrying posts or fleeter fame, 
 
 With every varying day? 
 And, first they heard King James \\:v\ 
 won 
 
148 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and 
 then, 
 
 That Norham Castle strong was 
 ta'en. 
 At that sore marvell'd Marmion; — 
 And Douglas hoped his Monarch's 
 
 hand 
 "Would soon subdue Northumberland : 
 
 But whisper'd news there came, 
 That, while his host inactive lay. 
 And melted by degrees away, 
 King James was dallying off the day 
 
 With Keron'swily dame.— 
 Such acts t'j chronicles I yield; 
 
 Go seek them there, an I see: 
 Mine is a tale of Flodden Field, 
 
 And not a history. — 
 At length they heard the Scottish host 
 On that high ridge had made their 
 post, 
 
 Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain; 
 And that brave Surrey many a band 
 Had gather'd in the Southern land, 
 And march'd into Northumberland, 
 
 And camp at Wooler ta'en. 
 Marmion, like charger ia the stall. 
 That hears, without, the trumpet-call, 
 
 Began to chafe, and swear: — 
 *' A sorry thing to hide my head 
 In castle, like a fearful maid. 
 
 When such a field is near ! 
 Needs must I see this battle-day: 
 Death to my fame if such a fray 
 Were fought, and I\Iarmion away ! 
 The Douglas, too, I wot not why, 
 Hath 'bated of his courtesy: 
 No longer in his halls I'll stay." 
 Then bade his band they should array 
 For march against the dawning day. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
 SIXTH. 
 
 TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ. 
 Mertoim-IIouse, Christmas. 
 Heap on more wood ! — the wind is 
 
 chill ; 
 But let it whistle as it will, 
 W^e'll keep our Christmas merry still. 
 Each age has deem'd the new-born 
 
 year 
 The fittest time for festal cheer : 
 
 Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane, 
 At lol more deep the mead did 
 
 drain ; 
 High on the beach his galleys drew, 
 And feasted all his pirate crew ; 
 Then in his low and pine-built hall, 
 Where shields and axes deck'd the 
 
 wall 
 They gorged upon the half dress'd 
 
 steer ; 
 Caroused in seas of sable beer ; 
 While round, in brutal ;^est, were 
 
 thrown 
 The half-gnaw' d rib and marrow- 
 bone: 
 Or listen 'd all, in grim delight. 
 While Scalds yell'd out the joys of 
 
 fight. 
 Then forthjin frenzy, would they hie, 
 While, wildly-loose their red locks fly, 
 And dancing round the blazing pile. 
 They make such barbarous mirth the 
 
 while, 
 As best might to the mind recall 
 The boisterous joys of Odin's hall. 
 
 And well our Christian sires of old 
 Loved when the year iis course had 
 
 roU'd, 
 And brought blithe Christmas back 
 
 again. 
 With all his hospitable train. 
 Domestic and religious rita 
 Gave honour to tho holy night ; 
 On Christmas-eve the bells were rung; 
 On Christmas-evo tho mass was sung: 
 That only night in all the year. 
 Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 
 The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen; 
 The hall was dress'd with holy green; 
 Forth to the wood did merry-men go, 
 To gather in the mistletoe. 
 Then open'd wide the Baron's hall 
 To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; 
 Power laid his rod of rule aside, 
 And Ceremony doff'd his pride. 
 The heir, with roses in his shoes, 
 That night might village partner 
 
 choose ; 
 The lord, underogating, share 
 The vulgar game of " post and pair. "* 
 
 * An old game at cards. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 149 
 
 All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight, 
 And general voice, tho happy night, 
 That to the cottage, as the crown, 
 Brought tidings of salvation down. 
 
 The fire, with well-dried logs sup- 
 plied, 
 "Went roaring up the chimney wide ; 
 The huge hnll-table's oaken lace, 
 Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to 
 
 grace, 
 Bore then upon its massive board 
 No mark to jDart the squire and lord. 
 Then was brought in the lusty brawn, 
 By old blue-coated serving-man ; 
 Then the grim boar's head frown 'd 
 
 on high. 
 Crested with bays and rosemary. 
 Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell, 
 How, when, and where, tho monster 
 
 fell; 
 What dogs before his death he tore. 
 And all the baiting of the boar. 
 The wassel round, in good brown 
 
 bowls, 
 Garnish' d with ribbons, blithely 
 
 trowls. 
 There the huge sirloin reek'd ; hard by 
 Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas 
 
 pie; 
 Ilor fail'd old Scotland to produce, 
 At such high-tide, her savoury goose. 
 Then came the merry maskers in, 
 And carols roar'd with blithesome 
 
 din ; 
 If unmelodious was the song, 
 It was a hearty note, and strong, 
 ^7ho lists may in their mumming 
 
 see 
 Traces of ancient mystery ; 
 White shirtssuppliedthe masquerade, 
 And smutted cheeks the visors made; 
 But, 1 what maskers, richly dight. 
 Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 
 England was merry England, when 
 Old Christmas brought his sports 
 
 again. 
 'Twas Christmas broach 'd the might- 
 iest ale ; 
 'Twas Christmas told the merriest 
 
 tale ; 
 A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
 
 The poor man's heart through half 
 the year. 
 
 Still linger, in our northern clime. 
 Some remnants of the good old time; 
 And still, within our valleys here, 
 We hold the kindred title dear, 
 Even when, perchance, its far-fetch'd 
 
 claim 
 To Southron ear sounds empty name; 
 For course of blood, our proverbs 
 
 deem. 
 Is warmer than the mountain-stream, * 
 And thus, my Christmas still I hold t 
 Where my great grandsire came of 
 
 old. 
 With amber beard, and flaxen hair. 
 And reverend apostolic air — 
 The feast and holy-tide to share. 
 And mix sobriety with wine, 
 And honest mirth with thoughts di- 
 vine: 
 Small thought was his, in after time 
 E'er to be hitch'd into a rhyme. 
 The simple sire could only boast, 
 That he was loyal to his cost; 
 The banish'd race of kings revered, 
 And lost his land, — but kept his 
 beard. 
 
 In these dear halls, where welcome 
 
 kind 
 Is with fair liberty combined; 
 Where cordial friendship gives the 
 
 hand. 
 And flies constraint the magic wand 
 Of the fair dame that rules the land. 
 Little WG heed the tempest drear, 
 While music, mirth, and social cheer. 
 Speed on their wings the passing 
 
 year. 
 And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en 
 
 now, 
 When not a leaf is on the bough. 
 Tweed loves them well, and turns 
 
 again. 
 As loath to Ipave the sweet domain, 
 And holds his mirror to her face, 
 And clips her with a close embrace: — 
 Gladly as he, we seek the dome, 
 And as reluctant turn us home. 
 
 * ' ' Blood is warmer thau water." 
 
^SO 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 How just that, fit this time of glee, 
 My thoughts should, Heber, turn to 
 
 thee! 
 For many a merry hour we've known, 
 And heard the chimes of midnight's 
 
 tone. 
 Cease, then, my friend ! a moment 
 
 cease, 
 And leave these classic tomes in peace! 
 Of Roman andof Grecian lore, 
 JSuje mortal brain can hold no more. 
 These ancients, as Noll Bluff might 
 
 say, 
 *'Were pretty fellows in their day;" 
 But time and tide o'er all prevail — 
 On Christmas eve a Christmas tale— 
 Of wonder and of war — "Profane ; 
 What ! leave the lofty Latian strain. 
 Her stately prose, her verse's charms, 
 To hear the clash of rusty arms: 
 In Fairy Land or Limbo lost. 
 To jostle conjurer and ghost. 
 Goblin and witch !" — Nay, Heber 
 
 dear, 
 Before you touch my charter, hear: 
 Though Leyden aids, alas ! no more, 
 My cause with many-languaged lore. 
 This may I say: — in realms of death 
 Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith; 
 JEneas, upon Thracia's shore, 
 The ghost of murder'd Polydore; 
 For omens, we in Livy cross, 
 At every turn, locidus Bos. 
 As grave and duly speaks that ox. 
 As if he told the price of stocks ; 
 Or held, in Home republican. 
 The place of common-councilman. 
 
 All nations have their omens drear, 
 Their legends wild of woe and fear. 
 To Cambria look— the peasant see. 
 Bethink him of Glendowerdy, 
 And shun "the spirit's Blasted 
 
 Tree."* 
 The Highlander, whose red claymore 
 The battle turn'd on Maida's shore, 
 "Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, 
 If ask'd to tell a fairy tale: 
 
 * Alluding to the Welsh tradition of How- 
 el Sell and Owen Glendwr. Howel fell in 
 single combat against Glendwr, and his body- 
 was concealed iu a hoUow oak, 
 
 He fearS the vengeful Elfin King, 
 Who leaves that day his grassy ring: 
 Invisible to human ken. 
 He walks among the sons of men. 
 
 Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along 
 Beneath the towers of Franchemont, 
 Which, like an eagle's nest in air. 
 Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair? 
 Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, 
 A mighty treasure buried lay. 
 Amass d througn rapine and through 
 
 wrong 
 By the last Lord of Franchemont. 
 The iron chest is bolted hard, 
 A huntsman sits, its constant guard; 
 Around his neck his horn is hung, 
 Ilis hanger ia his belt is slung; 
 Before his feet his blood-hounds lie. 
 And 'twere not for his gloomy eye, 
 WTiose withering glance no heart can 
 
 brook. 
 As true a huntsman doth he look. 
 As bugle e'er in brake did sound, 
 Or ever holloo'd to a hound. 
 To chase the fiend, and win the prize 
 In that same dungeon ever tries 
 An aged necromantic priest; 
 It is an hundred years at least, 
 Since 'twixt them first the strife be- 
 gun, 
 And neither yet has lost nor won. 
 And oft the Conjurer's words will 
 
 make 
 The stubbon Demon groan and quake; 
 And oft the bands of iron break. 
 Or bursts one lock, that still amain, 
 Fast as 'tis open'd, shuts again. 
 That magic strife within the tomb 
 May last until the day of doom. 
 Unless the adept shall learn to tell 
 The very word that clench'd the speL, 
 When Franch'mont lock'd the treas- 
 ure cell. 
 An hundred years are pass'd and 
 
 gone. 
 And scarce three letters has he won. 
 
 Such general superstition may 
 Excuse for old Pitscottie say; 
 Whose gossip history has given 
 My song the messenger from Heaven, 
 
MARMION. 
 
 151 
 
 That warn'd, in Lithgow, Scotland's 
 
 King, 
 Nor less the infernal summoning; 
 May pas3 tho Monk of Durham's tale, 
 Whose demon fought in Gothic mail ; 
 May pardon plead for Fordun grave, 
 Who told of Gifford's Goblin-Cave. 
 But why such instances to you, 
 Who, in an instant, can renew 
 Your treasured hoards of various lore, 
 And furnish twenty thousand more ; 
 Hoards, not like theirs whose vol- 
 umes rest 
 Like treasures in the Franch'mont 
 
 chest, 
 While gripplo owners still refuse 
 To others what they cannot use; 
 Give them tho priest's whole century, 
 They shall not spell you letters three ; 
 Their pleasure in the books the same 
 The magpie takes in pilfer'd gem. 
 Thy volumes, open as thy heart. 
 Delight, amusement, science, art. 
 To every ear and eyo impart; 
 Yet who of all who thus employ them. 
 Can like the owner's self enjoy 
 
 them ? — 
 But, hark ! I hear the distant drum ! 
 The day of Flodden Field is come. — 
 Adieu, dear Heber ! life and health. 
 And store of literary wealth. 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 
 The Battle. 
 
 L 
 
 While great events were on the gale. 
 And each hour brought a varying tale. 
 And the demeanour, changed and 
 
 cold. 
 Of Douglas, fretted Marmion bold. 
 And, like the impatient steed of war. 
 He snuff'd the battle from afar; 
 And hopes were none, that back again 
 Herald should come from Terouenne, 
 Where England's King in leaguer lay. 
 Before decisive battle-day; 
 Whilst these things were, the mourn- 
 ful Clare 
 Did in the Dame's devotions share: 
 For the good Countess ceaseless 
 pray'd 
 
 To Heaven and Saints, her sons to aid, 
 And, with short interval, did pass 
 From prayer to book, from book to 
 
 mass, 
 And all in high Baronial pride, — 
 A life both dull and dignified ; — 
 Yet as Lord Marmion nothing press'd 
 Upon her intervals of rest, 
 Dejected Clara well could bear 
 The formal state, the lengthen'd 
 
 prayer. 
 Though dearest to her wounded heart 
 The hours that she might spend apart. 
 
 II. 
 
 I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep 
 Hung o'er the margin of the deep. 
 Many a rude tower and rampart there 
 Kepell'd the insult of the air, 
 Which, when the tempest vex'd the 
 
 sky, 
 Half breeze, half spray, came whis- 
 tling by. 
 Above the rest, a turret square 
 Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear, 
 Of sculpture rude, a stony shield; 
 The Bloody Heart was in the Field, 
 And in the chief three mullets stood. 
 The cognizance of Douglas blood. 
 The turret held a narrow stair, 
 Which, mounted, gave you access 
 
 where 
 A parapet's embattled row 
 Did seaward round the castle go. 
 Sometimes in dizzy steps descending. 
 Sometimes in narrow circuit bending. 
 Sometimes in platform broad extend- 
 ing. 
 Its varying circle did combine 
 Bulwark, and bartizan, and line, 
 And bastion, tower, and vantage- 
 coign; 
 Above the booming ocean leant 
 The far-projecting battlement; 
 The billows burst, in ceaseless flow, 
 Upon the precipice below. 
 Where'er Tantallon faced the land, 
 Gate-works, and walls, were strongly 
 
 mann'd ; 
 No need upon the sea-girt side; 
 The steepy rock, and Irantic tide^ 
 Approach of human step denied; 
 
1^2 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 And thus these lines and ramparts 
 
 rude, 
 Were left in deepest solitude. 
 
 m. 
 
 And, for they were so lonely, Clare 
 Would to these battlements repair, 
 And muse upon her sorrows there, 
 
 And list the sea-bird's cry; 
 Or slow, like noontide ghost, v/ould 
 
 glide 
 Along the dark-grey bulwarks' side, 
 And ever on the heaving tide 
 
 Look down with weary eye. 
 Oft did the clilf and sv/elling main, 
 Kecall the thoughts of Whitby's fane, 
 A home she ne'er might see again; 
 
 For she had laid adown, 
 So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, 
 And frontlet of the cloister pale, 
 
 And Benedictine gown: 
 It were unseemly sight, he said, 
 A novice out of convent shade. — 
 Now her bright locks, with sunny 
 
 glow. 
 Again adorn'd her brow of snow; 
 Her mantle rich, whose borders, 
 
 round, 
 A deep and fretted broidery bound. 
 In golden foldings sought the ground; 
 Of holy ornament, alone 
 Kemain'd a cross with ruby stone; 
 
 And often did she look 
 On that which in her hand she 
 
 bore, 
 Vvlth velvet bound, and broider'do'er, 
 . Her breviary book. 
 In such a place, so lone, so grim, 
 At dawning pale, or twilight dim. 
 
 It fearful would have been 
 To meet a form so'richiy dress'd. 
 With book in hand, and cross on 
 breast, 
 
 And such a woeful mien. 
 Fitz-Eastace, loitering with his bow, 
 To ijractise on the gull and crow, 
 Saw her, at distance, gliding slow. 
 
 And did by Mary swear, — 
 Some love-lorn Fay she might have 
 
 been, 
 Or^ in Romance, some spell-bound 
 Queen; 
 
 For ne'er, in work-day v/orld,was seen 
 A form so witching fair. 
 
 IV. 
 Once walking thus, at evening tide, i 
 It chanced a gliding sail she spied, 
 And, sighing, thought — " The Ab- 
 bess, there, 
 Perchance, does to her home repair; 
 Her peaceful rule, where Duty, freo, 
 Walks hand in hand with Charity; 
 Where oft Devotion's tranced glow 
 Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow. 
 That the enraptured sisters see 
 High vision and deep mystery; 
 The very form of Hilda fair, 
 Hovering upon the sunny air. 
 And smiling on her votaries' prayer. 
 ! wherefore, to my duller eye, 
 Did still the Saint her form deny ! 
 Was it, that, sear'd by sinful scorn, 
 My heart could neither melt nor burn? 
 Or lie my warm affections low, 
 With him, that taught them first to 
 
 glow? 
 Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew, 
 To pay thy kindness grateful due, 
 And well could brook the mild com- 
 mand, 
 That ruled thy simple maiden band. 
 How different now! condemn'dtobide 
 My doom from this dark tyrant's 
 
 pride. — 
 But Marmioii has to learn, ere long. 
 That constant mind, and hate of 
 
 wrong, 
 Descended to a feeble girl. 
 From Red De Clare, stout Gloster's 
 
 Earl: 
 Of such a stem, a sapling weak. 
 He ne'er shall bend, although he 
 break. 
 
 V. 
 "But see! what makes this armour 
 here?"— 
 For in her path there lay 
 Targe, corslet, helm;— she view'd 
 
 them near. — 
 ''The breast-plate pierced! — Ay, 
 
 much I fear. 
 Weak fence wert thou *gainst foe- 
 man's spear, 
 
MARMIOK. 
 
 153 
 
 That hatli made fatal entrance here, 
 
 As these dark blood-gouts say. — 
 Thus Yvilton!— Oh! not corslet's ward, 
 Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, 
 Could bo thy manly bosom's guard, 
 
 On yon disastrous day ! " — 
 Che raised her eyes in mournful 
 
 mood, — 
 Wilton himself before her stood ! 
 It might have seem'd his passing 
 
 ghost. 
 For every youthful grace was lost; 
 And joy unwonted, and surprise. 
 Gave their strange wildness to his 
 
 eyes. — 
 Expect not, noble dames and lords, 
 That I can tell such scene in woods: 
 AYhat skilful limner e'er vrould choose 
 To paint the rainbov/'s varying hues, 
 Unless to mortal it were given 
 To dip his brush in dyes of heaven ? 
 Far less can my weak line declare 
 
 Each changing passion's shade; 
 Brightening to rapture from despair, 
 Sorrow, surprise, and pity there. 
 And joy, with her angelio air, 
 And hope, that paints the future fair. 
 
 Their varying hues display'd: 
 Each o'er its rival's ground extending, 
 Alternate conquering, shifting, blend- 
 in*^ 
 Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield, 
 And mighty Love retains the field. 
 Shortly I tell v/hat then he said, 
 Ey many a tender v/ord delay'd, 
 And modest blush, and bursting sigh. 
 And question kind, and fond reply: — 
 
 VI. 
 
 De Wilton's History. 
 
 " Forget we that disastrous day, 
 When senseless in the lists I lay. 
 Thence dragg'd, — but how I can- 
 not know, 
 For sense and recollection fled, — 
 I found me on a pallet low, 
 Y/ithin my ancient beadsman's 
 shed. 
 Austin, — remember' st thou, my 
 Clare, 
 How thou didst blush, when the old 
 man. 
 
 When first our infant love began. 
 
 Said we would make a matchless 
 pair ? — 
 Menials, and friends,and kinsmen fled 
 From the degraded traitor's bed, — 
 He only held my burning head, 
 And tended me for many a day, 
 Y/hile wounds and fever held their 
 
 sway. 
 But far more needful wa?> his care, 
 When sense return'd to wake despair; 
 
 For I did tear the closing wound, 
 
 And dash me frantic on the ground. 
 If e'er I heard the name of Clare. 
 At length, to calmer reason brought, 
 Much by his kind attendance 
 wrought, 
 
 Y/ith him I left my native strand, 
 And, in a palmer's weeds array'd. 
 My hated name and form to shade, 
 
 I journey'd many a \ind; 
 ITo more a lord of rank and birth, 
 But mingled with the dregs of earth. 
 
 Oft Austin for my reason f ear'd, 
 When I would sit, and deeply brood 
 On dark revenge, and deeds of blood, 
 
 Or wild mad schemes uprear'd. 
 My friend at length fell sick, and said, 
 
 God would remove him soon: 
 And, while upon his dying bed, 
 
 lie begg'd of me a boon — 
 If e'er my deadliest enemy 
 Beneath my brand should conquer'd 
 
 lie, 
 Even then my mercy should awake, 
 And spare his life for Austin's sake. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Still restless as a second Cain, 
 
 To Scotland next my route was ta'en, 
 
 Full well the paths I knew. 
 Fame of my fate made various sound, 
 That death in pilgrimage I found. 
 That I had perish'd of my wound. 
 
 None cared which tale was true; 
 And living eye could never guess 
 Do Wilton in his Palmer's dress; 
 For now that sable slough is shed. 
 And trimm'd my shaggy beard and 
 
 liCad, 
 I scarcely know me in the glass. 
 A chance most wondrous did provide, 
 
154 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 That I should be that Baron's guide — 
 
 I will not name his name ! — 
 Vengeance to God alone belongs; 
 But, when I tliink on all my wrongs, 
 
 My blood is liquid flame ! 
 And ne'er the time shall 1 forget, 
 When, in a Scottish hostel set, 
 
 Dark looks we did exchange: 
 "What were his thoughts I cannot tell; 
 But in my bosom muster'd Hell 
 
 Its plans of dark revenge. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " A word of vulgar augury, 
 That broke from me, I scarce knew 
 why, 
 
 Brought on a village tale; 
 Which wrought upon his moody 
 
 sprite, 
 And sent him armed forth by night. 
 
 Iborrow'd steed and mail, 
 And weapons, from his sleeping band; 
 
 And, passing from a postern door. 
 We met, and 'counter'd hand to 
 hand, — 
 
 He fell on Gifford moor. 
 For the death-stroke my brand I drew, 
 (O then my helmed head he knew, 
 
 The Palmer's cowl was gone, ) 
 Then had three inches of my blade 
 The heavy debt of vengeance paid, — 
 My hand the thought of Austin staid, 
 
 I left him there alone.— 
 O good old man ! even from the grave 
 Thy spirit could thy master save: 
 If I had slain my foeman, ne'er 
 Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear, 
 Given to my hand this packet dear, 
 Of power to clear my injured fame. 
 And vindicate De Wilton's name. — 
 Perchance you heard the Abbess tell 
 Of the strange pageantry of Hell, 
 
 That broke our secret speech — 
 It rose from the infernal shade, 
 Or featly was some juggle play'd, 
 
 A tale of peace to teach. 
 Appeal to Heaven I judged was best. 
 When my name came among the rest. 
 
 IX. 
 
 "Now here, within Tantallon Hold, 
 To Douglas late my tale I told, 
 
 To whom my house was known of 
 
 old. 
 Won by my proofs, his falchion bright 
 This eve anew shall dub me knight. 
 These were the arms that once did 
 
 turn 
 The tide of fight on Otterburne, 
 And Harry Hotspur forced to yield, 
 Y/hen tlio Dead Douglas won the 
 
 field.* 
 These Angus gave — his armourer's 
 
 care, 
 Ere morn shall every breach repair; 
 For nought, he said, was in his halls, 
 But ancient armour on the walls, 
 And aged chargers in the stalls, 
 And women, priests, and grey-hair'd 
 
 men; 
 The rest were all in Twisel glen.f 
 And now I watch my armour here. 
 By law of arms, till midnight's near; 
 Then, once again a belted knight, 
 Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of 
 
 light. 
 
 X. 
 
 '* There soon again we meet, my 
 
 ^ Clare ! 
 This Baron means to guide thee there: 
 Douglas reveres his King's command, 
 Else would he take thee from his 
 
 band. 
 And there thy kinsman, Surrey, too. 
 Will give De Wilton justice due. 
 Now meeter far for martial broil, 
 Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil. 
 Once more " — " O Wilton ! must we 
 
 then 
 Eisk new-found happiness again. 
 
 Trust fate of arms once more ? 
 And is there not an 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 ; 
 
 * See the ballad of Otterbourne, in the 
 "Border Minstrelsy," vol. i. p. 345. 
 
 f Where James encamped before talking 
 post on Floddeii, 
 
MARMIOK 
 
 155 
 
 Go then to fight 1 Clare bids thee go ! 
 Clare can a warrior's feelings know, 
 
 And weep a warrior's shame; 
 Can Eed Earl Gilbert's spirit feel, 
 Buckle the spurs upon (by 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 slumber- 
 ing lay, _ 
 Andpour'd its silver light, and pure, 
 Through loop-hole, and through em- 
 brazure, 
 
 Upon Tantallon tower and hall ; 
 But chief where arched windows wide 
 Illuminate the chapel's pride, 
 
 The sober glances fall, 
 ^iluch w^as their need; though seam'd 
 
 wioh scars. 
 Two veterans of the Douglas* wars. 
 
 Though two {^rey priests v/ere 
 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 li^ht, 
 Chequering the silver moon-shine 
 bright, 
 
 A bishop by the altar stood, * 
 
 A noblo lord of Douglas blood, 
 With mitro g -.een, and rocquet white. 
 Yet show'd his meek and thoughtful 
 
 eye 
 But little pride of prelacy; 
 Lloro pleased that, in a barbarous age, 
 He gave rudo Scotland Virgil's page, 
 Than that beneath bis rule he held 
 The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. 
 Beside him ancient Angus stood, 
 DofE'd his f urr'd gown, and sable hood ; 
 O'er his huge form and visage pale, 
 He wore a cap and shirt of mail; 
 And lean'd his large and wrinkled 
 
 ^hand 
 Upon tho huge and sweeping brand 
 
 * The well-known Gawain Doudas. Bishop 
 of Dunkeld, sou of Archibald Bell-the-Cat, 
 Earl of An us. lie Avas author of a Scottish 
 metrical ^ ersion of the ^Eneid, and of many 
 other poetical pieces of jrreat merit. Ho had, 
 uot ut ihis period attained the mitre. 
 
 Which wont of yore, in battle fray, 
 His foeman's limbs to shred away. 
 As wood-knifo lops the sapling 
 spray. 
 He seem'd as, from the tombs 
 around 
 liising 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; 
 And think what next he must have 
 
 felt. 
 At buckling of the falchion belt ! 
 
 And judge how Clara changed her 
 hue. 
 While fastening to her lover's side 
 A friend, which, though in danger 
 tried. 
 
 He once had found untrue ! 
 Then Douglas struck him with his 
 
 blade: 
 ' ' St. Michael and St. Andrew aid, 
 
 I dub thee knight. 
 Arise, Sir Balph, De Wilton's heir ! 
 For, Kincr, for Church, for Lady fair. 
 
 See that thou fight."— 
 And Bishop Gawain, as he rose, 
 Said — "Wilton! grieve not for thy 
 woes, 
 
 Disgrace, and trouble: 
 For He , who honour best bestows, 
 
 ]\Iay give thee double." 
 De Wilton sobb'd, for sob he must — 
 "■ Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust 
 
 That Douglas is my brother !" 
 "Nay, nay, "old Angus said, '-not so; 
 To Surrey's cam]D thou now must go, 
 
 Thy wrongs no longer smother. 
 I have two sons in yonder field, 
 And, if thou meet'st them under 
 
 shield, 
 Upon them bravely — do thy worst ; 
 And foul fall him that blenches first !" 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Not far advanced was morning day. 
 When Marmion did his troop array 
 
156 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 To Surrey's camp to ride ; 
 He had safe conduct lor his band, 
 Beneath the royal seal and hand. 
 
 And Douglas gave a guide : 
 The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 
 Would Clara on her palfrey place, 
 And whisper'd in an under tone, 
 "Let the hawk stoop, his prey is 
 
 flown."— 
 The train from out the castle drew, 
 But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu : — 
 "Though something I might 
 
 plain," he said, 
 •• Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
 Sent hither by your King's behest, 
 
 While in Tantallon's towers I staid; 
 Part wo in friendship from your 
 
 land, 
 And, noble Earl, receive my hand." — 
 But Douglas round him drew his 
 
 cloak. 
 Folded his arms, and thus ho spoke: — 
 "My manors, halls, and bowers, shall 
 
 still 
 Be open, at my Sovereign's will, 
 To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
 Unmeet to bo the owner's peer. 
 My castles aro my King's alone, 
 From turret to foundation-stone — 
 The hand of Douglas is his own ; 
 And never shall in friendly grasp 
 The hand of such as Marmion clasp."— 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek 
 
 like fire, 
 And shook his very frame for ire, 
 
 And— "This to me !" he said, — 
 "An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
 Such hand as Marmion's had not 
 spared 
 
 To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
 And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 
 He, who does England's message 
 
 here. 
 Although the meanest in her state, 
 May well, proud Angus, be thy mate ; 
 And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 
 
 Even in thy pitch of pride. 
 Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
 (Nay, never look upon your lord, 
 And lay your handc/r. j )or, to ur s word, ) 
 
 I tell thee, thou'rt defied 1 
 And if thou said'sti am not peer 
 To any lord in Scotland here, 
 Lowland or Highland, far or near, 
 
 Lord Angus, thou hast lied !" 
 On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage 
 O'ercarHfe the ashen hue of age : 
 Fierce he broke forth, — ''And darest 
 
 thou, then. 
 To beard the lioii in his den, 
 
 The Douglas in his hall ? 
 And liopest thou hence unscathed to 
 
 go?- 
 N"o, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no . 
 Up drawbridge, grooms — What, Wi.i- 
 
 der, ho ! 
 Let the portcullis fall." 
 Lord Marmion turn'd, — well was his 
 
 need, 
 And dash'd the rowels in his steed. 
 Like arrow through the archway 
 
 sprung, 
 The ponderou;> grate behind him 
 
 rung : 
 To pass there v/as such scanty room. 
 The bars, descending, razed his 
 
 plume. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The steed along the drawbridge flies, 
 Just as it trembled on the rise ; 
 Nor lighter does the swallow skim 
 Along the smooth lake's level brim : 
 And when Lord Marmion reach'd his 
 
 band, 
 
 He halts, and turns with clenched 
 
 hand. 
 
 And shout of loud defiance pours, 
 
 And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 
 
 " Horse ! horse !" the Douglas cried, 
 
 "and chase !" 
 But soon he rein'd his fury's pace : 
 "A royal messenger he came. 
 Though most unworthy of 
 
 name. — 
 ^ letter forged ! Saint Jude to epcc. ; 
 Did ever knight so foul a deed ! 
 At first in heart it liked me ill. 
 When the King praised his clerkly- 
 skill. 
 Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, 
 Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line. 
 
 f 
 
MARMION. 
 
 157 
 
 So swore I, and I swear it still, 
 Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — 
 Saint Mary mend my fiery mood! 
 Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 
 I thought to slay him where he stood. 
 'Tis pity of him too," ho cried: 
 "Bold can he si^eak, and fairiy ride, 
 I warrant him a warrior tried." 
 With this his mandate he recalls. 
 And slowly seeks his castle halls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The day in Marmion's journey wore; 
 Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er, 
 They cross'd the heights of Stanrig- 
 
 moor. 
 Histroopmore closely there he scann'd, 
 And missed the Palmer from the 
 
 band. — 
 * ' Palmer or not, " young Blount didsay, 
 " He parted at the peep of day; 
 Good sooth, it was in strange array.'' — 
 "In whatarray ?" said Marmion, quick. 
 •'My lord, I ill can spell the trick; 
 But allnight long, with clink andbang, 
 Close to my couch did hammers clang ; 
 At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, 
 And from a loop-hole while I peep, 
 Old Bell-the Cat came from the Keep, 
 Wrapped in a gown of sables fair, 
 As fearful of the morning air; 
 Beneath, when that was blown aside, 
 A rusty shirt of mail I spied. 
 By Archibald won in bloody work. 
 Against the Saracen and Turk: 
 Last night it hung not in the hall; 
 I thought some marvel would befall. 
 And next I saw them saddled lead 
 Old Cheviot forth, theEarl'sbest steed ; 
 A matchless horse, though something 
 
 old. 
 Prompt in his paces, cnol and bold. 
 I heard the Sheriff Sholto say, 
 The Earl did much the Master* pray 
 To use him on the battle-day; 
 But hepref err'd — ' ' ' 'Nay, Henry, cease ! 
 Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy 
 
 peace. — 
 Eustace, thou bear'st a brain — I pray 
 What didBlountseeatbreakof day?" — 
 
 * His eldest son, the Master of Angns, 
 
 xvn. 
 
 "In brief, my lord, we both descried 
 (For then I stood by Henry's side) 
 The Palmermount, and outwardsride, 
 
 Upon the Earl's own favourite steed : 
 All sheathed he was in armour bright, 
 Andmuchresembledthatsameknight, 
 Subdued by you in Cotswold fight: 
 
 Lord Angus wished him speed." — 
 The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, 
 A sudden light on Marmion broke; — 
 "Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!" 
 Hemutter'd; "'Twasnot fay nor ghost 
 I met upon the moonlight wold, 
 But living man of earthly mould. — 
 
 O dotage blind and gross ! 
 Had I but fought as wont, one thrust 
 Had laid De Wilton in the dust. 
 
 My path no more to cross. — 
 How stand v/e now? — he told his tale 
 To Douglas; and with some avail; 
 
 'Twas thereforegloom'd his rugged 
 brow. — 
 Will Surrey dare to entertain 
 'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved 
 and vain? 
 
 Small risk of that, I trow. 
 Yet Clare's sharp questions must I 
 
 shun; 
 Must separate Constance from the 
 
 Nun — 
 O, what a tangled web we weave, 
 When first we practise to deceive! 
 A Palmer too! — no wonder why 
 I felt rebuked beneath his eye: 
 I might have knov/n there was but 
 
 one 
 Whose look could quell Lord Marmi- 
 on." 
 
 XVHI. 
 
 Stung with these thoughts, he urged 
 
 to speed 
 His troop, and reach'd, at eve, the 
 
 Tweed, 
 Where Lennel's convent closed their 
 
 march; 
 (There now is left but one frail arch; 
 
 Yet mourn thou not its cells; 
 Our time a fair exchange has made; 
 Hard by, in hospitable shade, 
 A reverend pilgrim dwells, 
 
T58 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Well worth the whole Bernardine 
 brood, 
 
 That e'er wore eandal, frock, or hood. ) 
 
 Yet did Saint Bernard's Abbot there 
 
 Give Marmion entertainment fair, 
 
 And lodging for his train and Clare. 
 
 Next morn the Baron climb'd the 
 tower. 
 
 To view afar the Scottish power, 
 Encamp'd on Flodden edge: 
 
 The white pavilions made a show, 
 
 Like remnants of the winter snow, 
 Along the dusky ridge. 
 
 Long Marmion look'd:— at length his 
 eye 
 
 Unusual movement might descry 
 Amid the shitting lines: 
 
 The Scottish host drawn out appears, 
 
 For. flashing on the hedge of spears 
 The eastern sunbeam shines. 
 
 Their front now deepening, now ex- 
 tending; 
 
 Their flank inclimng,whecling, bend- 
 ing. 
 
 Now drawing back, and now de- 
 scending, 
 
 The skilful Marmion well could know, 
 
 They watch'd the motions of some 
 foe. 
 
 Who traversed on the plain below. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 
 The Scots beheld the English host 
 Leave Barmore-wood, their evening 
 
 post. 
 And heedful watch'd them as they 
 cross'd 
 
 The Till by Twisel Bridge. 
 
 High sight it is, and haughty, while 
 They dive into the deep defile ; 
 Beneath the cavern'd clifl'tiiey fall, 
 Beneath the castle's airy wall. 
 
 By rock, by oak, by hawthorn -tree, 
 Troop after troop are disappearing; 
 Troop after troop their banners 
 rearing. 
 
 Upon the eastern bank you see. 
 
 Still pouring down the rocky den, 
 Where flows the sullen Till, 
 
 And rising from the dim-wood glen, 
 
 Standards on standards, men on men. 
 
 In slow succession still. 
 And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, 
 And pressing on, in ceaseless march, 
 
 To gain the opposing hill. 
 That morn, to many a trumpet clang, 
 Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang ; 
 And many a chief of birth and rank, 
 Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. 
 Thy hawthornglade, which now we see 
 In spring-time bloom so lavishly. 
 Had then from many an axe its doom, 
 To give the marching columns room. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And why stands Scotland idly now, 
 Dark Flodden ! on thy ciry brow, 
 Since England gains the pass the 
 
 while, 
 And struggles through the deep de- 
 file? 
 What checks the fiery soul of James ? 
 Why sits that champion of the dames 
 
 Inactive on his steed, 
 And sees, between him and his land, 
 Between him and Tweed's southern 
 strand, 
 Ills host Lord Surrey lead ? 
 Wh.-t 'vails the vain knight-errant's 
 
 brand ? 
 — O, Douglas, for thy leading wand ! 
 
 Fierce Kandolph, for thy speed ! 
 for one hour of Wallace wight, 
 Or wcll-skill'd Bruce, to rule the fight. 
 And cry — ' ' Saint Andrew and our 
 
 right ! '' 
 Another sight had seen that morn, 
 From Fate's dark book a leaf been 
 
 torn, 
 And Flodden had been Bannock- 
 bourne ! — 
 The precious hour has pass'd in vain. 
 And England's host had gain'd the 
 
 plain; 
 WTieeling their march, and circling 
 
 still. 
 Around the base of Flodden hill. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, 
 Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, 
 * • Hark ! hark ! my lord, an English 
 
 drum ! 
 And see ascending squadrons come 
 
mahmiok 
 
 159 
 
 Between Tweed's river and the hill, 
 Foot, horse, and cannon: — hap what 
 
 hap, 
 My basnet to a prentice cap. 
 
 Lord Surrey's o'er the Till ! 
 Yet more ! yet more ! — how far array'J 
 They file from out the hawthorn 
 shade. 
 And sweep so gallant by: 
 With ail their banners bravely spread. 
 And all their armour flashing high, 
 St. George might waken from the dead, 
 To see fair England's standards 
 fly."- 
 " Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount, 
 
 *' thou'dst best, 
 And listen to our lord's behest." — 
 With kindling brow Lord Marmion 
 
 said, — 
 "This instant be our band array'd ; 
 The river must be quickl^^ cross'd, 
 That we may join Lord Surrey's host. 
 If fight King James. — as well I trust. 
 That fight he will, and fight he 
 
 must, — 
 The Lady Clare behind our lines 
 Shall tarry, while the battle joins." 
 
 xxn. 
 
 Himself he swift on horse-back threw, 
 Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu ; 
 Far less would listen to his prayer, 
 To leave behind tiie lieipiess Clare. 
 Down to the Tweed his band he drew, 
 And mutter'd as .the flood they view, 
 "The jjheasant in the falcon's claw, 
 lie scarce will yield to please a daw. 
 Lord Angus may the Abbot awe, 
 
 So Clare shall bide with me." 
 Then on that dangerous ford, and 
 
 deep, 
 Where to the Tweed Leafs eddies 
 creep, 
 
 He ventured desperately : 
 And not a moment will he bide, 
 Till squire, or groom, before him ride; 
 Headmost of ail he stems the tide; 
 
 And stems it gallantly. 
 Eustace held Clare upon her horse, 
 
 Old Hubert led her rein, 
 Stoutly they braved the current's 
 course, 
 
 And, though far downward driven 
 per force. 
 
 The southern bank they gain ; 
 Behind them straggling, came to 
 shore, 
 
 As best they might, the train : 
 Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 
 
 A caution not in vain ; 
 Deep need that day that^verj string. 
 By wet unharm'd, should sharply ring. 
 A moment then Lord Marmion staid. 
 And breathed his steed, his men 
 array'd, 
 
 Then forward mov'd his band. 
 Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, 
 ile halted by a Cross of Stone, 
 That, on a hillock standing lone, 
 
 Did all the field command. 
 
 xxni. 
 
 Hence might they see the full array 
 Of either host, for deadly fray ; 
 Their marshall'd lines stretch'd east 
 and west. 
 And fronted north and south, 
 And distant salutation pass'd 
 
 From the loud cannon mouth ; 
 Not m the close successive rattle. 
 That breathes the voice of modern 
 battle. 
 But slow and far between. — 
 The hillock gain'd, Lord Marmion 
 
 staid : 
 "Here, by this Cross," he gently 
 said, 
 " You well may view the scene. 
 Here shalt tnou tarry, lovely Clare : 
 ! think of Marmion in thy prayer! — 
 Thou wiit not ? — well, — no less my 
 
 care 
 Shall, watchful, for thy weal pre- 
 pare. — 
 You, Blount and Eustace, are her 
 guard, 
 Y/ith ten pick'd archers of my 
 train ; 
 With England if the day go hard. 
 
 To Berwick speed amain.— 
 But if we conquer, cruel maid, 
 My spoils shall at your feet be laid, 
 
 When here we meet again." 
 He waited not for answer there, 
 
i6o 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And would not mark the maid's de- 
 spair, 
 Nor heed tlae discontented look 
 From either squire ; but spurr'd 
 
 amain, 
 And dashing through the battle plain, 
 His way to Surrey took. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 -The good Lord Marmion, by 
 
 my life ! 
 Welcome to danger's hour ! — 
 Short greeting serves in time of 
 strife ! 
 Thus have I ranged my power : — 
 Myself will rule this c€ntral host, 
 Stout Stanley fronts their right. 
 My sons command the vaward post, 
 With Brian Tunstall, stainless 
 
 knight, 
 Lord Dacre, with his horsemen 
 
 ligtt, 
 Shall be in rear-ward of the fight. 
 And succour those that need it most. 
 Now, gallant Marmion, well I know, 
 Would gladly to the vanguard go ; 
 Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there, 
 With thee their charge will blithely 
 
 share ; 
 There fight thine own retainers too, 
 Beneath De Burg, thy steward true." 
 "Thanks, noble Surrey! " Marmion 
 
 said, 
 Nor farther greeting there he paid , 
 But, parting like a thunderbolt. 
 First in the vanguard made a halt, 
 
 Where such a shout there rose 
 Of "Marmion ! Marmion ! " that the 
 
 cry, 
 Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, 
 Startled the Scottish foes. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
 With Lady Clare upon the hill ! 
 On which (for far the day was spent) 
 The western sunbeams now were 
 
 bent. 
 The cry they heard, its meaning 
 
 knew, 
 Could plain their distant comrades 
 
 view; 
 Sadly to Blount did Eustace say. 
 
 " Unworthy oflBce here to stay I 
 No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — 
 But see ! look up— on Flodden bent 
 The Scottish foo has fired his tent." 
 
 And sudden, as he spoke. 
 From the sharp ridges of the hill, 
 All downward to the brinks of Till, 
 
 Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
 Volumed and fast, an.d rolling far. 
 The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, 
 
 As down the hill they broke; 
 Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, 
 Announced their march; their tread 
 
 alone. 
 At times one warning trumpet blown, 
 
 At times a stifled hum. 
 Told England, from his mountain- 
 throne 
 
 King James did rushing come. — 
 Scarce could they hear, or see their 
 foes, 
 
 Until at weapon-point they close. — 
 They close, in clouds of smoke and 
 
 dust. 
 With sword-sway, and with lance's 
 thrust; 
 
 And such a yell was there, 
 Of sudden and portentous birth, 
 As if men fought upon the earth, 
 And fiends in upper air; 
 O life and death were in the shout. 
 Recoil and rally, charge and rout, 
 
 And triumph and despair. 
 Long look'd the anxious squires; 
 
 their eye 
 Could in the darkness nought descry. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 At length the freshening western 
 
 blast 
 Aside the shroud of battle cast; 
 And, first, the ridge of mingled spears 
 Above the brightening cloud appears; 
 And in the smoke the pennons flew, 
 As in the storm the white sea-mew. 
 Then mark'd they, dashing broad 
 
 and far. 
 The broken billows of the war,- 
 And plumed crests of chieftains 
 
 brave. 
 Floating like foam upon the wave ; 
 But nought distinct they see; 
 
MARMION. 
 
 161 
 
 Wide raged the battle on tlie plain ; 
 Spears shook, and falchions flash 'd 
 
 amain ; 
 Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 
 Crests rose, and stoop 'd, and rose 
 again, 
 
 Wild and disorderly. 
 Amid the scene of tumult, high 
 They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly: 
 And stainless Tunstall's banner 
 
 white, 
 And Edmund Howard's lion bright, 
 Still bear them bravely in the fight: 
 
 Although against them come, 
 Of gallant Gordons many a one, 
 And many a stubborn Highlandman, 
 And many a rugged Border clan, 
 
 With Huntly, and with Home. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Far on the left, unseen the while, 
 Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; 
 Though there the western mountain- 
 eer 
 Rush'd with bare bosom on the spear. 
 And flung the feeble targe aside, 
 And with both hands the broadsword 
 
 plied. 
 'Twas vain: — But Fortune, on the 
 
 right, 
 With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's 
 
 fight. 
 Then fell that spotless banner white, 
 
 The Howard's lion fell; 
 Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
 With wavering flight, while fiercer 
 
 grew 
 Around the battle-yell. 
 The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
 A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry: 
 
 Loud were the clanging blows; 
 Advanced, — forced back,— now low, 
 
 now high, 
 The pennon sunk and rose; 
 As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
 When rent are rigging, shrouds, and 
 
 sail, 
 It waver'd 'mid the foes. 
 No longer Blount the view could 
 
 bear : 
 "By Heaven, and all its saints! I 
 
 ewear 
 
 I will not see it lost ! 
 Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
 May bid your beads, and patter 
 prayer, — 
 I gallop to the host." 
 And to the fray he rode amain, 
 Follow'd by all the archer train. 
 The fiery youth, with desperate 
 
 charge. 
 Made, for a space,an opening large, — 
 
 The rescued banner rose, — 
 But darkly closed the war around, 
 Like pine-tree, rooted from the 
 ground, 
 It sunk among the foes. 
 Then Eustace mounted too : — yet 
 
 staid 
 As loth to leave the helpless maid, 
 
 When, fast as shaft can fly, 
 Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils 
 
 spread. 
 The loose rein dangling from his 
 
 head, 
 Hoiising and saddle bloody red, 
 
 Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by; 
 And Eustace, njaddening at the sight, 
 A look and sign to Clara cast 
 To mark he would return in haste. 
 Then plunged into the fight. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 Ask me not what the maiden feels. 
 Left in that dreadful hour alone : 
 Perchance her reason stoops, or reels ; 
 Perchance a courage, not her own, 
 Braces her mind to desperate 
 tone. — 
 The . scatter'd van of England 
 wheels : — 
 She only said, as loud in air 
 The tumult roar'd, " Is Wilton 
 
 there?"— 
 They fly, or, madden'd by despair, 
 Fight but to die,— "Is Wilton 
 there?" 
 With that, straight up the hill there 
 
 rode ^ 
 
 Two horsemen drench'd with gore, 
 And in their arms, a helpless load, 
 
 A wounded knight they bore. 
 His hand still strain 'd the broken 
 brand ; 
 
l62 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 His arms wcro Bmear'cl with blood 
 
 and sand. 
 Dra g'dfrom amon^ tlic horses' feet, 
 With dinted shield, and helmet beat, 
 The falcon-crcGt and plumage gone, 
 Can that bo haughty IJarmion ! . . . 
 Young Elounthio armour did unlace, 
 And, gazing on his ghastly face, 
 
 Said — '' iiy Gaint Georgc,he's gone ! 
 That spear-wound has our master 
 
 sped, 
 And see the deep cut on his head ! 
 
 Good-night to Ilarraion." — 
 " Unnurtured Blount ! thy brawling 
 
 He opes his eyes," said Eustace ; 
 "peace !" 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 When, doff'd his casque, he felt free 
 
 air, 
 Around 'gan Marmion wildly 
 
 stare : — 
 • ' Where's Harry Clount? Fitz-Eustacc 
 
 where ? 
 Linger yo here, ye hearts of hare ! 
 Kedeem my pennon,— charge again ! 
 Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue !' — 
 
 Vain ! 
 Last of my race, on battle-plain 
 That' shout shall ne'er be heard 
 
 again !— 
 Yet my last thought is England's— fly. 
 To Dacre bear my signct-rlng: 
 Tell liim his squadrons up to 
 bring. — 
 Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; 
 Tunstail lies dead ujjon the field, 
 His life-blood stains the spotless 
 
 shield ; 
 Edmund is down : — my life is reft ; 
 The Admiral alone is left. 
 Let Stanley charge with spur of 
 
 fire, — 
 With Chester charge, and Lanca- 
 shire, 
 Full upon Scotland's central host. 
 Or Victory and England's lost. — 
 Must I bid twice?— hence, varlets ! 
 
 fly! 
 Leave Marmion here alone — to die." 
 They parted, and alone he lay ; 
 
 Clare drew her from the sight 
 away, 
 Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
 And half he onrmur'd. — "Is there 
 none, 
 Of all my halls have nuTot, 
 Page, squire, or groom, one cup to 
 
 bring 
 Of blessed water from the spring, 
 To slake my dying thirst 1" 
 
 xxx. 
 
 0, Yv^oman ! in our hours of ease. 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
 And varialalo as the shade 
 Dy the light quivering aspen made ; 
 Y/hcn pain and anguish wring the 
 
 brow, 
 A ministering angel thou ! — 
 Ijcarce were the piteous accents said. 
 When, v/ith the Baron's casque, the 
 maid 
 To the nigh streamlet ran: 
 Foi'got were hatred, wrongs, and fears; 
 The plaintive voice alone she hears, 
 
 Sees but the dying man. 
 ioho stoop'd her by the runnel's side, 
 But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
 For, oozing from the mountain's cide, 
 Y/here raged the war, a dark-red tide 
 Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
 Where shall she turn? — behold her 
 mark 
 A little fountain cell, 
 Where water, clear as diamond-spark, 
 
 In a stone basin fell. 
 Above, some half -worn letters say, 
 grinh. fotHrg. pilgrim, brink, anir. 
 
 prag. 
 Jor. llje. kinb. soul, of ^gbif. 
 dirtj). 
 SStbo. built, tijis. cross, anb. 
 kdi. 
 
 She fiU'd the helm, and back she hied. 
 And with surprise and joy espied 
 A monk supporting Marmion's 
 head: 
 A pious man, whom duty brought 
 To dubious verge of battle fought, 
 To shrieve the dying, bless the 
 dead. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 163 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Deep drank Lord Marmion of tlie 
 
 wave, 
 And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave — 
 " Is ib the hand of Clare," ho said, 
 "Or injured Constance, bathes my 
 head ?" 
 
 Then, as remembrance rose, — 
 •' Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! 
 
 I must redress her woes. 
 Short space, few words, are mine to 
 
 spare; 
 Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " — 
 
 "Alas ! " she said, " the while, — 
 O, think of your immortal weal ! 
 In vain for Constance is your zeal; 
 
 She died at Holy Isle."— 
 
 Lord Marmion started from the 
 
 ground. 
 As light as if he felt no wound ; 
 Though in the action burst the tide. 
 In torrents, from his wounded side. 
 "Then it was truth," — he said — "I 
 
 knew 
 That the dark presage must be true. — 
 I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
 The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 
 
 Would spare me but a day ! 
 For wasting fire, and dying groan, 
 And priests slain on the altar-stone, 
 
 Might bribe him for delay. 
 It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — 
 Curse on yon base marauder's lance. 
 And doubly cursed my failing brand! 
 A sinful heart makes feeble hand." 
 Then, fainting, down on earth he 
 
 sunk. 
 Supported by the trembling Monk. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 With fruitless labour, Clara bound, 
 And strove to staunch the gushing 
 
 wound: 
 The Monk, with unavailing cares, 
 Exhausted all the Church's prayers. 
 Ever, he said, that, close and near, 
 A lady's voice was in his ear. 
 And that the priest he could not hear, 
 
 For that she ever sung, 
 "In the lost battle, borne dovm by the 
 
 Hyiruff 
 
 Where mingles war's rattle with groans 
 of the dying ! " 
 
 Go the notes rung;— 
 ** Avoid thee, Fiend ! — with cruel 
 
 hand. 
 Shake not the dying sinner's sand! — 
 O, look, my son, upon yon sign 
 Of the Iledeemcr's grace divine; 
 
 O, think on faith and bliss !— 
 By many a death-bed I have been. 
 And many a sinner's parting seen, 
 
 But never aught like thia." — 
 The war, that for a space did fail, 
 Now trebly thundering swell'd the 
 gale, 
 
 And — STANiiEY! wag the cry; 
 A light on Marmion's visage spread, 
 
 And fired his glazing eye; 
 With dying hand, above his head. 
 He shook the fragment of his blade, 
 
 And shouted " Victory ! — 
 Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stan- 
 Icy, on ! " 
 Were the last words of Marmion. 
 
 xxxni. 
 
 By this, though deep the evening 
 
 fell, 
 Still rose the battle's deadly swell. 
 For still the Scots, around their King, 
 Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
 Where's now their victor vaward 
 wing, 
 
 Where Huntly, and where Home? — 
 O, for a blast of that dread horn, 
 On Fontarabian echoes borne, 
 
 That to King Charles did come, 
 When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
 And every paladin and peer, 
 
 On Roncesvalles died ! 
 Such blast might warn them, not in. 
 
 vain, 
 To quit the plunder of the slain, 
 And turn the doubtful day again, 
 
 While yet on Flodden side. 
 Afar, the Koyal Standard flies, 
 Androundittoils,andbleeds,anddie8. 
 
 Our Caledonian pride ! 
 In vain the wish — for far away, 
 While spoil and havoc mark theirway. 
 Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers 
 stray. — 
 
164 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 "0, Lady," cried the Monk, "away !" 
 And placed her on her steed, 
 
 And led her to the chapel fair, 
 Of Tillmouth upon Tweed. 
 
 There all the night they spent in pray- 
 er. 
 
 And at the dawn of morning, there 
 
 She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But as they left the dark'ning heath, 
 More desperate grew the strife of 
 
 death. 
 The English shafts in volleys hail'd, 
 Inheadiongchargethcir horse assail'd ; 
 Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons 
 
 sweep 
 To break the Scottish circle deep, 
 That fought around their King. 
 But yet, though thick the shafts as 
 
 snow. 
 Though charging knights like whirl- 
 winds go. 
 Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, 
 
 Unbroken was the ring; 
 The stubborn spear-men still made 
 
 good 
 Their dark impenetrable wood. 
 Each stepping where his comrade 
 stood, 
 The instant that he fell. 
 No thought was there of dastard flight , 
 Link'd in the serried phalanx tight, 
 Groom fought like noble, squire like 
 knight, 
 As fearlessly and well ; 
 Till utter darkness closed her wing 
 O'ertheirthin hostand woundedKing. 
 Then skilful Surrey's sage commands 
 Led back from strife his shatter'd 
 
 bands; 
 And from the charge they drew, 
 As mountain- waves, from wasted 
 lands. 
 Sweep back to ocean blue. 
 Then did their loss his foemen know ; 
 Their King, their Lords, their might- 
 iest low. 
 They melted from the field as snow, 
 When streams are swoln and south 
 winds blow, 
 Dissolves in silent dew. 
 
 Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless 
 plash. 
 
 While many a broken band, 
 Disorder'd, through her currents 
 dash. 
 
 To gain the Scottish land; 
 To town and tower, to down and dale. 
 To tell red Flodden's dismal tale. 
 And raise the universal wail. 
 Tradition, legend, tune, and song, 
 Shall many an age that wail prolong: 
 Still from the sire the son shall hear 
 Of the stern strife, and carnage drear. 
 
 Of Flodden's fatal field. 
 Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's 
 spear, 
 
 And broken was her shield ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Daydawnsuponthomountain'sside: — 
 There, Scotland ! lay thy bravest pride. 
 Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many aone : 
 The sad survivors all are gone. — 
 View not that corj)S3 mistrustfully — 
 Defaced an 1 mangle! though it be; 
 Nor to 5'on Border Castlo high. 
 Look northward with upbraiding eye; 
 
 Nor cherish hope in vain. 
 That, journeyingfar on foreign strand 
 The Koyal 1 ilgrim to his land 
 
 May yet return again. 
 He saw the wreck his rashness 
 
 wrought; 
 Reckless of life, he desperate fought, 
 
 And fell on Flodden plain ; 
 And well in death his trusty brand. 
 Firm clenoh'd within his manly hand, 
 
 Beseem'dtho monarch slain. 
 But, O! how changed since yon blithe 
 
 night!— 
 Gladly I turn me from the sight, 
 
 Unto my tale again. 
 
 XXX^I. 
 
 Short is my tale:— Fitz-Eustace* care 
 A pierced and mangled body bare 
 To moated JLichfield's lofty pile; 
 And there, beneath the southern 
 
 aisle, 
 A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair, 
 Did long Lord Marmion's image bear, 
 (Now vainly for its sight you look; 
 
UABMIOa. 
 
 •65 
 
 'Twas levell'd when fanatic Brook 
 The fair cathedral storm'd and 
 
 took; 
 But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint 
 
 Chad, 
 A guerdon meet, the spoiler had !) 
 There erst was martial Marmion 
 
 found, 
 His feet upon a couchant hound. 
 His hands to heaven upraised; 
 And all around, oa scutcheon rich, 
 And tablet carved, and fretted niche, 
 
 His arms and feats were blazed. 
 And yet, though all was carved so 
 
 fair, 
 And priest for Marmion breathed the 
 
 prayer. 
 The last Lord Marmion lay not there. 
 From Ettrick woods a peasant swain 
 Follow'd his lord to Flodden plain, — 
 One of those flowers, whom plaintive 
 
 lay 
 In Scotland mourns as "wede away:" 
 Sore wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied. 
 And dragg'd him to its foot, and 
 
 died, 
 Close by the noble Marmion's side. 
 The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd the 
 
 slain, 
 And thus their corpses were mis- 
 
 ta'en; 
 And thus, in the proud Baron's tomb. 
 The lowly woodsman took the room. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Less easy task it were, to show 
 Lord Marmion's nameless grave, and 
 low. 
 They dug his grave e'en where he 
 
 lay. 
 But every mark is gone; 
 Time's wasting hand has done away 
 The simple Cross of Sybil Grey, 
 And broke her font of stone. 
 But yet from out the little hill 
 Oozes the slender springlet still. 
 
 Oft halts the stranger there. 
 For thence may best his curious eye 
 The memorable field descry; 
 And shepherd boys repair 
 To seek the water-flag and rush, 
 And rest them by the hazel bush, 
 
 And plait their garlands fair; 
 Nor dream they sit upon the grave, 
 That holds the bones of Marmion 
 
 brave. — 
 When thou shalt find the little hill, 
 "With thy heart commune, and i)e 
 
 still. 
 If ever, in temptation strong. 
 Thou left'st the right path for the 
 
 wrong; 
 K every devious step, thus trod, 
 Still led thee farther from the road; 
 Dread thou to speak presumptions 
 
 doom 
 On noble Marmion's lowly tomb ; 
 But say, "He died a gallant knight. 
 With sword in hand, for England's 
 
 right." 
 
 xxxvin. 
 
 I do not rhyme to that dull elf, 
 
 Who cannot image to himself. 
 
 That all through Flodden' s dismal 
 
 night, 
 Wilton was foremost in the fight; 
 That, when brave Surrey's steed was 
 
 slain, 
 'Twas Wilton mounted him again; 
 'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest 
 
 hew'd. 
 Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood ; 
 Unnamed by HoUinshed or Hall, 
 He was the living soul of all: 
 That, after fight, his faith made plain, 
 He won his rank and lands again; 
 And charged his old paternal shield 
 With bearings won on Flodden field. 
 Nor sing I to that (dinple maid, 
 To whom it must in terms be said. 
 That King and kinsman did agree, 
 To bless fair Clara's constancy; 
 Who cannot, unless I relate, 
 Paint to her mind the bridal state ; 
 That Wolsey's voice the blessing 
 
 spoke. 
 More, Sands, and Denny, pass'd the 
 
 joke; 
 That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, 
 And Catherine's hand the stocking 
 
 threw; 
 And afterwards, for many a day, 
 That it was held enough to ray, 
 
i66 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 In blessing to a wedded pair, 
 **Love they like "Wilton and like 
 Clare !" 
 
 L'Enxxyi/. 
 
 TO THE KEADEE. 
 
 "Why then a final note prolong, 
 Or lengthen out a closing song, 
 Unless to bid the gentles speed, 
 Who long have listed to my rede?* 
 To Statesmen grave, if such may deign 
 To read the Minstrel's idle strain, 
 Sound head, clean hand, and piercing 
 
 vrit, 
 And patriotic heart — as Pixt 1 
 
 A garland for the hero's crest, 
 
 And twined by her he loves the best; 
 
 To every lovely la ly bright, 
 
 "What can I wish but faithful knight ? 
 
 To every faithful lover too, 
 
 "What can I wish but lady true ? 
 
 And knowledge to the studious sage ; 
 
 And pillow to the head of age. 
 
 To thee, dear school-boy, whom my 
 
 lay 
 Has cheated of thy hour of play, 
 Light task, and merry holiday ! 
 To all, to each, a fair good night, 
 And pleasing dreams, and slumbers 
 
 light ! 
 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 To the Eight HonoTirable Charlks Eakl of Dalkeith, this Poem is inscribed by the author. 
 
 PEEFACE TO THE FIEST EDITION. 
 
 The Poem, now offered to the Public, is intended to illustrate the customs and 
 manners which anciently prevailed on the Borders of England and Scotland. The 
 inhabitants living in a state partly pastoral ai^d partly warlike, and combining habits 
 <f constant depredation with the influence of a rude spint of chivalry, were often 
 engaged in scenes highly susceptible of poetical ornament. As the description of 
 scenery and manners was more the object of the Author than a combined and regu- 
 lar narrative, the plan of the Ancient Metrical Romance was adopted, which allows 
 greater latitude, in this respect, than would he consistent with the dignity of a regu' 
 lar Poem. The same model offered other facilities, as it permits an occasional at- 
 terationof measure, which, in some degree, authorizes the change of rhythm in the 
 text. The machinery, also, adopted from popular belief, would have seemed puerile 
 in a Poem which did not partake of the rudeness of the old Ballad, or Metrical 
 Romance. 
 
 For these reasons, the Poem was pid into the mouth of an ancient Minstrel, the 
 last of the race, who, as he is supposed to have survived the Revolution, might have 
 caught somewhat of the refinement of modern poetry , without losing the simplicity 
 of his origincd model. The date cf the Tale itself is about the middle of the sixteenth 
 century, when most of the personages actually flourished. The time occupied by the 
 action is Three Nights and Three Bays. 
 
 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 The way was long, the wind was cold, 
 The Minstrel was infirm and old ; 
 His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray, 
 Teem'd to have known a better day; 
 The harp, his sole remaining joy, 
 Was carried by an orphan boy. 
 The last of all the Bards was he, 
 V/ho sung of Border chivalry ; 
 For, welladay ! their date was fled, 
 Ilis tuneful brethren all were dead; 
 And he, neglected and oppress'd, 
 Wish'd to be with them, and at rest. 
 No more on prancing palfrey borne, 
 He caroll'd, light as lark at morn; 
 No longer courted and caress'd, 
 High placed in hall, a welcome guest. 
 He pour'd, to lord and lady gay, 
 
 The unpremeditated lay: 
 
 Old times were changed, old manners 
 
 gone; 
 A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne^ 
 The bigots of the iron time 
 Had cail'd his harmless art a crime. 
 A wandering Harper, scorn'd and 
 
 poor, 
 He begg'd his bread from door to 
 
 door, 
 And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, 
 The harp, a king had loved to hear. 
 
 He pass'd where Newark's* stately 
 tower 
 
 * N'eivarl,\<t stately totver. A. ruined tower 
 now; situated three miles from Selkirk, on 
 the banks of the Yarrow. 
 
i68 
 
 iSCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Looks out from Yarrow's birchen 
 
 bower: 
 The Minstrel gazed witb wishful eye — 
 No humbler resting-place was nigh, 
 With hesitating step at last, 
 The embattled portal arch he pass'd. 
 Whose ponderous grate and massy 
 
 bar 
 Had oft roll'd back the tide of war, 
 But never closed the iron door 
 Against the desolate and poor. 
 The Duchess* marked his weary pace, 
 His timid iiiien, and reverend face, 
 And bade her page the menials tell. 
 That they should tend the old man 
 
 well: 
 For she had known adversity, 
 Though born in such a high degree; 
 In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, 
 Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody 
 
 tomb ! 
 
 WhenTiindness had his wants sup- 
 plied, 
 And the old man was gratified, 
 Began to rise his minstrel pride: 
 And he began to talk anon, 
 Of good Earl Francis, f dead and gone. 
 And of Earl Walter. | rest him, God ! 
 A braver ne'er to battle rode; 
 And how full many a tale he knew, 
 Of the old warriors of Buccleuch : 
 And, would the noble Duchess deign 
 To listen to an old man's strain, 
 Though stiff his hand, his voice 
 
 though weak. 
 He thought even yet, the sooth to 
 
 speak. 
 That, if she loved the harp to hear, 
 He could make music to her ear. 
 
 The humble boon was soon ob- 
 
 tain'd ; 
 The Aged Minstrel audience gain'd. 
 But, when he reach'd the room of 
 
 state, 
 Where she, with all her ladies, sate, 
 
 * The Duchess. Anne, the heiress of Buc- 
 cleuch, who had been married to the unhap- 
 py Duke of Monmouth, son of Charles II. 
 He was beheaded lor rebellion against 
 James II., 1685, 
 
 Perchance he wished his boon de- 
 nied: 
 For, when to tune his harj) he tried, 
 His trembling hand had lost the 
 
 ease 
 Which marks security to please; 
 And scenes, long past, of joy and 
 
 pain. 
 Came wildering o'er his aged brain — 
 IIg tried to tune his harxD in vain ! 
 The pitying Duchess praised its 
 
 chia'ie, 
 And gave him heart, and gave him 
 
 time, 
 Till every string's according glee 
 Was blended into harmony. 
 And then, he said, he would full fain 
 He could recall an ancient strain, 
 He never thought to sing again. 
 It was not framed for village churls, 
 But for high dames and mighty earls; 
 He had play'd it to King Charles the 
 
 Good, 
 When he kept court in Kolyrood; 
 And much he wish'd, yet fear'd to try 
 The long-forgotten melody. 
 Amid the strings his fingers stray'd, 
 And an uncertain warbling made, 
 And oft he shook his hoary head. 
 But when he caught the measure 
 
 wild, 
 The old man raised his face and 
 
 smiled; 
 And lighten'd up his faded eye. 
 With all a poet's ecstasy ! 
 In varying cadence, soft or strong, 
 He swept the sounding chords along: 
 The present scene, the future lot. 
 His toils, his wants, were all forgot: 
 Cold diffidence, and age's frost. 
 In the full tide of song were lost; 
 Each blank in faithless memory void, 
 The poet's glowing thought sup- 
 plied; 
 And while his harp responsive rung, 
 'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel 
 sung. 
 
 t Earl Francis. The Duchess's late 
 father. 
 
 I Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, grandfather 
 of the Duchess, and a celebrated warrior. 
 
TEE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTBEL. 
 
 169 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 I. 
 
 The feast was over in Cranksome 
 tower, 
 
 And the Ladye had gone to her se- 
 cret bower; 
 
 Her bower that was guarded by word 
 and by spell, 
 
 Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell — 
 
 Jesu Maria, shield ns well ! 
 
 No living wight, save the Ladye 
 alone, 
 
 Had dared to cross the threshold 
 stone. 
 
 n. 
 
 The tables were drawn, it was idlesse 
 all; 
 Knight, and page, and household 
 squire, 
 Loiter'd through the lofty hall, 
 
 Or crowded round the ample fire: 
 The staghounds, weary with the 
 chase. 
 Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor, 
 And urged, in dreams, the forest 
 race, 
 From Teviot-stone to Eskdale- 
 moor. 
 
 m. 
 
 Nine-and-twenty knights of fame 
 Hung their shields in Branksome- 
 Hall; 
 Nine-and-twenty squires of name 
 Brought them their steeds to bower 
 from stall; 
 Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall 
 Waited, duteous, on them all; 
 They were all knights of mettle 
 
 true. 
 Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch. 
 
 Ten of them were sheathed in steel, 
 With belted sword, and spur on heel : 
 They quitted not their harness 
 
 bright, 
 Neither by day, nor yet by night; 
 
 They lay down to rest. 
 
 With corslet laced, 
 Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard; 
 
 They carved at the meal 
 "With gloves of steel. 
 And they drank the red wine 
 through the helmet barr'd. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad 
 
 men, 
 Waited the beck of the warders ten ; 
 Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight, 
 Gtood saddled in stable day and night. 
 Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow. 
 And with Jedwood-axe at saddlebow; 
 A hundred more fed free in stall: — 
 Such was the custom of Branksome- 
 
 Hall. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Why do these steeds stand ready 
 
 dight ? 
 Why watch these warriors, arm'd, by 
 
 night ?— 
 They watch, to hear the blood-hound 
 
 baying; 
 They watch to hear the war-horn 
 
 braying; 
 To see St. George's red cross stream- 
 ing, 
 To see the midnight beacon gleaming: 
 They watch, against Southern force 
 
 and guile, 
 Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's 
 
 powers. 
 Threaten Branksome's lordly towers 
 From Warkwork, or Naworth,or merry 
 
 Carlisle. 
 
 VIL 
 
 Such is the custom of Branksome- 
 Hall— 
 
 Many a valiant knight is here; 
 But he, the chieftain of them all, 
 His sword hangs rusting on the wall, 
 Beside his broken spear. 
 Bards long shall tell 
 How Lord Walter fell ! 
 When startled burghers fled, afar. 
 The furies of the Border war; 
 When the streets of high Dunedin* 
 Saw lances gleam and falchions 
 redden, 
 
 * Edinburgh. 
 
170 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And heard the slogan's* deadly 
 
 yell- 
 Then the Chief of Branksome fell. 
 
 ^ VIII. 
 
 Can piety the discord heal, 
 
 Or stanch the death-feud's enmity ? 
 Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal, 
 
 Can lovG of blessed charity ? 
 No! vainly to each holy shrine, 
 
 In mutual pilgrima^^e they drew; 
 Implored, in vain, the grace divine 
 
 For chiefs, their own red falchions 
 slew; 
 While Cessford owns the rule of Carr, 
 
 While Ettrick boasts the line of 
 Scott, 
 The slaughter'd chiefs, the mortal jar, 
 The havoc of the feudal v/ar. 
 
 Shall never, never be forgot! 
 
 IX. 
 
 In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier 
 The warlike foresters had bent; 
 And many a flower, and many a tear, 
 Old Teviot's maids and matrons 
 lent: 
 Tut o'er her warrior's bloody bier 
 The Ladye dropp'd nor flower nor 
 
 tear! 
 Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the 
 slain. 
 Had Icck'd the source of softer woe ; 
 And burning pride, and high disdain. 
 
 Forbade the rising tear to flow. 
 Until, amid liis sorrowing clan. 
 Her son lispVl from the nurses 
 
 knee — 
 " And if I live to be a man. 
 My father's death revenged shall 
 be!" 
 Then fast the mother's tears did seek 
 To dew the infant's kindling cheek. 
 
 X. 
 
 All loose her negligent attire. 
 
 All loose her golden hair, 
 Ilung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd 
 sire, 
 
 And wept in wild despair, 
 
 * The war-cry, or gathering ^rord, of a 
 JJorderqlau, 
 
 Eut not alone the bitter tear 
 
 Had filial grief supplied; 
 For hopeless love, and anxious fear, 
 
 Ilal lent their mingled tide: 
 Kor in her mother's alter'd eye 
 Dared she to look for sympathy. 
 Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan, 
 
 With Carr in arms had stood, 
 When Mathousp-burn to Melrose ran, 
 
 All purple with their blood; 
 And well she knew, her mother dread, 
 Before Lord Cranstoun she would 
 
 wed, 
 Would see her on her dying bed. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Of noble race the Ladye came, 
 Iler father was a clerk of fame, 
 
 Of Bethune's line of Picardie: 
 He learn'd the ar^liat none may name, 
 
 In Padua, far beyond the sea. 
 Men said, he changed his mortal frame, 
 
 liy f oat of magic mystery; 
 For v/hen, in studious mode, he paced 
 
 St. Andrew's cloister'd hall, 
 His form no darkening shadow traced 
 
 Upon the sunny wall! 
 
 xn. 
 
 And cf his skill, as bards avow, 
 
 He taught that Ladye fair, 
 Till to her bidding she could bow 
 
 The viewless f 01m j of air. 
 And now she ^ its in secret bower, 
 In old Lord David's western tower, 
 And listens to a heavy sound. 
 That moans the mossy turrets round. 
 Is it the roar of Teviot's tide. 
 That chafes against the scaur'sf red 
 
 side? 
 Is it the wind that swings the oaks ? 
 Is it the echo from the rocks ? 
 What may it be, the heavy sound, 
 That moans old Branksome's turrets 
 round? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 At the sullen, moaning sound, 
 The ban-dogs bay and howl; 
 
 And, from the turrets round. 
 Loud whoops the startled owl. 
 
 t A steep embank luent, 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 iyj 
 
 In the hall, both squire and knight 
 Swore thdt a storm was near, 
 
 And loolied forth to view the night? 
 But the night was still and clear! 
 
 xrv. 
 
 From the sound of Teviot's tide, 
 Chafing with the mountain's side, 
 From the groan of the wind-swung 
 
 oali, 
 From the sullen echo of the rock, 
 From the voice of the coming storm, 
 
 The Ladye knew it well ! 
 It was the Spirit of the Flood that 
 spoke, 
 And he called on the Spirit of the 
 Fell. 
 
 XV. 
 
 EIVEE SPIRIT. 
 
 »« Sleep'st thou, brother ?"— 
 
 MOUNTAIN SPIEIT. 
 
 — "Brother, nay — 
 On my hills the moon-beams play. 
 From Craik-cross to Skelfhill-pen, 
 By every rill, in every glen. 
 
 Merry elves their morris pacing, 
 
 To aerial minstrelsy, 
 Emerald rings on brown heath trac- 
 ing. 
 Trip it deft and merrily. 
 Up, and mark their nimble feet ! 
 Up, and list their music sweet!" — 
 
 XVI. 
 
 EIVER SPIRIT. 
 
 " Tears of an imprisoned maiden 
 Mix with my polluted stream ; 
 
 Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden, 
 Mourns beneath the moon's pale 
 beam. 
 
 Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars, 
 
 When shall cease these fedual jars? 
 
 "What shall be the maiden's fate ? 
 
 Who shall be the maiden's mate?" 
 
 XVII. 
 
 MOUNTAIN SPIEIT. 
 
 "Arthur's slow wain his course doth 
 roll, 
 
 * Moss-trooper, a bordiTer, whose profps- 
 sion was pillage of the English. These ma- 
 rauders were called moss-troopers because 
 
 In utter darkness round the pole; 
 The Northern Bear lowers black and 
 
 grim: 
 Orion's studded belt is dim; 
 Twinkling faint, and distant far. 
 Shimmers through mist each planet 
 
 star; 
 111 may I read their high decree ! 
 But no kind influence deign they 
 
 shower, 
 On Teviot's tido, and Branksome's 
 
 tower, 
 Till pride be quell'd, and love be 
 
 free." 
 
 xvm. 
 
 The unearthly voices ceast, 
 
 And the heavy sound was still; 
 It died on the river's breast, 
 
 It died on the side of the hill. 
 But round Lord David's tower 
 
 The sound still floated near; 
 For it rung in the Ladye's bower. 
 
 And it rung in the Ladye's ear. 
 She raised her stately head, 
 
 And her heart throbb'd high with 
 pride : — 
 " Your mountains shall bend, 
 
 And your streams ascend. 
 Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride !" 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The lady sought the lofty hall. 
 
 Where many a bold retainer lay, 
 And, with jocund din, among them 
 all, 
 
 Her son pursued his infant play. 
 A fancied moss-trooper, * the boy 
 
 The truncheon of a spear bestrode. 
 And round the hall right merrily. 
 
 In mimic foray rode. 
 Even bearded knights, in arms grown 
 old, 
 
 Share in his frolic gambols bore, 
 Albeit their hearts of rugged mould 
 
 Were stubborn as the steel they 
 wore. 
 For the grey warriors prophesied. 
 
 How the brave boy, in future war. 
 
 they dwelt in the mosses, and rode, on their 
 incursions, in troops. 
 
i:2 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Should tamo the Unicorn's pride, * 
 Exult the Crescent and the Star.f 
 
 XX. 
 
 The Ladye forgot her purpose high, 
 One moment, and no more ; 
 
 One moment gazed with a mother's 
 eye, 
 As she paused at the arched door : 
 
 Then from amid the armed train, 
 
 She called to her William of Dclo- 
 
 rame. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A stark moss-troopinf^ Gcott was he, 
 As e'er conch'd Border lance by knee ; 
 Through Solway sands, through Tar- 
 
 ras moss, 
 Blindfold, he knew the paths to 
 
 cross ; 
 By wily turns, by desperate bounds, 
 Had baffled Percy's best blood- 
 hounds ; 
 In Eske or Liddel, fords were none, 
 But he would ride them one by one; 
 Alike to him was time or tide, 
 December's snow or July's pride ; 
 Alike to Lim was tide or time, 
 Moonless midnight or matin prime. 
 Steady of heart and stout of hand, 
 As ever drove prey from Cumberland. 
 Five times outlawed had he been, 
 By England's King and Scotland's 
 Queen. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 "Sir William of Deloraine, good at 
 
 need. 
 Mount thee on the wightest steed ; 
 Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride. 
 Until thou come to fair Tweedside ; 
 And in Melrose's holy pile 
 Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's 
 
 aisle. 
 Greet the father well from me ; 
 
 * The Unicorn Head was the crest of the 
 Carrs, or Kens, of Cessford, the enemies of 
 the chikl's late father. 
 
 I J he Crescent and the Star were armorial 
 bearing- < of the Scotts of Bueclcuch. 
 
 ; /Jm'ri&ee, the place on Carlisle wall where 
 the inoss-troopers, if canght, wf^re huufr. Tlie 
 iieck-verse was the first verse of Psalm 51. 
 If a crimiaal claimed ou the scaffold " bcuefit 
 
 Say that the fated hour is come, 
 And to-night he shall watch with 
 thee 
 To win the treasure of the tomb. 
 For this will bo St. Michael's night, 
 And. though stars be dim, the moon 
 
 is bright ; 
 And the Cross, of bloody rod, 
 Will point to the grave of the mighty 
 dead. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 "What he gives thee, see thou 
 
 keep; 
 Stay not thou for food or sleep ; 
 Be it GcroU or be it book, 
 Into it, Knig-it, thou must not look ; 
 If thou roadest thou art lorn ! 
 Better hadst thou ne'er been 
 bom." — 
 
 xxrv. 
 
 " O swiftly can speed my dapple-grey 
 steed, 
 Wliich drinks of the Teviot clear ; 
 Ere break of day, " the warrior *gBfi. 
 say, 
 " Arjain will I bo here : 
 And safer by none may thj'- errand 
 be done, 
 Than, noble dame, by me ; 
 Letter nor line know I never a one, 
 Wcr't my neck-verse at Hairibee."J 
 
 XX7. 
 
 Soon in his saddle sate he fast, 
 And soon the steep descent he past. 
 Soon cross'dthe sounding barbican, § 
 And soon the Teviot side he won. 
 Eastward the wooded path he rode, 
 Green hazels o'er his basnet nod ; 
 He passed the Peel of Goldiland,i| 
 And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring 
 
 strand ; 
 Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's 
 
 mound. 
 
 of his clergy," a priest instantly presentc ' 
 him Avith 11 Psalter, and he read his neck- 
 verse. Tiie power of reading it entitled him 
 to his life, which was spared ; bnt ho was 
 l)fuiished tlie kingdom. See Palgrave's ' • Mer- 
 chint and I'riar. 
 
 § Barbican, tlic defence of the outer gate 
 of a feudal castlu. 
 
 II Peei, IX border tower. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 173 
 
 Where Druid shades still flitted 
 
 round ; 
 In Hawick twinkled many a light ; 
 Behind him soon they set in night ; 
 And soon he spurred his courser 
 
 keen 
 Beneath the tower of Hazeldean. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The clattering hoofs the watchmen 
 
 mark ; — 
 ** Stand, hoi thou courier of the 
 
 dark."— 
 "For Branksome, ho!" the knight 
 
 rejoin'd, 
 And left the friendly tower behind. 
 He turn'd him now from Teviot- 
 side, 
 And, guided by the tinkling rill, 
 Northward the dark ascent did 
 ride, 
 And gained the moor at Horslie- 
 hill; 
 Broad on the left before him lay, 
 For many a mile, the Eoman way,* 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 A moment now he slack'd his speed, 
 A moment breathed his panting 
 
 steed ; 
 Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band. 
 And loosen'd in the sheath his brand. 
 On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint, 
 Where Barnhill hewed his bed of 
 
 flint; 
 Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest 
 Where falcons hang their giddy nest, 
 Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye 
 For many a league his prey could 
 
 spy; 
 
 Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes 
 
 borne. 
 The terrors of the robber's horn ? 
 Cliffs, which, for many a later year, 
 The warbling Doric reed shall hear, 
 When some sad swain shall teach the 
 
 grove. 
 Ambition is no cure for love ! 
 
 * An ancient Roman road, crossing through 
 part of Koxburghshire. 
 
 I Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse 
 accoutred with defensive armour. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 Unchallenged, thence pass'd Delo- 
 
 raine, 
 To ancient Kiddel's fair domain, 
 
 Where Aill, from mountains freed, 
 Down from the lakes did raving 
 
 come ; 
 Each wave was crested with tawny 
 foam, 
 Like the mane of a chestnut steed. 
 In vain ! no torrent, deep or broad. 
 Might bar the bold moss-trooper's 
 road. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 At the first plunge the horse siink low. 
 And the water broke o'er the saddle 
 
 bow ; 
 Above the foaming tide, I ween 
 Scarce half the charger's neck was 
 
 seen ; 
 For he was bardedf from counter to 
 
 tail, 
 And the rider was armed complete in 
 
 mail; 
 Never heavier man and horse 
 Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force. 
 The warrior's very plume, I say, 
 Was daggled by the dashing spray ; 
 Yet, through good heart and Our 
 
 Ladye's grace. 
 At length he gain'd the landing place. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Now Bowden Moor the march-man 
 
 won. 
 And sternly shook his plumed 
 
 head, 
 As glanced his eye o'er Halidon \X 
 
 For on his soul the slaughter red 
 Of that unhallow'd morn arose, 
 When first the Scott and Carr were 
 
 foes ; 
 When royal James beheld the fray, 
 Prize to the victor of the day ; 
 When Home and Douglas, in the van, 
 Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, 
 Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood 
 
 dear 
 Eeek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear. 
 
 I Halidon was an ancient seat of the Kerrs 
 of Cessford, now demolislied. 
 
174 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 In bitter mood he spurred fast, 
 And soon the hated heath was past ; 
 And far beneath, in lustre wan. 
 Old Melros' rose, and lair Tweed ran: 
 Like some tall rock with lichens grey, 
 Seem'd dimly huge the dark Abbaye. 
 When Hawick he pass'd had curfew 
 
 rung, 
 Now midnight lauds* were in Mel- 
 rose sung. 
 The sound, upon the fitful gale, 
 In solemn wise did rise and fail. 
 Like that wild harp, whose magic 
 
 tone 
 Is waken'd by the winds alone. 
 But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas 
 
 silence all ; 
 He meetly stabled his steed in stall, 
 And sought the convent's lonely 
 wall. 
 
 Here paused the harp; and with its 
 
 swell 
 The Master's fire and courage fell; 
 Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd, 
 And, gazing timid on the crowd. 
 He seem'd to seek, in every eye, 
 If they approved his minstrelsy ; 
 And, difi&dent of present praise. 
 Somewhat he spoke of former days, 
 And how old age, and wand'ring long, 
 Had done his hand and harp some 
 
 wrong. 
 The Duchess, and her daughters fair, 
 And every gentle lady there. 
 Each after each, in due degree. 
 Gave praises to his melody ; 
 His hand was true, his voice was 
 
 clear, 
 And much they long'd the rest to 
 
 hear. 
 Encouraged thus, the Aged Man, 
 After meet rest, again began. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 If thou would'st view fair Melrose 
 aright, 
 
 * Lauds, the midnight service of the Cath- 
 olic Church. 
 
 Go visit it by the pale moonlight ; 
 
 For the gay beams of lightsome day 
 
 Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey. 
 
 When the broken arches are black in 
 night, 
 
 And each shafted oriel glimmers 
 white ; 
 
 When the cold light's uncertain 
 shower 
 
 Streams on the ruin'd central tower; 
 
 When buttress and buttress alter- 
 nately, 
 
 Seem framed of ebon and ivory; 
 
 When silver edges the imagery, 
 
 And the scrolls that teach thee to live 
 and die ; 
 
 When distant Tweed is heard to rave. 
 
 And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead 
 man's grave, 
 
 Then go — but go alone the while — 
 
 Then view St. David's ruin'd pile ; 
 
 And, home returning, soothly swear. 
 
 Was never scene so sad and fair ! 
 
 n. 
 
 Short halt did Deloraine make there ; 
 Little reck'd he of the scene so fair ; 
 With dagger's hilt, on the wicket 
 
 strong, 
 He struck full loud, and struck full 
 
 long. 
 The porter hurried to the gate — 
 •' Who knocks so loud, and knocks so 
 
 late?" 
 "From Branksome I," the warrior 
 
 cried ; 
 And straight the wicket open'd wide: 
 For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle 
 
 stood. 
 To fence the rights of fair Melrose; 
 And lands and livings, many a rood, 
 Had gifted the shrine for their 
 
 souls' repose. 
 
 in. 
 
 Bold Deloraine his errand said ; 
 The porter bent his humble head; 
 With torch in hand, and feet unshod, 
 And noiseless step, the path he trod. 
 The arched cloister, far and wide. 
 Rang to the warrior's clanking stride, 
 ', Till, stooping low his lofty crest, 
 
TH^ LAY OF TBE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 i7S 
 
 He enter'd the cell of the ancient 
 
 priest, 
 And lifted his barred aventayle, * 
 To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. 
 
 IV. 
 "The Ladye of Branksome greets 
 thee by me, 
 Says, that the fated hour has come, 
 And that to-night I shall watch with 
 thee, 
 To win the treasure of the tomb." 
 From sackcloth couch the Monk 
 arose, 
 With toil his stiffen'd limbs he 
 rear'd ; 
 A hundred years had flung their 
 snows 
 On his thin locks and floating 
 beard. 
 
 V. 
 And strangely on the knight look'd 
 he, 
 And his blue eyes gleam'd wild 
 and wide ; 
 " And, darest thou, "Warrior ! seek to 
 see 
 What heaven and hell alike would 
 hide V 
 My breast, in belt of iron pent. 
 With shirt of hair and scourge of 
 thorn ; 
 For threescore years, in penance 
 spent. 
 My knees those flinty stones have 
 worn: 
 Yet all too little to atone 
 For knowing what should ne'er be 
 known. 
 Would'st thou thy every future 
 year 
 In ceaseless prayer and penance 
 
 drie. 
 Yet wait thy latter end with 
 
 fear— 
 Then, daring Warrior, follow 
 me ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 ** Penance, father, will I none; 
 Prayer know I hardly one ; 
 
 'Aventayle, visor of the helmet. 
 
 For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry, 
 Save to patter an Ave Mary, 
 When I ride on a Border foray. 
 Other prayer can I none; 
 So speed me my errand, and let me 
 be gone." — 
 
 vn. 
 
 Again on the Knight look'd the 
 
 Churchman old. 
 And again he sighed heavily; 
 For he had himself been a warrior 
 
 bold, 
 And fought in Spain and Italy. 
 And he thought on the days that 
 
 were long since by, 
 When his limbs were strong and his 
 
 courage was high:^ 
 Now, slow and faint, he led the 
 
 way, 
 Where, cloister'd round, the garden 
 
 lay' , . 
 
 The pillar'd arches were over their 
 
 head, 
 
 And beneath their feet were the 
 
 bones of the dead. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Spreading herbs, and flowerets 
 
 bright, 
 Glisten'd with the dew of night; 
 Nor herb, nor floweret, glisten'd 
 
 there, 
 But was carved in the cloister-arches 
 as fair. 
 The monk gazed long on the lovely 
 moon, 
 Then into the night he looked 
 forth ; 
 And red and bright the streamers 
 light 
 Were dancing in the glowing 
 north. 
 So had he seen, in fair Castile, 
 The youth in glittering squad- 
 rons start; 
 Sudden the flying jennet wheel. 
 And hurl the unexpected dart. 
 He knew, by the streamers that shot 
 
 so bright, 
 That spirits were riding the northern 
 light. 
 
176 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 By a steel-clenched postern door, 
 They enter'd now the chancel tall ; 
 
 The darken 'd roof rose high aloof 
 On pillars loity and light and 
 small ; 
 
 The key-stone, thatlock'd each ribbed 
 aisle, 
 
 Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-f euille, 
 
 The corbells were carved grotesque 
 and grim ; 
 
 And the pillars, with clustered shafts 
 80 trim, 
 
 With base and with capital flourished 
 around, 
 
 Seemed bundles of lances which gar- 
 lands had bound. 
 
 X. 
 
 Full many a scutcheon and banner 
 
 riven, 
 Shook to the cold night-wind of 
 
 heaven, 
 Around the screened altar's pale ; 
 And there the dying lamps did burn, 
 Before thy low and lonely urn, 
 gallant chief of Otterburne ! 
 And thine, dark Knight of Liddes- 
 
 dale! 
 fading honours of the dead ! 
 O high ambition, lowly laid ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 The mt)on on the east oriel shone 
 Through slender shafts of shapely 
 stone, 
 By foliaged tracery combined ; 
 Thou wouldst have thought some 
 
 fairy's hand 
 'Twixt poplars straight the ozier 
 wand, 
 In many a freakish knot, had 
 twined , 
 Then framed a spell, when the work 
 
 was done, 
 And changed the willow wreaths to 
 
 stone. 
 The silver light, so pale and faint, 
 Shew'd many a prophet, and many 
 
 a saint. 
 Whose image on the glass was 
 dyed; 
 
 Full in the midst, his Cross of Eed 
 Triumphant Michael brandished, 
 
 And trampled the Apostate's pride. 
 The moonbeam kiss'd the holy pane. 
 And threw on the pavement a bloody 
 stain. 
 
 XII. 
 
 They sate them down on a marble 
 
 stone, 
 (A Scottish monarch slept below;)* 
 Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn 
 
 tone: — 
 ' 'I was not always a man of woe ; 
 For Paynim countries I have trod, 
 x\nd fought beneath the Cross of God: 
 Now, strange to my eyes thine arms 
 
 appear. 
 And their iron clang sounds strange 
 
 to my ear. 
 
 xin. 
 
 ** In these far climes it was my lot 
 To meet the wondrous Michael 
 Scott, 
 A wizard, of such dreaded fame. 
 That when, in Salamanca's cave, 
 Him listed his magic wand to wave, 
 The bells would ring m Notre 
 Dame ! 
 Some of his skill he taught to me ; 
 And, Warrior, I could say to thee 
 The words that cleft Eildon hills in 
 three. 
 And bridled the Tweed with a curb 
 of stone : 
 But to speak them were a deadly sin; 
 And for having but thought them my 
 heart within, 
 A treble penance must be done. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "''When Michael lay on his dying 
 
 bed, 
 His conscience was awakened : 
 He bethought him of his sinful deed, 
 And he gave nie a sign to come with 
 
 speed; 
 I was in Spain when the morning 
 
 rose, 
 But I stood by his bed ere evening 
 
 close, 
 
 * Alexander II. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTEEL 
 
 177 
 
 The words may not again be said. 
 That he spoke to me, on death-bed 
 
 laid ; 
 They would rend this Abbaye's massy 
 
 nave, 
 And pile it in heaps above his grave. 
 
 XV. 
 " I swore to bury his Mighty Book, 
 That never mortal might therein 
 
 look; 
 And never to tell where it was hid, 
 Save at his Chief of Branksome's 
 
 need: 
 And when that need was past and o'er, 
 Again the volume to restore. 
 I buried him on St. Michael's night, 
 When the bell toU'd one, and the 
 
 moon was bright, 
 And I dug his chamber among the 
 
 dead. 
 When the floor of the chancel was 
 
 .stained red. 
 That his patron's cross might over 
 
 him wave, 
 And scare the fiends from the 
 
 Wizard's grave. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 ** It was a night of woe and dread, 
 When Michael in the tomb I laid ! 
 Strange sounds along the chancel 
 
 pass'd, 
 The banners waved without a 
 
 blast ;••— 
 — Still spoke the Monk, when the 
 
 bell toil'd one ! — 
 I tell you, that a braver man 
 Than William of Deloraine, good at 
 
 need, 
 Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed ; 
 Yet somewhat was he chilled with 
 
 dread. 
 And his hair did bristle upon his 
 
 head. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 **Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red 
 Points to the grave of the mighty 
 
 dead ; 
 Within It burns a wondrous light, 
 To chase the spirits that love the 
 
 night: 
 
 That lamp shall burn unquenchably, 
 Until the eternal doom shall be."*" — 
 Slow moved the monk to the broad 
 
 flagstone. 
 Which the bloody Cross was traced 
 
 upon : 
 He pointed to a secret nook ; 
 An iron bar the Warrior took ; 
 And the Monk made a sign with his 
 
 withered hand, 
 The grave's huge portal to expand. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 With beating heart to the task he 
 
 went ; 
 His sinewy frame o'er the gravestone 
 
 bent ; 
 With bar of iron heaved amain. 
 Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, 
 
 like rain. 
 It was by dint of passing strength, 
 That he moved the massy stone at 
 
 length. 
 I would you had been there, to see 
 How the light broke forth so glori- 
 ously, 
 Stream'd upward to the chancel roof, 
 And through the galleries far aloof ! 
 No earthly flame blazed e'er so 
 
 bright : 
 It shone like heaven's own blessed 
 
 ligbt. 
 And, issuing from the tomb, 
 Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage 
 
 pale, 
 Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's 
 
 mail, 
 And kiss'd his waving plume. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Before their eyes the Wizard lay, 
 As if he had not been dead a day. 
 His hoary beard in silver roll'd, 
 He seem'd some seventy winters old ; 
 A i)almer's amice wrapped him 
 
 round, 
 With a wrought Spanish baldric 
 bound, 
 
 ' It was a l)(>lief of the Middle Afj:e3 that 
 eternal lamps were to be loimd burumg m 
 aucieut sepulchre;}. 
 
178 
 
 SCOTT* S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Like a pilgrim from beyond the 
 
 sea; 
 His left hand held his Book of 
 
 Might; 
 A silver cross was in his right; 
 The lamp was placed beside his 
 knee; 
 High and majestic was his look, 
 At which the fellest fiends had shook, 
 And all unruffled was his face: 
 They trusted his soul had gotten 
 grace. 
 
 XX. 
 Often had William of Deloraine 
 Kode through the battle's bloody 
 
 plain, 
 And trampled down the warriors 
 slain, 
 And neither known remorse nor 
 awe; 
 Yet now remorse and awe he owned ; 
 His breath came thick, his head 
 swam round, 
 When this strange scene of death 
 he saw, 
 Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood, 
 And the priest prayed fervently and 
 
 loud : 
 With eyes averted prayed he ; 
 He might not endure the sight to see, 
 Of the man he had loved so brotherly. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And when the priest his death-prayer 
 
 had pray'd, 
 Thus unto Deloraine he said : — 
 "Now, speed tnee what thou hast to 
 
 do. 
 Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue; 
 For those, thou may'st not look upon, 
 Are gathering fast round the yawning 
 
 stone !" — 
 Then Deloraine, in terror, took 
 From the cold hand the Mighty 
 
 Book, 
 With iron clasp'd, and with iron 
 
 bound : 
 He thought, as he took it, the dead 
 
 man frowned ; 
 But the glare of the sepulchral light, 
 Perchance, had dazzled the Warrior's 
 
 sight. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 When the huge stone sunk o'er the 
 tomb. 
 
 The night returned in double gloom; 
 
 For the moon had gone down, and 
 the stars were few; 
 
 And, as the Knight and Priest with- 
 drew, 
 
 With wavering steps and dizzy brain, 
 
 They hardly might the postern gain. 
 
 'Tis said, as through the aisles they 
 pass'd. 
 
 They heard strange noises on the 
 
 blast, 
 ' And through the cloister-galleries 
 small, 
 
 Which at mid-height thread the chan- 
 cel wall. 
 
 Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, 
 
 And voices unlike the voice of man; 
 
 As if the fiends kept holiday, 
 
 Because these spells were brought to 
 day. 
 
 I cannot tell how the truth may be; 
 
 I say the tale as 'twas said to me. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Now, hie thee hence, " the Father 
 
 said, 
 " And when we are on death-bed laid, 
 O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. 
 
 John, 
 Forgive our souls for the deed we have 
 done!" 
 The Monk return 'd him to his cell. 
 And many a prayer and penance 
 sped; 
 When the convent met at the noon- 
 tide bell— 
 The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was 
 dead ! 
 Before the cross was the body laid, 
 With hands clasp d fast, as if still he 
 pray'd. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The Knight breathed free in the 
 
 morning wind. 
 And strove his hardihood to find*. 
 He was glad when he i^assd the 
 
 tombstones grey, 
 Which girdle round the fair Abbayej 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 179 
 
 For tli6 mystic Book, to his bosom 
 
 prest. 
 Felt like a load upon his breast; 
 And his }oint6, with nerves of iron 
 
 twined, 
 Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind. 
 Full fain was Le when the dawn of 
 
 day- 
 Began to brighten Cheviot grey; 
 He joy'd tvO see the cheerful light, 
 And he said Ave Mary, as well as he 
 
 might. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The sun had brirrhten'd Cheviot grey, 
 The sun had brighten'd the Cart- 
 er's* side. 
 And Foon beneath the rising day 
 fSmiled Branksome Towers and Te- 
 viot's tide. 
 The wild birds told their warbling 
 tale. 
 And waken d every flower that 
 blows ; 
 And peeped forth the violet pale, 
 And spread her breast the mountain 
 rose. 
 And lovelier than tho rose so red, 
 
 Yet paler than tha violet pale, 
 She early left her sleepless bed, 
 The fairest maid of Teviotdale. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Why does fair Margaret so early 
 
 awake ? 
 And don her kirtle so hastilie; 
 And the silken knots, which in hurry 
 
 she would make, 
 Why tremble her slender fingers to 
 
 tie; 
 Why does she stop, and look often 
 
 around. 
 As she glides down the secret stair; 
 And why does she pat the shaggy 
 
 blood-hound. 
 As Le rouses him up from his lair; 
 And, though she passes the postern 
 
 alone, 
 Why 13 not the watchman's bugle 
 
 blown i 
 
 ' A mountain on tho Border of England, 
 above Jedburijli 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The ladye steps in doubt and dread, 
 
 Lest heir watchful mother hear her 
 tread ; 
 
 The ladye caresses the rough blood- 
 hound, 
 
 Lest his voice should waken the castle 
 round, 
 
 The v/atchman's bugle is not blown. 
 
 For he was her foster-father's son ; 
 
 And she glides through the greenwood 
 at dawn of light. 
 
 To meet Baron Henry, her own true 
 knight. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 The Knight and ladye fair are met, 
 And under the hawthorn's boughs are 
 
 set. 
 A fairer pair were never seen 
 To meet beneath the hawthorn green, 
 lie was stately, and young, and tall ; 
 Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall: 
 And she, when love, scarce told, scarce 
 
 hid, 
 Lent to her cheek a livelier red; 
 V/hen tho hrJf sigh her swelling 
 
 breast 
 Against the silken ribbon prest; 
 \7hen her blue eyes their secret told, 
 Though shaded by her locks of gold — 
 Where would you find the peerless 
 
 fair, 
 With Margaret of Branksome might 
 
 compare! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And now, fair dames, methinks I see 
 You listen to my minstrelsy; 
 Y^'our waving locks ye backward throw, 
 And sidelong bend your necks of 
 
 mow; 
 Y''o ween to hear a melting tale. 
 Of two true lovers in a dale; 
 And how tho Knight, with tender 
 fire, 
 To paint his faithful passion 
 strove; 
 Swore he might at her feet expire, 
 But never, never, cease to love ; 
 And how she blush'd, and how she 
 
 sigh'd, 
 And, half consenting, half denied, 
 
i8o 
 
 scorrs poetical wonKs. 
 
 And said that she ■would die a maid :— 
 Yet, might the bloody fend be stay'd, 
 Henry of Cranstonn, and only he, 
 Margaret of Branksome's choice 
 should be. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain! 
 My harp has lost the enchanting 
 strain ; 
 
 Its lightness would my age reprove: 
 My hairs are grey, my limbs are old, 
 My heart is dead, my veins are cold: 
 
 I may not, must not, sing of love. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld, 
 The Baron's Dwarf his courser held, 
 And held his crested helm and 
 
 spear: 
 That Dwarf was scarce an earthly 
 
 man. 
 If the tales were true that of him ran 
 Through all the Border far and 
 
 near. 
 *Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting 
 
 rode, 
 Through Reedsdale's glens, but rare- 
 ly trod, 
 He haari a voice cry, "Lost! lost! 
 
 lost!" 
 And, like tennis-ball by racket toss'd, 
 
 A leap, of thirty feet and three, 
 Made from the gorse this elfin shape, 
 Distorted like some dwarfish ape. 
 And lighted at Lord Cranstoun*s 
 
 knee. 
 Lord Cranstoun was some whit dis- 
 
 may'd; 
 'Tis said that five good miles he rade. 
 
 To rid him of his company; 
 But where ho rode one mile, the 
 
 Dwarf ran four. 
 And the Dwarf was first at the castle 
 
 door. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Use lessens marvel, it is said: 
 
 This elvish Dwarf with the Baron 
 
 staid; 
 Little he ate, and less he spoke, 
 Nor mingled with the menial flock; 
 And oft apart his arms he toss'd, 
 
 And often mutter'd ♦* Lost I lost ! 
 lost!" 
 He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,"* 
 But well Lord Cranstoun served he: 
 And he of his service was full fain; 
 For once he had been ta'en or slain. 
 
 An it had not been for his ministry. 
 All between Home and Hermitage, 
 Talk'd of Lord Craustoun's Goblin- 
 Page. 
 
 XXXIIL 
 
 For the Baron went on Pilgrimage, 
 And took with him this elvish Page, 
 
 To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes. 
 For there beside our Ladye's lake. 
 An offering he had sworn to make. 
 
 And he would pay his vows. 
 But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd 
 
 a band 
 Of the best that would ride at her 
 
 command: 
 The trysting place was Newark Lee. 
 "Wat of Harden came thither amain. 
 And thither came John of Thirlestane, 
 And thither came William of Delor- 
 
 aine; 
 They were three hundred spears 
 
 and three. 
 Through Douglas-bum, up Yarrow 
 
 stream, 
 Their horses prance, their lances 
 
 gleam. 
 They came to St. Mary's lake ere day; 
 But the chapel was void, and the 
 
 Baron away. 
 They burn'd the chapel for very rage, 
 And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Gob- 
 lin-Page. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 And now, in Branksome's good green 
 
 wood. 
 As under the aged oak ho stood. 
 The Baron's courser pricks his ears, 
 As if a distant noise he hears. 
 The Dwarf waves his long lean arm 
 
 on high. 
 And signs to the lovers to part and fly ; 
 No time was then to vow or sigh. 
 Fair Margaret through the hazel grove. 
 
 ♦101©. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 iSi 
 
 Flew like the startled cushat-dove; 
 
 The Dwarf the stirrup held nnd rein; 
 
 Vaulted the Knight on his steed 
 amain, 
 
 And, pondering deep that moming*s 
 scene, 
 
 Eode eastv^ard through the haw- 
 thorns green. 
 
 While thus he j)oured the lengthen'd 
 
 tale 
 The Minstrel's yoice began to fail: 
 Full slyly smiled the observant page, 
 And gave the wither'd hand of age 
 A goblet crown d with mighty wine, 
 The blood of Velez' scorched vine. 
 He raised the silver cup on high, 
 And, while the big drop fill'd his eye, 
 Pray'd God to bless the Duchess 
 
 long. 
 And all v/ho cheer'd a son of song. 
 The attending maidens smiled to see 
 How long, how deep, how zealously, 
 The precious juice the Minstrel 
 
 quaflTd; 
 And he, embolden'd by the draught, 
 Look'd gaily back to them, and 
 
 laugh'd. 
 The cordial nectar of the bowl 
 Swell' d his old veins, and cheer'd his 
 
 soul; 
 A lighter, livelier prelude ran, 
 Ere thus his tale again began. 
 
 CANT6 THmD. 
 
 I. 
 
 And said I that my limbs were old, 
 And said I that my blood was cold, 
 And that my kindly fire was fled. 
 And my poor wither'd heart was 
 dead. 
 
 And thati might not sing of love? — 
 How could I to the dearest theme, 
 That ever warm d a minstrel's dream, 
 
 So fonl, so false a recreant prove ! 
 How could I name loves very name, 
 Nor wake my heart to notes oi flame ! 
 
 * The crest of the Cranstouns, in allusion 
 to their name is a crane, dormunt, hohliuo- a 
 Stone in hid foot, with an emj)hatic J3orUer 
 
 II. 
 
 In peace. Love tunes the shepherd's 
 
 reed; 
 In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; 
 In halls, in gay attire is seen. 
 In hamlets, dances on the green. 
 Love rules the court, the camp, the 
 
 grove, 
 And men below, and saints above; 
 For love is heaven, and heaven is love. 
 
 III. 
 
 So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I 
 
 ween, < 
 
 While, pondering deep the tender 
 
 scene, 
 He rode through Branksome's haw- 
 thorn green. 
 But the Page shouted wild and 
 shrill. 
 And scarce his helmet could he 
 don. 
 When downward from the shady 
 hill ^ ^ 
 
 Astately knight came pricldng on. 
 That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray. 
 Was d:.rk with sweat, and splashed 
 with clay; 
 His armor red with many a stain; 
 He seem'd in such a weary plight. 
 As if he had ridden the live-long 
 night; 
 For it was William of Deloraine. 
 
 rv. 
 
 But no whit weary did he seem, 
 When, dancing in the sunny beam, 
 He mark'd the crane on the baron's 
 
 crest;* 
 For his ready spear was in his rest. 
 Few were the words, and stern and 
 high, 
 That mark'd the foemen's feudal 
 hate; 
 For question fierce, and proud re- 
 
 Gave signal soon of dire debate. 
 Their very coursers seemed to know 
 That each was other s mortal foe, 
 
 motto. Thou shall loant ere 1 want. Arms 
 tliiis punnin{:f on tlio name, are said heralU- 
 ically to bo " canting." 
 
iSa 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL VfOLK 
 
 And snorted fire, when wheel'd 
 around, 
 
 To give each knight his vantage- 
 ground. 
 
 V. 
 
 In rapid round the Baron bent; 
 He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a 
 prayer; 
 The prayer was to his patron saint, 
 
 The sigh was to his ladye fair. 
 Stout Deloraine norsigh'dnor pray'd, 
 Nor saint, nor ladye, call'd to aid; 
 But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd 
 
 his spear, 
 And spurred his steed to full career. 
 The meeting of these champions 
 
 proud 
 Seem'd like the bursting thunder- 
 cloud. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Stern was the dint the Borderer lent ! 
 The stately Baron backwards bent; 
 Bent backwards to his horse's tail, 
 And his plumes went scattering on 
 
 the gale. 
 The tough ash spear, so stout and 
 true. 
 Into a thousand flinders flew. 
 But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail, 
 Pierced through, like silk, the Bor- 
 derer's mail; 
 Through shield, and jack, and acton, 
 
 past, 
 Deep m his bosom, broke at last. — 
 Still sate the warrior saddle-fast, 
 Till, tumbling in the mortal shock, 
 Down went the steed, the girthing 
 
 broke, 
 Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse. 
 The Baron onward pass'd his course; 
 Nor knew — so giddyroll'd his brain — 
 Kis foe lay stretched upon the plain. 
 
 vn. 
 
 But when he reign'd his courser 
 
 round, 
 And saw his foeman on the ground 
 
 Lie senseless as the bloody clay. 
 He bade his page to stanch the wound. 
 
 And there beside the warrior stay, 
 And tend him in his doubtful state, 
 
 And lead him to Branksome castle- 
 
 gate: 
 His noble mind was inly moved 
 For the kinsman of the maid he loved. 
 "This shalt thou do without delay: 
 No longer here myself may stay; 
 Unless the swifter I speed away, 
 Short shrift will be at my dying 
 
 day." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode; 
 
 The Goblin Page behind abode; 
 
 His lord's command he ne'er with- 
 stood, 
 
 Though small his pleasure to do good. 
 
 As the corslet off he took, 
 
 The dwarf espied the Mighty Book ! 
 
 Much he marvell'd a knight of pride 
 
 Like a book-bosomed priest should 
 ride;* 
 
 He thought not to search or stanch 
 the wound, 
 
 Until the secret he had found. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The iron band, the iron clasp. 
 Resisted long the elfin grasp : 
 For when the first he had undone, 
 It closed as he the next begun. 
 Those iron clasps, that iron band, 
 Would not yield to unchristen'd 
 
 hand. 
 Till he smear'd the cover o'er 
 With the Borderer's curdled gore ; 
 A moment then the volume spread. 
 And one short spell therein he read, 
 It had much of glamour f might, 
 Could make a ladye seem a knight; 
 The cobwebs on a dungeon wall 
 Seem tapestry in lordly hall; 
 A nut-shell seem a gilded barge, 
 A sheelingt: seem a palace large, 
 And youth seem age, and age seem 
 
 youth — 
 All was delusion, nought was 
 truth. 
 
 * Priests were wont to carry their mass- 
 book. Ibr buryinff and marrying, &.C., ia their 
 bosoms. 
 
 I Magical delusion. 
 
 I A shepherd s hut. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 1^3 
 
 X. 
 
 He had not read another 'spell, 
 When on his cheek a buffet fell. 
 So fierce, it stretch'd him on the 
 
 plain, 
 Beside the wounded Deloraine. 
 From tho ground he rode dismay 'd, 
 And shook his huge and matted 
 
 head; 
 One word he mutter'd, and no more, 
 " Man of age, thou smitest sore !" — 
 No more the Elfin Page durst try 
 Into the wondrous Book to pry; 
 The clasps, though smear'd with 
 
 Christian gore. 
 Shut faster than they were before. 
 He hid it underneath his cloak. — 
 Now, if you ask who gave the stroke, 
 I cannot tell, so mot I thrive; 
 It was not given by man alive. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Unwillingly himself he address'd, 
 To do his master's high behest: 
 He lifted up the living corse. 
 And laid it on the weary horse; 
 He led him into Branksome Hall, 
 Before the beards of the warders all; 
 And each did after swear and say, 
 There only pass'd a wain of hay. 
 He took him to Lord David'g' tower, 
 Even to the Ladye's secret bower; 
 And, but that stronger spells were 
 
 spread. 
 And the door might not be opened, 
 He laid him on her very bed. 
 Whate'er he did of gramarye,* 
 Was always done maliciously; 
 He flung the warrior on the ground. 
 And the blood well'd freshly from 
 
 the wound. 
 
 XII. 
 
 As he repass'd the outer court, 
 
 He spied the fair young child at 
 
 sport; 
 He thought to train him to the wood; 
 For, at a word, be it understood. 
 He was always for ill, and never for 
 
 good. 
 
 * Magic. 
 
 Seem'd to the boy, some comrade 
 
 gay 
 Led him forth to the woods to play; 
 On the drawbridge the warders stout 
 Saw a terrier and lurcher passing 
 
 out. 
 
 xni. 
 
 He led the boy o'er bank and fell. 
 Until they came to a woodland 
 
 brook; 
 The running stream dissolved the 
 
 spell, 
 And his own elvish shape he took. 
 Could he have had his pleasure vilde, 
 He had crippled the joints of the no- 
 ble child; 
 Or, with his fingers long and lean. 
 Had strangled him in fiendish 
 
 spleen; 
 But his awful mother he had in 
 
 dread. 
 And also his power was limited; 
 So he but scowl' d on the startled 
 
 child, 
 And darted through the forest wild ; 
 The woodland brook he bounding 
 
 cross'd. 
 And laugh 'd, and shouted, "Lost! 
 
 lost ! lost !"— 
 
 XTV. 
 
 Full sore amazed at the wondrous 
 change. 
 
 And frighten'd as a child might be, 
 At the wild yell and visage strange, 
 
 And the dark words of gramarye, 
 The child, amidst the forest bower, 
 Stood rooted like a lily flower; 
 And when, at length, with trembling 
 pace, 
 
 He sought to find where Brank- 
 some lay, 
 He fear'd to see that grisly face 
 
 Glare frcm some thicket on his 
 way. 
 Thus, starting oft, he journey 'd on. 
 And deeper in the wood is gone, — 
 For aye the more he sought his way, 
 The farther still he went astray, — 
 Until he heard the mountains round 
 Ring to the baying of a hound. 
 
104 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOllKS. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And hark ! and hark ! the deep- 
 
 mouth'd bark 
 Comes nigher still, and nigher: 
 Bursts on the path a dark blood- 
 hound, 
 His tawny muzzle track'd the 
 
 ground, 
 And his red eye shot fire. 
 Soon as the wilder'd child saw he 
 He flew at him right furiouslie. 
 I ween you would have seen with joy 
 The bearing of the gallant boy. 
 When, worthy of his noble sire, 
 His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and 
 
 ire ! 
 He faced the blood-hound manfully, 
 And held his little bat on high; 
 So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid. 
 At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd, 
 
 But still in act to spring; 
 When dash'd an archer through the 
 
 glade. 
 And when he saw the hound was 
 
 stay'd, 
 He drew his tough bow-string; 
 But a rough voice cried, ' ' Shoot not, 
 
 hoy ! 
 Ho ! shoot not, Edward — 'Tis a 
 
 boy!" 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The speaker issued from the wood, 
 And check'd his fellow's surly 
 mood, 
 And quell'd the ban-dog's ire ; 
 He was an English yeoman good, 
 
 And born in Lancashire. 
 Well could he hit a fallow-deer 
 
 Five hundred feet him fro ; 
 With hand more true, and eye more 
 clear. 
 No archer bended bow. 
 His coal-black hair, shorn round and 
 close. 
 Set off his sun-bum'd face: 
 Old England's sign, St. George's 
 cross, 
 His barret-cap did grace ; 
 His bugle-horn hung by his side, 
 All in a wolf-skin baldric tied; 
 
 And his short falchion, sharp and 
 
 clear, 
 Had pierced the throat of many a 
 
 deer. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 His kirtle, made of foi-est green, 
 
 Keach'd scantly to his knee; 
 And, at his belt, of arrows keen 
 
 A furbish'd sheaf bore he; 
 His buckler, scarce in breadth a 
 span. 
 
 No larger fence had he; 
 He never counted him a man, 
 
 Would strike below the knee; 
 His slacken'd bow was in his hand. 
 And the leash, that was his blood- 
 hound's band. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 He would not do the fair child harm, 
 But held him with his powerful arm. 
 That he might neither fight nor flee; 
 For when the Eed-Cross spied he, 
 The boy strove long and violently. 
 '•Now, by St. George," the archer 
 
 cries, 
 "Edward, methinks we have a prize ! 
 This boy's fair face, and courage free. 
 Show he is come of high degree." — 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Yes ! I am come of high degree, 
 
 For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch ; 
 And, if thou dost not set me free, 
 False Southron, thou shalt dearly 
 
 rue ! 
 For Walter of Harden shall come 
 
 with speed, 
 And William of Deloraine, good at 
 
 need, 
 And every Scott, from Eskto Tweed; 
 And, if thou dost not let me go. 
 Despite thy arrows, and thy bow, 
 I'll have thee hang'd to feed the 
 
 crow !" — 
 
 XX. 
 
 * Gramercy, * for thy good-will, fair 
 
 boy ! 
 My mind was never set so high; 
 But if thou art chief of such a clan, 
 
 Grand merci, thanks. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 185 
 
 And art the son of such a man, 
 And ever comest to thy command, 
 Our wardens had need to keep 
 good order; 
 My bow of yew to a hazel wand, 
 Thou'lt make them work upon the 
 Border. 
 Jleantime, be pleased to come with 
 
 me, 
 For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see ; 
 I think our work is well begun, 
 When we have taken thy father's 
 son." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Although the child was led away. 
 In Branksome still he seem'd to stay, 
 For so the Dwarf his part did play ; 
 And, in the shape of that young boy, 
 He wrought the castle much annoy. 
 The comrades of the young Buccleuch 
 He pinch'd, and beat, and overthrew; 
 Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew, 
 lie tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire, 
 And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire. 
 He lighted the match of his bande- 
 
 lier, * 
 And wofully scorch'd the hackbu- 
 
 teer.f 
 It may be hardly thought or said, 
 The mischief that the urchin made, 
 Till many of the castle guess'd 
 That the young Baron was possess'd ! 
 XXII. 
 
 Well I ween the charm he held 
 The noble Ladye had soon dispell'd ; 
 But she was deeply busied then 
 To tend the wounded Deloraine. 
 Much she wonder'd to find him 
 lie, 
 On the stone threshold stretch'd 
 along ; 
 She thought some spirit of the sky 
 Had done the bold moss-trooper 
 wrong ; 
 Because, despite her precept dread. 
 Perchance he in the book had read : 
 Bui the broken lance in his bosom 
 
 stood, 
 And it was earthly steel and wood. 
 
 * Jlandelier, belt for carrying ammunition, 
 i JIackbuteer, musketeer. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 She drew the splinter from the wound, 
 And with a charm she staunched 
 the blood ; 
 She bade the gash be cleansed and 
 bound ; 
 No longer by his couch she stood; 
 But she has ta'en the broken lance, 
 And wash'd it from the clotted gore. 
 And salved the splinter o'er and 
 o'er.:t 
 William of Deloraine, in trance. 
 Whene'er she turn'd it round and 
 
 round, 
 Twisted as if she gall'd his wound. 
 Then to her maidens she did say, 
 That he should be whole man and 
 sound. 
 Within the course of a night and 
 day. 
 Full long she toil'd ; for she did rue 
 Mishap to friend so stout and true. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 So pass'd the day— the evening fell, 
 Twas near the time of curfew bell ; 
 The air was mild, the wind was calm, 
 The stream was smooth, the dew wa^ 
 
 balm ; 
 E'en the rude watchman.on the tower, 
 Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour. 
 Far more fair Margaret loved and 
 
 bless'd 
 The hour of silence and of rest. 
 On the high turret sitting lone, 
 She waked at times the lute's soft 
 
 tone ; 
 Touch'd a wild note, and all between 
 Thought of the bower of hawthornes 
 
 green. 
 Her golden hair stream'd free from 
 
 band, 
 Her fair cheek rested on her hand, 
 Her blue eyes sought the west afar, 
 For lovers love the western star. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen, 
 That rises slowly to her ken, 
 
 1 This Tras called the cure by sympathy. 
 Sir Kenelm Digby was Avont occasionally to 
 practise it. 
 
i86 
 
 SCOTT'S FOETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And, spreading broad its wavering 
 
 light, 
 Shakes its loose tresses on the night? 
 Is yon red glare the western star ? — 
 O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war ! 
 Scare conld she draw her tighten'd 
 
 breath. 
 For well she knew the fire of death ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The Warder view'd it blazing strong, 
 And blew his war-note loud and long. 
 Till, at the high and haughty sound, 
 Kock, wood, and river rung around. 
 The blast alarm'd the festal hall. 
 And startled forth the warriors all ; 
 Far downward, in the castle-yard, 
 Full many a torch and cresset glared ; 
 And helms and plumes, confusedly 
 
 toss'd, 
 "Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost ; 
 And spears m wild disorder shook, 
 Like reeds beside a frozen brook. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 The Seneschal, whose silver hair 
 Was redden'd by the torches' glare, 
 Stood in the midst, with gesture 
 
 proud, 
 And issued forth his mandates 
 
 loud : — 
 " On Penchryst glows a bale* of fire. 
 And three are iandling on Priest- 
 
 haughswire ; 
 
 Hide out, ride out, 
 The foe to scout ! 
 Mount, mount for Branksome,t 
 
 every man ! 
 Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone 
 
 clan, 
 That ever are true and stout — 
 Ye need not send to Liddesdale ; 
 For when they see the blazing bale, 
 Elliotts and Armstrongs never fail. — 
 Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life ! 
 And warn the Warder of the strife. 
 Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze. 
 Our kin, and clan, and friends to 
 
 raise." 
 
 * A Border beacon. 
 
 1 Mount for Sranksome was the gathering 
 AVord of the Seotts. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Fair Margaret from the turret head. 
 Heard, far below, the coursers* tread, 
 
 While loud the harness rung. 
 As to their seats, with clamour dread, 
 
 The ready horsemen sprung : 
 And trampling hoofs, and iron coats. 
 And leaders' voices, mingled notes, 
 And out ! and out ! 
 In hasty route, 
 
 The horsemen gallop'd forth ; 
 Dispersing to the south to scout, 
 
 And east, and west, and north, 
 To view their coming enemies, 
 And warn their vassals and allies. 
 
 XXIX. , 
 
 The ready page, with hurried hand. 
 Awaked the need-fire's^: slumbering 
 
 brand, 
 And ruddy blush'd the heaven : 
 For a sheet of flame, from the turret 
 
 high. 
 Waved like a blood-flag on the sky, 
 
 All flaring and uneven ; 
 And soon a score of fires, I ween, 
 From height, and hill, and cliff, were 
 
 seen ; 
 Each with warlike tidings fraught ; 
 Each from each the signal caught ; 
 Each after each they glanced to sight, 
 As stars arise upon the night. 
 They gleamed on many a dusky tarn,§ 
 Haunted by the lonely earn ;|| 
 On many a cairn's grey pyramid, 
 Where urns of mighty chiefs lie 
 
 hid ; 
 Till high Dunedin the blazes saw. 
 From Soltra and Dumpender Law ; 
 And Lothian heard the Kegent's 
 
 order. 
 That all should bownelT them for the 
 
 Border. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The livelong night in Branksome 
 rang 
 The ceaseless sound of steel ; 
 
 ! Need-fire, beacon. 
 ^ Tarn, a moimtam lake. 
 II Earn, a Scottish eagle. 
 ^ Bowne, make ready. 
 
TUE LAI" OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 1S7 
 
 The castle-bell, with backward clang. 
 
 Sent forth the larum peal ; 
 Was frequent heard the heavy jar, 
 yV^here massy stone and iron bar 
 Were piled on echoing keep and 
 
 tower, 
 To whelm the foe with deadly shower; 
 Was frequent heard the changing 
 
 guard, 
 And watchword from the sleepless 
 
 ward ; 
 While, wearied by the endless din, 
 Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd 
 
 within. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The noble Dame, amid the broil. 
 Shared the grey Seneschal's high toil. 
 And spoke of danger with a smile ; 
 
 Cheer'd the young knights, and 
 council sage 
 Held with the chiefs of riper age. 
 No tidings of the foe were brought, 
 Kor of his numbers knew they aught. 
 Nor what m time of truce he sought. 
 
 Some said, that there were thou- 
 sands ten ; 
 And others ween'd that it was nought 
 
 But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men, 
 Who came to gather in black-mail ;* 
 And Liddesdale, with small avail. 
 
 Might drive them lightly back agen. 
 So pass'd the anxious night away, 
 And welcome was the peep of day. 
 
 Ceased the high sound — the listening 
 
 throng 
 Applaud the Master of the Song ; 
 And marvel much, in helpless age. 
 So hard should be his pilgrimage. 
 Had he no friend — no daughter dear, 
 His wandering toil to share and cheer; 
 No son to be his father's stay. 
 And guide him on the rugged way? 
 " Av, once he had — but he was 
 
 dead!"- 
 Upon the harp he stoop'd his head. 
 And busied himselfthe strings withal, 
 To hide the tear that fain would fall. 
 
 * Protectiou money exacted by free- 
 booters. 
 
 In solemn measure, soft and slow, 
 Arose a father's notes of woe. 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 
 Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide 
 
 The glaring bale-fires blaze no 
 more; 
 No longer steel-clad warriors ride 
 
 Along thy wild and willow'd shore; 
 Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill, 
 All, all is peaceful, all is still. 
 
 As if thy waves, since Time was 
 born, 
 Since first they, roll'dupon the Tweed, 
 Had only heard the shepherd's reed, 
 
 Nor started at the bugle-horn. 
 
 II. 
 
 Unlike the tide of human time. 
 Which, though it change in cease- 
 less flow, 
 Retains each grief, retains each crime 
 Its earliest course was doom'd to 
 know; 
 And, darker as it downward bears, 
 Is stain'd with past and present tears. 
 Low as that tide has ebb'd with me, 
 It Btill reflects to Memory's eye 
 The hour my brave, my only boy, 
 
 Fell by the side of great Dundee. f 
 Why, when the volleying musket 
 
 play'd 
 Against the bloody Highland blade, 
 V^hy was not I beside him laid ! — 
 Enough — he died the death of fame! 
 Enough — he died with conquering 
 Graeme. 
 
 ni. 
 
 Now over Border, dale, and fell. 
 
 Full wide and far was terror spread ; 
 For pathless march, and mountain cell. 
 
 The peasant left his lowly shed. 
 The frighten'd flocks and herds were 
 
 pent 
 Beneath the peel's rude battlement; 
 And maids and matrons dropp'd the 
 tear, 
 
 t Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, slain 
 in the battle of Killicrankie. 
 
i88 
 
 SCOTT'S FOETICAL WORKS. 
 
 While ready warriors seized the spear. 
 Erom Branksome's towers, the watch- 
 man's eye 
 Dun wreaths of distant smoke can 
 
 spy, . 
 
 Which, curling in the rising sun, 
 Show'd southern ravage was begun. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now loud the heedful gate-ward 
 cried — 
 " Prepare ye all for blows and 
 blood ! 
 Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddel-side, 
 
 Comes wading through the flood. 
 Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock 
 At his lone gate, and pi-ove the lock; 
 It was but last St. Barnabright* 
 They sieged him a whole summer 
 
 night, 
 But fled at morning; well they knew, 
 In vain he never twang'd the yew. 
 Right sharp has been the evening 
 
 shower, 
 That drove him *from his Liddel 
 
 tower; 
 And by my faith," the gate-ward said, 
 "I think 'twill prove a Warden- 
 Raid."! 
 
 V. 
 
 While thus he spoke, the bold yeo- 
 man 
 
 Enter'd the echoing barbican. 
 
 He led a small and shaggy nag, 
 
 That through a bog, from hag to hag, % 
 
 Could bound like any liillhope stag. 
 
 It bore his wife and children twain; 
 
 A half-clothed serf^ was all their 
 train ; 
 
 His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark- 
 brow'd, 
 
 Of silver brooch and bracelet proud, 
 
 Laugh'd to her friends among the 
 crowd. 
 
 He was of stature passing tall, 
 
 * St. Barnabas s day, June 11. It is still 
 called Barnaby Bright in Hants, from its 
 being generally a bright sunsliiiiy day. 
 
 i An inroad commanded by the Warden in 
 person. 
 
 1 The broken ground in a bog. 
 
 ^ Bondsman. 
 
 is marching 
 
 But sparely form'd, and lean withal; 
 A batter' d morion on his brow; 
 A leather jack, as fence enow, 
 On his broad shoulders loosely hung; 
 A border axe behind was slung; 
 His spear, six Scottish ells in length, 
 
 Seem'd newly dyed with goro, 
 His shafts and bow, of wondrous 
 strength. 
 His hardy partner bore. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show 
 The tidings of the English foe: 
 •♦Belted Will Howard 
 
 here, 
 And hot Lord Dacre with many a 
 
 spear, 
 And all the German hackbut-men. 
 Who have long lain at Askerten : 
 They cross'd the Liddel at curfew 
 
 hour, 
 And burn'd my little lonely tower: 
 The fiend re(;eive their souls therefor! 
 It had not been burnt this year and 
 
 more. 
 Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing 
 
 blight, 
 Served to guide me on my flight; 
 But I was chased the livelong night. 
 Black John of Akeshaw, and Fergus 
 
 Graeme, 
 Fast upon my traces came, 
 Until I turn'd at Priesthaugh Scrogg, 
 And shot their horses in the bog. 
 Slew Fergus with my lance outright — 
 I had him long at high despite: 
 He drove my cows last Pastern's 
 
 night. II 
 
 VEL 
 Now weary scouts from Liddesdale, 
 Fast hurrying in, confirm'd the tale; 
 As far as they could judge by ken. 
 Three hours would bring to Teviot'ji 
 
 strand 
 Three thousand armed English- 
 men — 
 
 Meanwhile, full many a warlike 
 band, 
 
 11 Shrove Tuesday, the eve of the great 
 Spring fast. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTEEL. 
 
 189 
 
 Frora Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick shade, 
 Came in, their Chief's defence to aid. 
 There was saddling and mounting 
 in haste. 
 There was pricking o'er moor and 
 lea; 
 He that "was last at the trysting 
 place 
 "Was but lightly held of his gaye 
 ladye. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 From fair St. Mary's silver wave. 
 From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky 
 
 height, 
 His ready lances Thirlestane brave 
 Array'd beneath a banner bright. 
 The treasured fleur-de-luce he claims. 
 To wreathe his shield, since royal 
 
 James, 
 Encamp'd by Fala's mossy wave. 
 The proud distinction grateful gave, 
 
 For faith 'mid feudal jars; 
 "What time, save Thirlestane alone, 
 Of Scotland's stubborn barons none 
 
 Would march to southern wars ; 
 And hence,infair remembrance worn, 
 Yon sheaf of spears his crest has 
 
 borne; 
 Hence his high motto shines re- 
 
 veal'd — 
 "Beady, aye ready," for the field. 
 
 IX. 
 
 An aged Knight, to danger steel'd, 
 With many a moss-trooper, came 
 
 on: 
 And azure in a golden field, 
 The stars and crescent graced his 
 
 shield, 
 Without the bend of Murdieston. 
 Wide lay his lands round Oak wood 
 
 tower, 
 And wide round haunted Castle-0 wer ; 
 High over Borthwick's mountain 
 
 flood. 
 His wood-embosom'd mansion stood, 
 In the dark glen, so deep below, 
 The herds of plunder'd England low ; 
 His bold retainers' daily food, 
 And bought with danger, blows, and 
 
 blood. 
 Marauding chief! his sole delight 
 
 The moonlight raid, the morning 
 
 fight; 
 Not even the Flower of Yarrow's 
 
 charms, 
 In youth, might tame his rage for 
 
 arms; 
 And still, in age, he spurn'd at rest, 
 And still his brows the helmet 
 
 press' d, 
 Albeit the blanched locks below 
 Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow; 
 Five stately warriors drew the 
 sword 
 
 Before their father's band; 
 A braver knight than Harden's lord 
 
 Ne'er belted on a brand.* 
 
 X. 
 
 Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band, 
 Came trooping down the Todshaw- 
 
 hill; 
 By the sword they won their land. 
 
 And by the sword they hold it still. 
 Harken, Ladye, to the tale. 
 How thy sires won fair Eskdale. — 
 Earl Morton was lord of that valley 
 
 fair. 
 The Beattisons were his vassals there. 
 The Earl was gentle, and mild of 
 
 mood. 
 The vassals were warlike, and fierce, 
 
 and rude; 
 High of heart, and haughty of word. 
 Little they reck'd of a tame liege lord. 
 The Earl into fair Eskdale came. 
 Homage and seignory to claim: 
 Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriot f he 
 
 sought. 
 Saying, "Give thy best steed, as a 
 
 vassal ought." 
 — "Dear to me is my bonny white 
 
 steed, 
 Oft has he help'd me at pinch of need; 
 Lord and Earl though thou be, I 
 
 trow, 
 I can rein Bucksfoot better than 
 
 thou." 
 Word on word gave fuel to fire, 
 
 ' T1113 kuight was the ancestor of Sir "Wal- 
 ter Scott. 
 
 I T!ic lendal superior, in certain cases, was 
 entitled to the best liorse of the vassal, la 
 uu:r.<,' (i Jlcrk't, or Jlerczchl, 
 
igo 
 
 scorrs poetical works. 
 
 Till Ro highly blazed the Beattisons' 
 
 ivQ, 
 But that the Earl the flight had ta'cn, 
 The vassals there their lord had slain. 
 Sore he plied both whip and spnr, 
 As ho urged his steed through Esk- 
 
 dale muir; 
 And it fell down a weary weight, 
 Just on the threshold ofBranksome 
 
 gate. 
 
 XI. 
 The Earl was a wrathful man to see, 
 Full fain avenged would he be. 
 In haste to Branksome's Lord he 
 
 spoke. 
 Saying — "Take these traitors to thy 
 
 yoke; 
 For a cast of hawks, and a purse of 
 
 gold, 
 All Eskdale I'll sell thee, to have and 
 
 hold: 
 Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons' 
 
 clan 
 If thou leavest on Eske a landed man; 
 But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone, 
 For he lent me his horse to escape 
 
 upon." 
 A glad man then was Branksome bold, 
 Down he flung him the purse of gold ; 
 To Eskdale soon he spurr'd amain. 
 And with him fivo hundred riders 
 
 has ta'en. 
 He left his merrymen in the mist of 
 
 the hiU, 
 And bade them hold them close and 
 
 still; 
 And alone he wended to the plain. 
 To meet with the Galliard and all his 
 
 train. 
 To Gilbert the Galliard thus he 
 
 said : — 
 "Know ihon me for thy liege-lord 
 
 and head, 
 Deal not with me as with Morton tame, 
 For Scotts play best at the roughest 
 
 game. 
 Give me in peace my heriot due, 
 Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt 
 
 rue, 
 If my horn I three times wind, 
 Eskdale shall long have the sound in 
 
 mind. ' * 
 
 XII. 
 
 Loudly the Beattison laugh'd in 
 
 Bcorn; 
 " Little care we for thy winded horn. 
 Ne'er shall it be the Galiiard's lot, 
 To yield his steed to a haughty 
 
 Scolt. 
 "Wend thou to Branksome back on 
 
 foot, 
 With rusty spur and miry boot." — 
 rie blew his bugle so loud and hoarse, 
 That the dun deer started at fair 
 
 Craikcross: 
 He blew again so loud and clear. 
 Through the grey mountain-mist 
 
 there did lances appear: 
 And the third blast rang with such a 
 
 din, 
 That the echoes answer'd from Ben- 
 
 tounlinn. 
 And all his riders came lightly in. 
 xhen had you seen a gallant shock. 
 When saddles were emptied, and 
 
 lances broke ! 
 For each scornful word the Galliard 
 
 had said, 
 A Beattison on the field was laid. 
 His ovv'n good sword the Chieftain 
 
 crew, 
 And he bore the Galliard through 
 
 and through: 
 Where the Beattison's blood mix'd 
 
 with the rill, 
 The Galliard's-Haugh men call it 
 
 still. 
 The Scotts have scatter'd the Beatti- 
 son clan, 
 In Eskdale they left but one landed 
 
 man. 
 The valley of Eske, from the mouth 
 
 to the source. 
 Was lost and won for that bonny 
 
 white horse. 
 
 xni. 
 
 Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw 
 came, 
 
 And warriors more than I may name; 
 
 From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindbaugh- 
 swair, 
 From Woodhouselie to Chester- 
 glen. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 191 
 
 Troop'd man and horse, and bow and 
 
 spear J 
 Tlieir gathering word was Bellen- 
 den. 
 And better hearts o'er Border sod 
 To siege or rescue never rode. 
 
 The Ladye mark'd the aids come in, 
 And high her heart of pride 
 arose: 
 She bade her youthful son attend. 
 That he might know his father's 
 friend. 
 And learn to face his foes. 
 '•The boy is ripe to look on war; 
 
 I saw him draw a cross-bow stiff, 
 And his true arrow struck afar 
 The raven's nest upon the cliff; 
 The red cross, on a southern breast, 
 Is broader than the raven's nest: 
 Thou, Whitslade, t halt teach him his 
 
 weapon to wield, 
 And o'er him hold his father's 
 shield." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Well may you think, the wily page 
 Cared not to face tiie Ladye sage. 
 He counterfeited childish fear. 
 And shriek'd, and shed full many a 
 
 tear, 
 And moan'd and plain'd in manner 
 wild. 
 
 The attendants to the Ladye told. 
 Some fairy, Eurc, had changed the 
 child. 
 
 That wont to be Kofree and bold. 
 Then wrathful was the noble dame; 
 She blush'd blooJ-rcd for very 
 
 shame : — 
 "Hence! ere the clan his faintness 
 
 view; 
 Hence v.ith the weakling to Buc- 
 
 cleuch ! — 
 V/att Tinllnn, thou shalt be his guide 
 To Bangleburn'r; lonely side. — 
 Sure some fell fiend has cursed our 
 
 line, 
 That coward should e'er be son of 
 
 mine !" — 
 
 XV. 
 
 A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had, 
 To guide the counterfeited lad. 
 
 Soon as the palfrey felt the weight 
 Of that ill-omen'd elfish freight, 
 He bolted, sprung, and rear'd amaii:, 
 rior heeded bit, nor curb, nor rin. 
 It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil 
 To drive him but a Scottish mile; 
 But as a shallow brook they 
 cross'd, 
 The elf, amid the running stream, 
 His figure changed, like form in 
 dream. 
 And ded, and shouted, "Lost! 
 lost ! lost !" 
 Full fast the urchin ran and laugh'd, 
 But faster still a cloth-yard shaft 
 w histled from startled Tinlinn's yew, 
 And pierced his shoulder through 
 
 and through. 
 Although the imp might not be slain. 
 And though the wound soon heal'd 
 
 again. 
 Yet, as he ran, he yell'd for pain; 
 And Watt of Tinlinn, much aghast, 
 Eode back to Branksome fiery fast. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Soon on the hill's steep verge he 
 
 stood. 
 That looks o'er Branksome's towers 
 
 and wood; 
 And martial murmurs, from below, 
 Proclaim'd the approaching southern 
 
 foe. 
 Through the dark wood, in mingled 
 
 tone, 
 Were Border pipes and bugles blown; 
 The coursers' neighing he could ken, 
 A measured tread of marching men; 
 Vv^hile broke at times the solemn hum, 
 The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum; 
 And banners tall, of crimson sheen, 
 
 Above the copse appear; 
 And, glistening through the haw- 
 thorns green, 
 
 Shine helm, and shield, and spear. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Light forayers, first, to view the 
 
 ground, 
 Si^urr'd their fleet coursers loosely 
 
 round; 
 Behind, in close array, and fast, 
 
192 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 The Kendal archers, all in green, 
 
 Obedient to the bugal blast, 
 
 Advancing from the wood were 
 seen. 
 To back and guard the archer band, 
 Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand: 
 A hardy race, on Irthing bred, 
 "With kirtlcs white, and crosses red, 
 Array'd beneath the banner tall, 
 That stream'd o'er Acre's conquer'd 
 
 wall; 
 And minstrels, as they march'd in 
 
 order, 
 Play'd "Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells 
 
 on the Border." 
 
 XVIII. 
 Behind the English bill and bow. 
 The mercenai-ies, firm and slow, 
 
 Moved on to fight, in dark array. 
 By Conrad led of Wolfenstein, 
 Who brought the band from distant 
 
 Rhine, 
 And sold their blood for foreign pay. 
 The camp their home, their law the 
 
 sword, 
 They knew no country, own'd no lord : 
 They were not arm'd like England's 
 
 sons, 
 But bore the levin-darting guns; 
 Buff coats, all frounced and 'broider'd 
 
 o'er, 
 And morsin-horns* and scarfs they 
 
 wore ; 
 Each better knee was bared, to aid 
 The warriors in the escalade; 
 All, as they march'd, in rugged tongue. 
 Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But louder still the clamour grew, 
 And louder still the minstrels blew, 
 When, from beneath the greenwood 
 
 tree, 
 Bode forth Lord Howard's chivalry; 
 His men-at-arms, with glaive and 
 
 spear, 
 Brought up the battle's glittering rear. 
 There many a youthful knight, full 
 
 keen 
 To gain his spurs, in arms was seen; 
 
 * Powder flasks. 
 
 With favour in his crest, or glove, 
 Memorial of his ladye-love. 
 So rode they forth in fair array. 
 Till full theirlengthen'd lines display; 
 Then call'd a halt, and made a stand, 
 And cried, **St. George, for merry 
 England 1" 
 
 XX. 
 
 Now every English eye, intent 
 
 On Branksome's armed towers was 
 
 bent; 
 So near they were, that they might 
 
 know 
 The straining harsh of each cross-bow; 
 On battlement and bartizan 
 Gleam'd nze, and spear, and partisan; 
 Falcon and culver, f on each tower. 
 Stood prompt their deadly hail to 
 
 shower; 
 And flashing armour frequent broke 
 From eddying whirls of sable smoke, 
 Where upon tower and turret head, 
 The seething pitch and molten lead 
 Reek'd, like a witch's caldron red. 
 While yet they gaze, the bridges fall, 
 The wicket opes, and from the wall 
 Rides forth the hoary Seneschal, 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Armed he rode, all save the head, 
 His white beard o'er his breast-plate 
 
 spread; 
 Unbroke by age, erect his seat, 
 He ruled his eager courser's gait; 
 Forced him, with chasten'd fire, to 
 
 prance, 
 And, high curvetting, slow advance: 
 In sign of truce, his better hand 
 Display'd a peeled willow wand; 
 His squire, attending in the rear. 
 Bore high a gauntlet on a spear. { 
 When they espied him riding out, 
 Lord Howard' and Lord Dacre stout 
 Sped to the front of their array. 
 To hear what this old knight should 
 
 say, 
 
 t Ancient pieces of artillery. 
 
 • A glove upon a lance was the emblem of 
 faith among the ancient Borderers, who were 
 wont, when any one broke his word, to ex- 
 
 fiose this emblem, and proclaim hira a faith- 
 ess villian at the first Border meeting. This 
 ceremony was much dreaded.— jS^e^ I^eslex, 
 
 
THE LAY OF TEE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 193 
 
 xxn. 
 
 " Ye English -warden lords, of yoU 
 Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch, 
 Why, 'gainst the truce of Border tide, 
 In hostile guise ye dare to ride, 
 With Kendal bow, and Gilsland 
 
 brand, 
 And all yon mercenary band, 
 Upon the bounds of fair Scotland? 
 My Ladye redes you swith* return; 
 And if but one poor straw you burn, 
 Or do our towers so much molest, 
 As scare one swallow from her nest, 
 St. Mary ! but we'll light a brand 
 Shall warm your hearths in Cumber- 
 land."— 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 A wrathful man was Dacre's lord. 
 But calmer Howard took the word: 
 **May't please thy Dame, Sir Senes- 
 chal, 
 To seek the castle's outward wall, 
 Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show 
 Both why we came, and when we go." 
 The message sped, the noble Dame 
 To the wall's outward circle came ; 
 Each chief around lean'd on his spear. 
 To see the pursuivant appear. 
 All in Lord Howard's livery dress'd, 
 The lion argent deck'd his breast; 
 He led a boy of blooming hue — 
 O sight to meet a mother's view ! 
 It was the heir of great Buccleuch. 
 Obeisance meet the herald made, 
 And thus his master's will he said: — 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " It irks, high Dame, my noble Lords, 
 Gainst lady e fair to draw their swords ; 
 But yet they may not tamely see. 
 All through the Western Wardenry, 
 "Your law-contemning kinsmen ride, 
 And burn and spoil the Border-side ; 
 And ill beseems your rank and birth 
 To make your towers a flem ens-firth, j 
 We claim from thee William of Delor- 
 
 aine, 
 That he may suffer march-treason 
 
 pain. 
 
 * Swith, instantly. 
 
 I An asylnm for outlaws. 
 
 It w£is but last St. Cuthbert's even 
 He prick'd to Stapleton on Leven, 
 HarriedJ the lands of Richard Mus- 
 
 grave, 
 And slew his brother by dint of glaive. 
 Then, since a lone and widow'd Dame 
 These restless riders may not tame, 
 Either receive within thy towers 
 Two hundred of my master's powers, 
 Or straight they sound their warri- 
 
 son,§ 
 And storm and spoil thy garrison: 
 And this fair boy, to London led, 
 Shall good King Edward's page be 
 
 bred." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 He ceased — and loud the boy did cry. 
 And stretch'd his little arms on high ; 
 Implored for aid each well-known 
 
 face, 
 And strove to seek the Dame's em- 
 brace. 
 A moment changed that Lady e's cheer, 
 Gush'd to her eye the unbidden tear; 
 She gazed upon the leaders round, 
 And dark and sad each warrior 
 
 frown'd ; 
 Then, deep within her sobbing breast 
 She lock'd the struggling sigh to rest; 
 Unalter'd and collected stood. 
 And thus replied in dauntless mood: 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 '* Say to yonr Lords of high emprize, 
 Who war on women and on boys, 
 That either William of Deloraine 
 Will cleanse him, by oath, of march- 
 treason stain, 
 Or else he will the combat take 
 'Gainst Musgrave for his honour's 
 
 sake, 
 No knight in Cumberland so good, 
 But William may count with him kin 
 
 and blood. 
 Knighthood he took of Douglas* 
 
 sword. 
 When English blood swell'd Ancram's 
 
 ford; 
 And but Lord Dacre's steed was 
 wight, 
 
 \ Plundered. 5' Note of assault. 
 
1 94 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And bare him ably in the flipht, 
 Himself had seen him dubb'd a 
 
 knight. 
 For the young heir of Branksome's 
 
 line, 
 God be his aid, and God be mine; 
 Through me no friend shall meet his 
 
 doom; 
 Here, while I live, no foe finds room. 
 Then, if thy Lords their purpose 
 urge, 
 Take our defiance loud and high; 
 Our slogan is their lyke-wake* 
 dirge, 
 Our moat, the grave ■where they 
 shall lie." 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 Proud she look'd round, applause to 
 
 claim — 
 Then lighten'd Thirlestane's eye of 
 flame; 
 His bugle "Wat of Harden blew; 
 Pensils and pennons wide were flung, 
 To heaven the Border slogan rung, 
 "St. Mary for the young Buc- 
 cleuch !" 
 The English war-cry answer 'd wide, 
 And forward bent each southern 
 spear; 
 Each Kendal archer made a stride, 
 
 And di'ew the bowstring to his ear; 
 Each minstrel's war-note loud was 
 
 blown: — 
 But, ere a gray-goose shaft had flown, 
 A horseman gallop'd from the rear. 
 
 xxvm. 
 
 "Ah ! noble Lords !" he breathless 
 
 said, 
 "What treason has your march be- 
 
 tray'd ? 
 What make you here, from aid so far, 
 Before you walls, around you war ? 
 Your foemen triumph in the thought. 
 That in the toils the lion's caught. 
 Already on dark Buberslaw 
 The Douglas holds his weapon- 
 
 schaw ;t 
 
 * Watching a corpse all night. 
 \ Weapon-schaw — military gathering of a 
 chief's followers, or the army of a county. 
 
 The lances, waving in his train. 
 Clothe the dun heath like autumn 
 
 grain; 
 And on the Liddel's northern strand. 
 To bar retreat to Cumberland, 
 Lord Maxwell ranks his merry-men 
 
 good, 
 Beneath the eagle and the rood; 
 And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviot- 
 dale, 
 Have to proud Angus come; 
 And all the Merse and Lauderdale 
 Have risen with haughty Home. 
 An exile from Northumberland, 
 
 In Liddesdale Ive wander'd long; 
 
 But still my heart was with merry 
 
 England, 
 
 And cannot brook my country's 
 
 wrong; 
 
 And hard I've spurr'd all night to 
 
 show 
 The mustering of the coming foe." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 "And let them come!" fierce Dacre 
 
 cried; 
 ' ' For soon yon crest, my father's 
 
 pride, 
 That swept the shores of Judah's sea, 
 And waved in gales of Galilee, 
 From Branksome's highest towers 
 
 display'd. 
 Shall mock the rescue's lingering 
 
 aid !"— 
 Level each harquebuss on row; 
 Draw, merry archers, draw the bow; 
 Up, bill-men, to the walls, and cry, 
 Dacre for England, win or die !'' — 
 
 XXX, 
 
 "Yet hear," quoth Howard, "calmly 
 
 hear. 
 Nor deem my words the words of fear : 
 For who, in field or foray slack, 
 Saw the blanche lion e'er fall back ? 
 But thus to risk our Border flower 
 In strife against a kingdom's power, 
 Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thou- 
 sands three, 
 Certes, were desperate pplicy. 
 Nay, take the terms the Ladye made, 
 Ere conscious of the advancing aid: 
 
THE LAY OF TEE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 195 
 
 Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine 
 In single fight, and, if he gain, 
 He gains for us ; but if he's cross'd, 
 'Tis but a single warrior lost: 
 The rest, retreating as they came, 
 Avoid defeat, and death, and shame." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Ill could the haughty Dacre orook 
 His brother Warden's sage rebuke; 
 And yet his forward step he staid, 
 And slow and sullenly obey'd. 
 But ne'er again the Border side 
 Did these two lords in friendship 
 
 ride; 
 And this slight discontent, men say, 
 Cost blood upon another day. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The pursuivant-at-arms again 
 
 Before the castle took his standi 
 His trumpet call'd, with parleying 
 strain, 
 The leaders of the Scottish band; 
 And he defied, in Musgrave's right, 
 Stout Deloraine to single fight ; 
 A gauntlet at their feet he laid, 
 And thus the terms of fight he 
 
 said : — 
 "If in the lists good Musgrave's 
 sword 
 Vanquish the Knight of Deloraine, 
 Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's 
 Lord, 
 Shall hostage for his clan remain: 
 If Deloraine foil good Musgrave, 
 The boy his liberty shall have, 
 
 Howe'er it falls, the English band, 
 Unharming Scots, by Scots unharm'd, 
 In peaceful march, like men unarm'd. 
 Shall straight retreat to Cumber- 
 land." 
 
 xxxm. 
 
 Unconscious of the near relief. 
 
 The profi"er pleased each Scottish 
 
 chief, 
 Though much the Ladye sage gain- 
 
 say'd; 
 For though their hearts were brave 
 
 and true, 
 From Jedwood's recent sack they 
 
 knew, 
 
 How tardy was the Kegent's aid: 
 And you may guess the noble Dame 
 Durst not the secret prescience 
 own. 
 Sprung from the art she might not 
 name. 
 By which the coming help was 
 known. 
 Closed was the compact, and agreed 
 That lists should be enclosed with 
 speed. 
 Beneath the castle, on a lawn : 
 They fix'd the morrow for the strife, 
 On foot, with Scottish axe and knife, 
 At the fourth hour from peep of 
 dawn ; 
 When Deloraine, from sickness freed, 
 Or else a champion in his stead. 
 Should for himself and chieftain 
 
 stand, 
 Against stout Musgrave, hand to 
 hand. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 I know right well, that, in their lay. 
 Full many minstrels sing and say, 
 Such combat should be made on 
 horse, 
 On foaming steed, in full career, 
 With brand to aid, when as the spear 
 
 Should shiver in the course: 
 But he, the jovial Harper, taught 
 Me, yet a youth, how it was fought, 
 
 In guise which now I say; 
 He knew each ordinance and clause 
 Of Black Lord Archibald's battle- 
 laws, 
 In the old Douglas' day. 
 He brook'd not, he, that scoffing 
 
 tongue 
 Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong. 
 
 Or call his song untrue: 
 For this, when they the goblet plied, 
 And such rude taunt had chafed his 
 pride. 
 The Bard of Keull he slew. 
 On Teviot's side, in fight they stood. 
 And tuneful hands were stain'd with 
 
 blood; 
 Where still the thorn's white branches 
 
 wave. 
 Memorial o'er his rival's grave. 
 
lg6 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Why should I tell the rigid doom, 
 That dragg'd my master to his tomb ; 
 How Ousenam's maidens tore their 
 
 hair, 
 "Wept till their eyes were dead and 
 
 dim, 
 And wrung their hands for love of 
 
 him, 
 Who died at Jedwood Air ? 
 He died ! — his scholars, one by one, 
 To the cold silent grave are gone; 
 And I, alas ! survive alone, 
 To muse o'er rivalries of yore, 
 And grieve that I shall hear no more 
 The strains, with envy heard before ; 
 For, with my minstrel brethren fled. 
 My jealousy of song is dead. 
 
 He paused: the listening dames again 
 Applaud the hoary Min-strel's strain. 
 With many a word of kindly cheer, — 
 In pity half, and half sincere, — 
 Marvell'd the Duchess how so well 
 His legendary song could tell — ■ 
 Of ancient deeds, so long forgot; 
 Of feuds, whose memory was not; 
 Of forests, now laid waste and bare; 
 Of towers, which harbour now the 
 
 hare; 
 Of manners, long since changed and 
 
 gone; 
 Of chiefs, who under their grey stone 
 So long had slept, that fickle Fame 
 Had blotted from her rolls their 
 
 name. 
 And twined round some new min- 
 ion's head 
 The fading wreath for which they 
 
 bled; 
 In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's 
 
 verse 
 Could call them from their marble 
 
 hearse. 
 
 The Harper smiled, well-pleased; 
 for ne'er 
 Was flattery lost on poet's ear: 
 A simple race ! they waste their toil 
 For the vain tribute of a smile ; 
 E'en when in age their flame expires, 
 Her dulcet breath can fan its fires: 
 
 Their drooping fancy wakes at praise, 
 And strives to trim the short-lived 
 blaze. 
 
 Smiled then, well-pleased, the 
 Aged Man, 
 And thus his tale continued ran. 
 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 I. 
 
 Call it not vain:— they do not err, 
 Who say, that when the Poet dies, 
 
 Mute Nature mourns her worship- 
 per, 
 And celebrates his obsequies: 
 
 Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, 
 
 For the departed Bard make moan ; 
 
 That mountains weep in crystal rill ; 
 
 That flowers in tears of balm distil; 
 
 Through his loved groves that breezes 
 sigh, 
 
 And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; 
 
 And rivers teach their rushing wave 
 
 To murmur dirges round his grave. 
 
 II. 
 
 Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn 
 Those things inanimate can mourn; 
 But that the stream, the wood, the 
 
 gale, 
 Is vocal with the plaintive wail 
 Of those, who, else forgotten long, 
 Lived in the poet's faithful song. 
 And, with the poet's parting breath, 
 Whose memory feels a second death. 
 The Maid's pale shade, who wails her 
 
 lot. 
 That love, true love, should be forgot, 
 From rose and hawthorn shakes the 
 
 tear 
 Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier: 
 The phantom Knight, his glory fled, 
 Mourns o'er the field he heaped with 
 
 dead; 
 Moupts the wild blast that sweeps 
 
 amain. 
 And shrieks along the battle-plain. 
 The Chief, whose antique crownlet 
 
 long 
 Still sparkled in the feudal song, 
 Now, from the mountain's misty 
 
 throne, 
 
TH^ LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 197 
 
 Sees, in the thanedom once his own, 
 His ashes undistinguish'd lie. 
 His place, his power, his memory die; 
 His groans the lonely caverns fill, 
 His tears of rage impel the rill: 
 All mourn the Minstrel's harp un- 
 strung, - 
 Their name unknown, their praise 
 unsung. 
 
 m. 
 
 Scarcely the hot assault was staid, 
 The terms of truce were scarcely 
 
 made, 
 When they could spy from Brank- 
 
 some's towers, 
 The advancing march of martial 
 
 powers. 
 Thick clouds of dust afar appear'd, 
 And trampling steeds were faintly 
 
 heard; 
 Bright spears, abov0 the columns 
 
 dun. 
 Glanced momentary to the sun; 
 And feudal banners fair display'd 
 The bands that moved to Brank- 
 
 some's aid. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Vails not to tell each hardy clan. 
 From the fair Middle Marches 
 came; 
 The Bloody Heart blazed in the van, 
 Announcing Douglas, dreaded 
 name ! 
 Vails not to tell what steeds did 
 
 spurn, 
 Where the Seven Spears of Wedder- 
 burne* 
 Their men in battle-order set; 
 And Swinton laid the lance in rest, 
 That tamed of yore the sparkling 
 crest 
 Of Clarence's Plantagenet. 
 Nor list I say what hundreds more, 
 From the rich Merse and Lammer- 
 
 more. 
 And Tweed's fair borders, to the war. 
 Beneath the crest of Old Dunbar, 
 
 * Sir David Home of "Wedderburn, vrho 
 was slain in the fatal battle of Flodden, left 
 seven sous, who were called tUe iSevea Spears 
 of Wedderburne. 
 
 And Hepburn's mingled banner:^ 
 come, 
 Down the steep mountain glittering 
 far, 
 And shouting still, " A Home ! a 
 Home ! " 
 
 V. 
 
 Now squire and knight, from Brank- 
 
 some sent. 
 On many a courteous message went; 
 To every chief and lord they paid 
 Meet thanks for prompt and power- 
 ful aid; 
 And told them, — how a truce was 
 made, 
 And how a day of fight was ta'en 
 'Twixt Musgrave and stout Delo- 
 raine; 
 And how the Ladye pray'd them 
 dear. 
 That all would stay the fight to see. 
 And deign, in love and courtesy. 
 To taste of Branksome cheer. 
 Nor, while they bade to feast each 
 
 Scot, 
 Were England's noble Lords forgot. 
 Himself, the hoary Seneschal 
 Rode forth, in seemly terms to call 
 Those gallant foes to Branksome 
 
 Hall. 
 Accepted Howard, than whom knight 
 Was never dubb'd, more bold in fight ; 
 Nor, when from war and armour free, 
 More famed for stately courtesy: 
 But angry Dacre rather chose 
 In his pavilion to repose. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now, noble Dame, perchance you 
 ask, 
 How these two hostile armies met? 
 Deeming it were no easy task 
 To keep the truce which here was 
 set; 
 Where martial spirits, all on fire. 
 Breathed only blood and mortal ire. — 
 By mutual inroads, mutual blows, 
 By habit, and by nation, foes, 
 They met on Teviot's strand; 
 They met and sate them mingled 
 
 down. 
 Without a threat, without a frown, 
 
igS 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOBJCS. 
 
 As brothers meet in foreign land: 
 The hands, the spear that lately 
 
 grasp'd, 
 Still in the mailed gauntlet clasp'd, 
 Were interchanged in greeting 
 dear; 
 Visors were raised, and faces shown, 
 And many a friend, to friend made 
 known, 
 Partook of social cheer. 
 Some drove the jolly bowl about; 
 With dice and draughts some chas- 
 ed the day; 
 And some, with many a merry shout. 
 In riot, revelry, and rout, 
 Pursued the foot-ball play. 
 
 VII. 
 Yet, be it known, had bugles blown, 
 
 Or sign of war be seen, 
 Those bands, so fair together ranged, 
 Those hands, bo frankly inter- 
 changed. 
 Had dyed with gore the green: 
 The merry shout by Teviot-side 
 Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide, 
 
 And in the groan of death: 
 And whingers* now in friendship 
 
 bare. 
 The social meal to part and share. 
 
 Had found a bloody sheath. 
 'Twixt truce and war, such sudden 
 
 change 
 Was not infrequent, nor held strange. 
 
 In the old Border-day: 
 But yet on Braoksome's towers and 
 
 town, 
 In peaceful merriment, sunk down 
 The sun's declining ray. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The blithesome signs of wassel gay 
 Decay 'd not with the dying day; 
 Soon through the latticed windows 
 
 tall 
 Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall. 
 Divided square by shafts of stone. 
 Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone ; 
 Nor less the gilded raiters rang 
 With merry harp and beakers'clang: 
 
 ♦Large knives. 
 
 And frequent, on the darkening 
 plain, 
 Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle 
 ran. 
 As bands, their stragglers to regain, 
 Give the shrill watchword of 
 their clan ; 
 And revellers, o'er their bowls, pro- 
 claim 
 Douglas or Dacre's conquering name. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Less frequent heard, and fainter still, 
 At length the various clamours 
 died : 
 And you might hear, from Branksome 
 hill, 
 No sound butTeviot's rushing tide; 
 Save when the changing sentinel 
 The challenge of his watch could tell; 
 And save, where, through the dark 
 
 profound, 
 The clanging axe and hammer's 
 sound 
 Hung from the nether lawn; 
 For many a busy hand toil'd there, 
 Strong pales to shape, and beams to 
 
 square, 
 The lists' dread barriers to prepare 
 Against the morrow's dawn. 
 
 X. 
 
 Margaret from hall did soon retreat. 
 
 Despite the Dame's reproving eye; 
 Nor mark'd she, as she left her seat. 
 
 Full many a stifled sigh; 
 For many a noble warrior strove 
 To win the Flower of Teviot's love, 
 
 And many a bold ally. — 
 With throbbing head and anxious 
 
 heart, 
 All in her lonely bower apart, 
 
 In broken sleep she lay ; 
 By times, from silken couch she rose; 
 While yet the banner'd hosts repose, 
 
 She view'd the dawning day; 
 Of all the hundreds sunk to rest, 
 First woke the loveliest and the best. 
 
 XI. 
 
 She gazed upon the inner court, 
 Which in the tower's tall shadow 
 
 lay; 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 199 
 
 Where coursers' clang, and stamp, 
 and snort, 
 Had rung the livelong yesterday; 
 Now still as death ; till stalking slow, — 
 The jingling spurs announced his 
 tread, 
 A stately warrior pass'd below ; 
 But when he raised his plumed 
 head — 
 Blessed Mary ! can it be ? — 
 Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers, 
 He walks through Branksome's hos- 
 tile towers, 
 "With fearless step and free. 
 Ghe dared not sign, she dared not 
 
 speak — 
 Oh ! if one page's slumbers break. 
 
 His blood the price must pay ! 
 Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears. 
 Nor Margaret's yet more precious 
 tears. 
 Shall buy his life a day. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet was his hazard small ; for well 
 You may bethink you of the spell 
 
 Of that sly urchin page; 
 This to his lord he did impart. 
 And made him seem, by glamour art, 
 
 A knight from Hermitage. 
 Unchallenged thus, the warder's post. 
 The court, unchallenged, thus he 
 cross'd, 
 
 For all the vassalage : 
 But O ! what magic's quaint disguise 
 Could blind fair Margaret's azure 
 eyes ! 
 
 She started from her seat; 
 While with surprise and fear she 
 
 strove, 
 And both could scarcely master love — 
 
 Lord Henry's at her feet. 
 
 xni. 
 
 Oft have I mused, what purpose bad 
 That foul malicious urchin had 
 
 To bring this meeting round. 
 For happy love's a heavenly sight, 
 And by a vile malignant sprite 
 
 In such no joy is found; 
 And oft I've deem'd, perchance he 
 t-ou^ht 
 
 Their erring passion might have 
 wrought 
 Sorrow, and sin, and shame; 
 And death to Cranstoun's gallant 
 
 Knight, 
 And to the gentle ladye bright. 
 
 Disgrace, and loss of fame. 
 But earthly spirit could not tell 
 The heart of them that loved so well. 
 True love's the gift which God has 
 
 given 
 To man alone beneath the heaven; 
 It is not fantasy's hot fire. 
 Whose wishes, soon as granted, 
 
 fly; 
 
 It liveth not in fierce desire. 
 
 With dead desire it doth not die; 
 It is the secret sympathy. 
 The silver link, the silken tie, 
 ^Vhich heart to heart, and mind to 
 
 mind, 
 In body and in soul can bind. — 
 Now leave we Margaret and herl 
 Knight, I 
 
 To tell you of the approaching fight. ! 
 
 .XIV. 
 
 Their warning blasts the bugles blew, 
 The pipe's shrill port* aroused 
 
 each clan; 
 In haste, the deadly strife to view, 
 The trooping warriors eager ran : 
 Thick round the lists their lances 
 
 stood, 
 Like blasted pines in Ettrick wood; 
 To Branksome many a look they 
 
 threw. 
 The combatants' approach to view, 
 And bandied many a word of boast, 
 About the knight each favour'd most. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Meantime full anxious was the Dame; 
 For now arose disputed claim, 
 Of who should fight for Deloraine, 
 'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirles- 
 
 taine : 
 They 'gan to reckon kin and rent. 
 And frowning brow on brow was 
 
 bent; 
 
 * A martial piece of music, adapted to the 
 
 baepipes. 
 
200 
 
 aCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 But yet not long the strife — for, lo! 
 Himself, the Knight of Deloraine, 
 Strong, as it seem'd, and free, from 
 
 pain, 
 In armour sheath 'd from top to toe, 
 Appear'd, and craved the combat due. 
 The Dame her charm successful 
 
 knew, 
 And the fierce chiefs their claims 
 
 ■withdrew. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 When for the lists they sought the 
 
 plain, 
 The stately Ladye's silken rein 
 
 Did noble Howard hold; 
 Unarmed by her side he walk'd. 
 And much, in courteous phrase, they 
 talk'd 
 
 Of feats of arms of old. 
 Costly his garb — his Flemish ruff 
 Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff, 
 
 With satin slash'd and lined; 
 Tawny his boot, and gold his spur, 
 His cloak was all of Poland fur. 
 
 His hose with silver twined; 
 His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt, 
 Hung in a broad and studded belt; 
 Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers 
 
 still 
 Call'd noble Howard, Belted Will. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Behind Lord Howard and the Dame, 
 Fair Margaret on her palfrey came. 
 
 Whose foot-cloth swept the ground; 
 White was her whimple, and her veil, 
 And her loose locks a chaplet pale 
 
 Of whitest roses bound; 
 The lordly Angus, by her side, 
 In courtesy to cheer her tried; 
 Y/ithout his aid, her hand in vain 
 Had strove to guide her broider'd 
 
 rein. 
 He deem'd she shudder'd at the sight 
 Of warriors met for mortal fight; 
 JJut cause of terror, all unguess'd, 
 Was fluttering in her gentle breast, 
 When, in their chairs of crimson 
 
 placed, 
 The Dame and she the barriers 
 
 graced. 
 
 xvin. 
 
 Prize of the field, the young Buc- 
 
 cleuch, 
 An English knight led forth to view; 
 Scarce rued the boy his present 
 
 plight, 
 So much he longed to see the fight. 
 Within the lists, in knightly pride, 
 High Home and haughty Dacre ride; 
 Their leading staffs of steel they 
 
 wield. 
 As marshals of the mortal field; 
 While to each knight their care as- 
 
 sign'd 
 Like vantage of the sun and wind. 
 The heralds hoarse did loud proclaim. 
 In King and Queen, and Warden's 
 
 name, 
 That none, while lasts the strife, 
 Should dare, by look, or sign, or 
 
 word. 
 Aid to a champion to afford, 
 
 On peril of his life; 
 And not a breath the silence broke, 
 Till thus the alternate Plerald spoke : 
 
 XIX! 
 
 ENGLISH HEEAliD. 
 
 "Here standethPtichard of Musgrave, 
 Good knight and true, and freely 
 born. 
 Amends from Deloraine to crave. 
 For foul despiteous scathe and 
 scorn. 
 Hg sayeth, that William of Deloraine 
 
 Is traitor false by Border laws; 
 This with his sword he will maintain. 
 So help him God, and his good 
 cause !" 
 
 XX. 
 
 SCOTTISH HEKAIiD. 
 
 "Here standeth William of Delor- 
 aine, 
 Good knight and true, of noble 
 strain. 
 Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain, 
 Since he bore arms, ne'er soil'd 
 his coat; 
 And that, so help hiia God 
 above ! 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 20I 
 
 He will on Musgrave's body 
 prove, 
 He lies most foully in liis throat." 
 
 LOED DACRE. 
 
 ♦' Forward, brave champions, to the 
 
 fight! 
 Sound trumpets I" 
 
 LOBD HOME. 
 
 " God defend the right !" 
 
 Then, Teviot ! how thine echoes 
 
 rang, 
 When bugle-sound and trumpet 
 
 clang 
 Let loose the martial foes, 
 And in mid list with shield poised 
 
 high, 
 And measured step and wary eye, 
 
 The combatants did close. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Ill would it suit your gentle ear, 
 
 Ye lovely listeners, to hear 
 
 How to the axe the helms did sound, 
 
 And blood pour'd down from many 
 a wound; 
 
 For desperate was the strife and 
 long. 
 
 And either warrior fierce and strong. 
 
 But, were each dame a listening 
 knight, 
 
 I well could tell how warriors fight ! 
 
 For I have seen war's lightning Hash- 
 ing, 
 
 Seen the claymore with bayonet 
 clashing, 
 
 Seen through red blood the war- 
 horse dashing, 
 
 And scorn'd, amid the reeling strife. 
 
 To yield a step for death or life. — 
 
 XXII. 
 
 'Tis done, 'tis done ! that fatal blow 
 Has stretch'd him on the bloody 
 
 plain ! 
 He strives to rise — Brave Musgrave, 
 
 no I 
 Thence never shalt thou rise 
 
 again! 
 He chokes in blood — some friendly 
 
 hand 
 Undo the visor's barred band, 
 
 Unfix the gorget's iron clasp. 
 
 And give him room for life to 
 
 gasp !— 
 0, bootless aid ! — haste holy Friar, 
 Haste, ere the sinner shall expire ! 
 Of all his guilt let him be shriven. 
 And smooth his path from earth to 
 
 heaven ! 
 
 xxm. 
 
 In haste the holy Friar sped: — 
 His naked foot was dyed with red, 
 
 As through the lists he ran; 
 Unmindful gi the shouts on high, 
 That haild the conqueror's victory, 
 
 He raised the dying man; 
 Loose waved his silver beard and 
 
 hair, 
 As o'er him he kneel'd down in 
 
 prayer; 
 And still the crucifix on high 
 He holds before his darkening eye; 
 And still he bends an axious ear. 
 His faltering penitence to hear; 
 Still props him from the bloody 
 sod. 
 Still, even when soul and body part. 
 Pours ghostly comfort on his heart. 
 
 And bids him trust in God ! 
 Unheard he prays;— the death-pang's 
 
 o'er ! 
 Richard of Musgrave breathes no 
 more. 
 
 xxrv. 
 
 As if exhausted in the fight, 
 
 Or musing o'er the piteous sight. 
 
 The silent victor stands; 
 His beaver did he not unclasp. 
 Marked not the shouts, felt not the 
 grasp 
 
 Of gratulating hands. 
 When lo ! strange cries of wild sur- 
 prise. 
 Mingled with seeming terror, rise 
 
 Among the Scottish bands ; 
 And all, amid the throng'd array. 
 In panic haste gave open way 
 To a half -naked ghastly man. 
 Who downward from the castle ran: 
 He cross'd the barriers at a bound, 
 And wild and haggard look'd around, 
 
 As dizzy, and in pain; 
 
202 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 And all, tipon the armed ground, 
 
 Knew W illiam of Deloraine ! 
 Each ladye sprung from seat with 
 
 speed; 
 Vaulted each marshal from his steed ; 
 
 " And who art thou," they cried, 
 "Who hast this battle fought and 
 
 won ?" — 
 His plumed helm was soon undone — 
 
 "Cranstoun of Teviot-side! 
 For this fair prize I've fought and 
 
 won," — 
 And to the Ladye led her son. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Full oft the rescued boy she kiss'd. 
 And often press'd him to her breast: 
 For, under all her dauntless show. 
 Her heart had throbb'd at every 
 
 blow; 
 Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she 
 
 greet, 
 '' hough low he kneeled at her feet. 
 Ide lists not tell what words were 
 
 made, 
 Y7h;.t Douglas, Home, and Howard, 
 
 said — 
 — For Howard was a generous foe— 
 And how the clan united pray'd 
 
 The Ladye would the feud forego, 
 And deign to bless the nuptial hour 
 Of Cranstoun's Lord and Teviot's 
 
 Flower. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 She look'd to river, look'd to hill. 
 
 Thought on the Spirit's prophecy, 
 
 Then broke her silence stern and 
 
 still,— 
 
 "Not you, but Fate, has van- 
 
 quish'd me. 
 
 Their influence kindly stars may 
 
 shower 
 On Teviot's tide and Branksome's 
 tower, 
 For pride is quell'd, and love is 
 free."— 
 She took fair Margaret by the hand, 
 Who, breathless, trembling, scarce 
 might stand, 
 That hand to Cranstoun's lord 
 gave she: — 
 "As I am true to thee and thine, 
 
 Do thou be true to me and mine ! 
 
 This clasp of love our bond shall be ; 
 For this is your betrothing day, 
 And all these noble lords shall stay. 
 
 To grace it with their company. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 All as they left the listed plain, 
 Much of the story she did gain; 
 How Cranstoun fought with Delo- 
 raine, 
 And of his page, and of the Book 
 Which from the wounded knight he 
 
 took; 
 And how he sought her castle high, 
 xhat morn, by help of gramarye; 
 IIow, in Sir William's armour dight, 
 Stolen by his page, while slept the 
 
 knight, 
 He took on him the single fight. 
 But half his tale Lo left unsaid. 
 And linger'd till he join'd the maid. — 
 Cared not the Ladye to betray 
 Her mystic arts in view of day; 
 liut well she thought, ere midnight 
 
 came, 
 Of that strange page the pride to 
 
 tame, 
 From his foul hands the Book to save, 
 And send it back to Michael's 
 
 grave. — 
 Needs not to tell each tender word 
 'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Crans- 
 toun's lord; 
 Nor how she told of former woes, 
 And how her bosom fell and rose. 
 While he and Musgrave bandied 
 
 blov\s. — 
 Needs not these lovers' joys to tell: 
 One day, fair maids, you'll know 
 them well. 
 
 XXVIIL 
 
 William of Deloraine, some chance 
 Had waken 'd from his death-like 
 
 trance ; 
 And taught that, in the listed 
 
 plain, 
 Another, in his arms and shield. 
 Against fierce Mubgrave axe did 
 
 wield, 
 Under the name of Deloraine. 
 Hence, to the field, im'^a-ra'd, he ran, 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 ^oj 
 
 And hence his presence scared the 
 
 clan, 
 Who held him for some fleeting 
 
 wraith, * 
 And not a man of blood and breath. 
 Not much this new ally he loved, 
 Yet, when he saw what hap had 
 proved, 
 He greeted him right heartilie: 
 He would not waken old debate, 
 For he was void of rancorous hate, 
 Though rude and scant of cour- 
 tesy, 
 In raids he spilt but seldom blood, 
 Unless when men-at-arms withstood. 
 Or, as was meet for deadly feud. 
 He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart 
 
 blow, 
 Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe ; 
 And so 'twas seen of him e'en now, 
 "\Vhen on dead Musgrave he 
 looli'd dov/n; 
 Grief darlcen'd on his rugged 
 brow, 
 Though half disguised with a 
 frown; 
 And thus, while sorrow bent his 
 
 head. 
 His foeman's epitaph he made.' 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Now, Kichard Musgrave, liest thou 
 here ! 
 
 I ween my deadly enemy; 
 For, if I slew thy brother dear, 
 
 Thou slew'st a sister's son to me; 
 And when I lay in dungeon dark. 
 
 Of Naworth Castle, long months 
 three. 
 Till ransom'd for a thousand mark. 
 
 Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee. 
 And, Musgrave, could our fight be 
 tried; 
 
 And thou wert now alive as I, 
 Ko mortal man should us divide, 
 
 Till one, or both of us, did die; 
 Yet rest thee God! for well I know 
 I ne'er shall find a nobler foe. 
 In all the northern counties here. 
 Whose word is Snafile, spur, and 
 spear, 
 
 * The spectral apparition of a living pei-son. 
 
 Thou wert the best to follow gear ! 
 'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind. 
 To see how thou the chase could'st 
 
 wind, 
 Cheer the dark blood-hound on his 
 
 way, 
 And with the bugle rouse the fray! 
 I'd give the lands of Deloraine, 
 Dark Musgrave were alive again." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band 
 Were bowning back to Cumberland. 
 They raised brave Musgrave from the 
 
 field, 
 And laid him on his bloody shield; 
 On leveird lances, four and four. 
 By turns the noble burden bore. 
 Before, at times, upon the gale. 
 Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive 
 
 wail; 
 Behind, four priests, in sable stole. 
 Sung requiem for the warrior's soul: 
 Around, the horsemen slowly rode; 
 V/ith trailing pikes the spearmen 
 
 trode ; 
 And thus the gallant knight they bore, 
 Through Liddesdale to Leven's shore ; 
 Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty 
 
 nave, 
 And laid him in his father's grave. 
 
 The harp's wild notes, though hush'd 
 
 the song. 
 The mimic march of death prolong; 
 Now seems it far, and now a-near. 
 Now meets, and now eludes the ear; 
 Now seems some mountain side to 
 
 sweep, 
 Now faintly dies in valley deep; 
 Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail. 
 Now the sad requiem, loads the gale; 
 Last, o'er the v/arrior's closing grave, 
 Rung the full choir in choral stave. 
 
 After due pause, they bade him tell, 
 Why he, who touch'd the harp eo well. 
 Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil. 
 Wander a poor and thankless soil, 
 When the more generous Southern 
 
 Land 
 Would well requite his skilful hand. 
 
;204 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The Aged Harper, howsoe'er 
 His only friend, bis harp, was dear, 
 Liked not to hear it ranked so high 
 Above his flo\vin<» poesy: 
 Less liked he still, that scornful jeer 
 Misprised the land ho loved so dear ; 
 High was the sound, as thus again 
 The Bard resumed his minstrel strain. 
 
 CANTO SIXTPI. 
 I. 
 
 Breathes there the man, with soul so 
 
 dead. 
 Who never to himself hath said. 
 
 This is my own, my native land! 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him 
 
 burn'd, 
 As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, 
 From wandering on a foreign 
 
 strand! 
 If such there breathe, go, mark him 
 
 well. 
 For him no Minstrel raptures swell; 
 High though his titles, proud his 
 
 name, 
 Boundless Lis wealth as wish can 
 
 claim ; 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
 The wretch, concentred all in self, 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
 And, doubly dying, shall go down 
 To the vile dust, from .whence he 
 
 sprung. 
 Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung. 
 
 n. 
 
 O Caledonia! stern and wild. 
 
 Meet nurse for a poetic child! 
 
 Land of brown heath and shaggy 
 
 wood. 
 Land of the mountain and the flood. 
 Land of my sires! what mortal hand 
 Can e'er untie the filial band, 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand! 
 Still, as I view each well-known scene, 
 Think what is now, and what hath 
 
 been, 
 Seems as, to me, of all bereft, 
 Sole friends thy woods and streams 
 
 were left; 
 And thus I love them better still, 
 
 Even in extremity of ill. 
 
 ]>y Yarrow's streams still let me stray, 
 
 Though none should guide my feeble 
 
 way; 
 Still feel the breeze down Ettrick 
 
 break. 
 Although it chill my withcr'd cheek; 
 Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, 
 Though there, forgotten and alone, 
 The Bard may draw his parting groan. 
 
 in. 
 
 Not Bcorn'd like me ! to Branksome 
 
 Hall 
 The Minstrels came, at festive call; 
 Trooping they came, from near and 
 
 far. 
 The jovial priests of mirth and war; 
 Alike for feast and fight prepared, 
 Battle and banquet both they shared. 
 Of late, before each martial clan, 
 They blew their death-note in the van. 
 But now, for every merry mate, 
 Rose the portcullis' iron grate; 
 They sound the pipe, they strike the 
 
 string, 
 They dance, they revel, and they sing, 
 Till the rude turrets shake and ring. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Me lists not at this tide declare 
 
 The splendour of the spousal rite, 
 How muster'd in the chapel fair 
 Both maid and matron, squire and 
 
 knight; 
 Me lists not tell of owches rare, 
 Of mantles green, and braided hair, 
 And kirtles furr'd with miniver; 
 AVhat plumage waved the altar round, 
 How spurs and ringing chainlets 
 
 sound; 
 And hard it were for btxrd to speak 
 The changeful hue of Margaret's 
 
 cheek; 
 That lovely hue which comes and 
 
 flies. 
 As awe and shame alternate rise ! 
 
 V. . ; 
 
 Some bards have sung,^ the Ladye 
 
 high 
 Chaj)el or altar came not nighj 
 Nor durst the rights of spousal grace, 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 90< 
 
 So much she fear'd each holy place. 
 False slanders these:— I trust right 
 
 ■well 
 She wrought not by forbidden spell ; 
 For mighty woi'ds and signs have 
 
 power 
 O'er sprites in planetary hour: 
 Yet scarce I praise their venturous 
 
 part, 
 Who tamper with such dangerous art. 
 But this for faithful truth I say, 
 
 The Ladye by the altar stood, 
 Of sable velvet her array, 
 
 And on her head a crimson hood, 
 With pearls embroider'd and en- 
 twined, 
 Guarded with gold, with ermine 
 
 lined; 
 A merlin sat upon her wrist 
 Held by a leash of silken twist. 
 
 YI. 
 
 The spousal rites were ended soon: 
 'Twas now the merry hour of noon, 
 And in the lofty arched hall 
 A7as spread the gorgeous festival. 
 Steward and squire, with heedful 
 
 haste, 
 Marshall'd the rank of every guest; 
 Pages, with ready blade, were there, 
 The mighty meal to carve and share : 
 O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane, 
 And princely peacock's gilded train, 
 And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd 
 
 brave, 
 And cygnet from St. Mary's wave;* 
 O'er ptarmigan and vension. 
 The priest had spoke his bension. 
 Then rose the riot and the din, 
 Above, beneath, without, within ! 
 For, from the lofty balcony. 
 Hung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery: 
 Their clanging bowls old warriors 
 
 quafE'd; 
 Loudly they spoke, and loudly 
 
 laugh'd; 
 Whisper'd young knights, in tone 
 
 more mild. 
 To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. 
 
 * Flights of wild swans are often seen on 
 St. Mary's Lake, which is at the head of the 
 Yarrow. 
 
 The hooded hawks, high perch'd on 
 
 beam. 
 The clamour join'd with whistling 
 
 scream, 
 And flapp'd their wings, and shook 
 
 their bells. 
 In concert with the stag-hound's 
 
 yells. 
 Eound go the flajsks of ruddy wine, 
 From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the 
 
 Ehine; 
 Their tasks the busy sewers ply 
 And all is mirth and revelry. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Goblin Page, omitting still 
 
 No opportunity of ill. 
 
 Strove now, while blood ran hot and 
 
 high, 
 To rouse debate and jealousy; 
 Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein, 
 By nature fierce, and warm with 
 
 wine. 
 And now in humour highly cross'd. 
 About some steeds his band had 
 
 lost. 
 High words to words succeeding 
 
 still, 
 Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunt- 
 hill; 
 A hot and hardy Rutherford, 
 Whom men called Dickon Draw-the- 
 
 sword. 
 He took it on the page's saye, 
 Hunthill had driven these steeds 
 
 away. 
 Then Howard, Home, and Dougla;; 
 
 rose. 
 The kindling discord to compose: 
 Stem Rutherford right little said. 
 But bit his glove, and shook his 
 
 head. — 
 A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, 
 Stout Conrade, cold, and drench'd in 
 
 blood, 
 His bosom gored with many a wound, 
 Y/as by a woodman's lyme-dog f ounrl ; 
 Unknown the manner of his death. 
 Gone was his brand, both sword and 
 
 sheath ; 
 But ever from that time, 'twas said, 
 That Dickon wore a Cologne blade. 
 
io6 
 
 SGOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 vm. 
 
 The dwarf, who fear'd his master's eye 
 Might his foul treachery espie, 
 Now sought the castle buttery, 
 Where many a yeoman, bold and free, 
 Kevell'd as merrily and well 
 As those that sat in lordly selle. 
 WattTinlinn, there, did frankly raise 
 The pledge to Arthur Fire-the- 
 
 Braes;* 
 And he, as by his breeding bound. 
 To Howard's merry-men sent it 
 
 round. 
 To quit them, on the English side, 
 Eed Eoland Forster loudly cried, 
 " A deep carouse to yon fair bride !" — 
 At every pledge, from vat and pail, 
 Foam'd forth in floods the nut-brown 
 
 ale; 
 "While shout the riders every one; 
 Such day of mirth ne'er cheer'd their 
 
 clan, 
 Since old Buccleuch the name did 
 
 gain, 
 When in the cleuch the buck was 
 
 ta'en. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The wily page, with vengeful 
 
 thought, 
 Eemember'd him of Tinlinn's yew, 
 And swore, it should be dearly bought 
 
 That ever he the arrow drew. 
 First, he the yeoman did molest. 
 With bitter gibe and taunting jest; 
 Told, how he fled at Solway strife, 
 And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his 
 
 wife; 
 Then, shunning still his powerful 
 
 arm, 
 At unawares he wrought him harm ; 
 From trencher stole his choicest 
 
 cheer, 
 Dash'd from his lips his can of beer; 
 Then, to his knee sly creeping on. 
 With bodkin pierced him to the bone: 
 The venom 'd wound, and festering 
 
 joint, 
 
 * The person bearinp: this redoubtable nom 
 de guerre was au Elliott, and resided at 
 Thorleshope, in Liddesdale. He occurs in 
 the list of Border riders, m 1597. 
 
 Long after rued that bodkin's point. 
 The startled yeoman swore and 
 
 spurn'd. 
 And board and flagons overturn'd. 
 Eiot and clamour wild began; 
 Back to the hall the urchin ran; 
 Took in a darkling nook his post, 
 And grinn'd, and mutter'd, "Lost! 
 
 lost ! lost !" 
 
 X. 
 
 By this, the Dame, lest farther fray 
 Should mar the concord of the day, 
 Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay. 
 And first stept forth old Albert 
 
 Graeme, 
 The Minstrel of that ancient name: 
 Was none who struck the harp so 
 
 well 
 Within the Land Debateable. 
 Well friended, too, his hardy kin, 
 Whoever lost, were sure to win; 
 They sought the beeves that made 
 
 their broth, ' 
 In Scotland and in England both. 
 In homely guise, as Nature bade. 
 His simple song the Borderer said. 
 
 XI. 
 
 ALBEBT GRffiME. 
 
 It was an English ladye bright, 
 (The sun shines fair on Carlisle 
 wall,*) 
 And she would marry a Scottish 
 knight. 
 For love will still be lord of all. 
 
 Blithely they saw the rising sun, 
 When he shone fair on Carlisle 
 wall ; 
 But they were sad ere day was done, 
 Though Love was still the lord of 
 all. 
 
 Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine. 
 Where the sun shines fair on Car- 
 lisle wall; 
 
 Her brother gave but a flask of wine, 
 For ire that Love was lord of all. 
 
 For she had lands, both meadow and 
 lea, 
 
 *This burden is from au old Scottish song. 
 
The lat of tee last minstrel. 
 
 ioy 
 
 Where the siin shines fair on Cax- 
 lisle wall, 
 And he swore her death, ere he 
 would see 
 A Scottish knight the lord of all ! 
 
 xn. 
 
 That wine she had not tasted well, 
 (The sun shines fair on Caxlisle 
 wall,) 
 When dead, in her true love's arms, 
 she fell, 
 For Love was still the lord of all ! 
 
 He pierced her brother to the heart, 
 Where the sun shines fair on Car- 
 lisle wall: — 
 
 So perish all would true love part, 
 That Love may still be lord of all! 
 
 And then he took the cross divine, 
 (Where the sun shines fair on Car- 
 lisle wall, ) 
 
 And died for her sake in Palestine, 
 So Love was still the lord of all. 
 
 Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, 
 (The sun shines fair on Carlisle 
 wall,) 
 
 Pray for their souls who died for love, 
 For Love shall still be lord of all ! 
 
 xm. 
 
 As ended Albert's simple lay, 
 
 Arose a bard of loftier port; 
 For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay, 
 Renown'd in haughty Henry's 
 court: 
 There rung thy harp, unrivall'd long, 
 Fitztraver of the silver song ! 
 
 The gentle Surrey loved his lyre — 
 Who has not heard of Surrey's 
 fame? 
 His was the hero's soul of fire, 
 And his the bard's immortal 
 name, 
 And his was love, exalted high 
 By all the glow of chivalry. 
 
 XTV. 
 
 They sought, together, climes afar. 
 And oft, within some olive grove, 
 
 When even came with twinkling star, 
 They sung of Surrey's absent love. 
 
 His step the Italian peasant stay'd. 
 And deem'd, that spirits from on 
 high, 
 Eound where some hermit saint was 
 laid, 
 Were iDreathing heavenly melody; 
 So sweet did harp and voice com- 
 bine. 
 To praise the name of Geraldine. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Fitztraver ! what tongue may say 
 The pangs thy faithful bosom 
 knew. 
 When Surrey, of the deathless lay. 
 
 Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew ? 
 Regardless of the tyrant's frown, 
 His harp call'd wrath and vengeance 
 
 down. 
 He left, for Naworth's iron towers, 
 Windsor's green glades, and courtly 
 
 bowers, 
 And faithful to his patron's name, 
 With Howard still Fitztraver came; 
 Lord William's foremost favorite, he, 
 And chief of all his minstrelsy. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 riTZTKAVER. 
 
 'Twas all-souls' eve, and Surrey's 
 heart beat high; 
 He heard the midnight bell with 
 anxious start. 
 Which told the mystic hour, ap- 
 proaching nigh. 
 When wise Cornelius promised, 
 by his art, 
 To show to him the ladye of his 
 heart. 
 Albeit betwixt them roar'd the 
 ocean grim ; 
 Yet so the sage had hight to play his 
 part, 
 That he should see her form in 
 life and limb. 
 And mark, if still she loved, and still 
 she thought of him. 
 XVII. 
 Dark was the vaulted room of gra- 
 marye. 
 To which the wizard led the gallant 
 Knight, 
 
2o8 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Save that before a mirror, liuge and 
 high, 
 A hallo-w'd taper shed a glimaier- 
 ing light 
 On mystic implements of magic 
 might; 
 On cross, and character, and talis- 
 man, 
 And almagest, and altar, nothing 
 bright: 
 For 'fitful was the lustre, pale and 
 wan, 
 As watchlight by the bed of soine 
 departing man. 
 XVIII. 
 But soon, within that mirror huge 
 and high, 
 Was seen a self-emitted li^^at to 
 gleam ; 
 And forms upon its breast the Earl 
 'gan spy, 
 Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish 
 dream. 
 Till, slow arranging, and defined, 
 they seem 
 To form a lordly and a lofty room, 
 Part lighted by a lamp with silver 
 beam, 
 Placed by a couch of Agra's silken 
 loom, 
 And part by moonshine j^ale, and 
 part was hid in gloom. 
 XIX. 
 Fair all the pageant — but how pass- 
 ing fair 
 The slender form, which lay on 
 couch of Ind ! 
 O'er her white bosom stray 'd her 
 hazel hair. 
 Pale her dear cheek, as if for love 
 she pined; 
 All in her night-robe loose slie lay 
 reclined, 
 And, pensive, read from tablet 
 eburnine, 
 Some strain that seem'd her inmost 
 soul to find; — 
 That favour' d strain was Surrey's 
 raptured line. 
 That fair and lovely form, the Lady 
 Geraldine ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 Slow roU'd the clouds upon the lovely 
 form, 
 And swept the goodly vision all 
 away — 
 So royal envy roU'd the murky storm 
 O'er my beloved Master's glorious 
 day. 
 Thbujealous, ruthless tyrant ! Heaven 
 repay 
 On thee, and on thy children's 
 latest line, 
 The wild caprice of thy despotic 
 sway, 
 The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd 
 shrine, 
 The murder'd Surrey's blood, the 
 tears of Geraldine ! 
 
 Both Scots, and Southern chiefs pro- 
 long 
 Applauses of Fitztraver's song; 
 These hated Henry's name as death. 
 And those still held the ancient 
 
 faith.- 
 Then, from his seat, with lofty air, 
 Rose tiarold, bard of brave St. Clair; 
 St. Clair, who, feasting high at Home, 
 Had with that lord to battle come. 
 Harold was born where restless seas 
 Howl round the storm-swept Orcades ; 
 Where erst St. Clairs held princely 
 
 sway 
 O'er isle and islet, strait and bay; — 
 Still nods their palace to its fall. 
 Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirk- 
 wall !- 
 Thence oil he mark'd fierce Pentland 
 
 rave, 
 As if grim Odin rode her wave; 
 And watch'd, the wTiilst, with visage 
 
 pale. 
 And throbbing heart, the struggling 
 
 snil; 
 For all of wonderful and wild 
 Had rapture for the lonely child. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And much of wild and wonderful 
 In these rude isles might fancy cull ; 
 For thither came, in times afar, 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 209; 
 
 Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war, 
 The Norsemen, train'd to spoil and 
 
 blood, 
 Skill'd to prepare the raven's food ; 
 Kings of thejnain their leaders brave, 
 Their barks the dragons of the wave. 
 And there, in many a stormy vale, 
 The Scald had told his wondrous 
 
 tale; 
 And many a Runic column high 
 Had witness'd grim idolatry; 
 And thus had Harold, in his youth, 
 Learn'd many a Saga's rhyme un- 
 couth, — 
 Of that Sea-Snake* tremendous 
 
 curl'd, 
 Whose monstrous circle girds the 
 
 world; 
 Of those dread Maidsf whose hideous 
 
 yell 
 Maddens the battle's bloody swell; 
 Of Chiefs, who, guided through the 
 
 gloom, 
 By the pale death-lights of the tomb, 
 Eansack'd the graves of warriors old, 
 Their falchions wrench'd from 
 
 corpses' hold. 
 Waked the deaf tomb with war's 
 
 alarms, 
 And bade the dead arise to arms ! 
 With war and wonder ail on flame, 
 To Eosiin's bowers young Harold 
 
 came, 
 Where, by sweet glen and greenwood 
 
 tree. 
 He learn'd a milder minstrelsy; 
 Yet something of the Northern spell 
 Mix'd with the softer numbers well. 
 
 xxin. 
 
 HAROLD. 
 
 O listen, listen, ladies gay ! 
 
 No haughty feat of arms I tell; 
 Soft is the note, and sad the lay, 
 
 That mourns the lovely Eosabelle ; 
 
 — "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant 
 crew! 
 
 * For the Sea-Snake, see the "Edda," or 
 Mallet's "Northern Antiquities," p. 445. 
 
 \ The Valkyrior or Scandinavian Fates, or 
 Fatal Sisters. 
 
 And, gentle ladye, deign to stay, 
 Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 
 Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 
 
 " The blackening wave is edged with 
 white: 
 To inchf and rock the sea-mews 
 
 fly; 
 
 The fishers have heard the Water- 
 Sprite, 
 Whose screams forbode that wreck 
 is nigh. 
 
 "Last night the gifted Seer did view 
 A wet shroud swathed round ladye 
 gay: 
 Then stay thee. Fair, in Ravensheuch : 
 "Why cross the gloomy firth to- 
 day?"— 
 
 "'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's 
 heir 
 
 To-night at Roslin leads the ball. 
 But that my ladye mother there 
 
 Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 
 
 " 'Tis not because the ring they ride. 
 And Lindesay at the ring rides 
 well. 
 
 But that my sire the wine will chide, 
 H 'tis not filled by Rosabelle."— 
 
 O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
 A wondrous blaze was seen to 
 gleam; 
 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's 
 light. 
 And redder than the bright moon- 
 beam. 
 
 It glared on Roslin's castled rock. 
 
 It ruddied all the copse- wood glen, 
 'T^as seen from Dryden's groves of 
 oak. 
 And seen from cavern'd Hawthorn- 
 den. 
 
 Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, 
 Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd 
 lie. 
 
 Each Baron, for a sable shroud. 
 Sheathed in his iron panoply. 
 
 J Inch, an island. 
 
2I6 
 
 scorrs poetical works. 
 
 Seem'd all on fire, within, around, 
 Deep sacristy and altar's pale, 
 
 Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 
 And glimmer'd all the dead men's 
 mail. 
 
 Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 
 Blazed every rose-carved buttress 
 fair — 
 
 So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
 The lordly line of high St. Clair. 
 
 There are twenty of Eoslin's barons 
 
 bold 
 
 Lie buried within that proiid 
 
 chapelle; 
 
 Each one the holy vault doth hold-- 
 
 But the sea holds lovely Kosabelle ! 
 
 And each St. Clair was buried there, 
 With candle, with book, and with 
 knell; 
 But the sea-caves rung, and the wild 
 winds sung, 
 The dirge of lovely Kosabelle. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, 
 Scarce mark'd the guests the 
 darken'd hall, 
 Though, long before the sinking day, 
 A wondrous shade involv'd them 
 all; 
 It was not eddying mist or fog, 
 Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog ; 
 
 Of no eclipse had sages told; 
 And yet, as it came on apace, 
 Each one could scarce his neigh- 
 bour's face, 
 Could scarce his own stretch'd 
 hand behold. 
 A secret horror check'd the feast. 
 And chill'd the soul of every guest ; 
 Even the high Dame stood half 
 
 aghast, 
 She knew some evil on the blast. 
 The elfish page fell to the ground, 
 And, shuddering, mutter'd, "Found ! 
 found 1 found ! " 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Then, sudden, through the darken'd 
 air, 
 A flash of lightning came; 
 
 So broad, so bright, so red the glare, 
 
 The castle seem'd on flame, 
 (xlanced every rafter of the hall. 
 Glanced every shield upon the wall; 
 Each trophied beam, each sculptured 
 
 stone, 
 Were instant seen, and instant gone; 
 Full through the guests' bedazzled 
 
 band 
 Resistless flash'd the levin-brand, 
 And fill'd the hall with smouldering 
 
 smoke, 
 As on the elfish page it broke. 
 
 It broke, with thunder, long and 
 
 loud, 
 Dismay'd the brave, appall'd the 
 proud,— 
 From sea to sea the larum rung; 
 On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle 
 withal. 
 To arms the startled warders 
 sprung, 
 When ended was the dreadful roar, 
 The elvish dwarf was seen no more. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Some heard a voice in Branksome 
 
 Hall, 
 Some saw a sight, not seen by all; 
 That dreadful voice was heard by 
 
 some, 
 Cry, with loud summons, '* Gylbin, 
 
 COME !" 
 
 -And on the spot where burst the 
 brand, 
 Just where the page had flung 
 him down. 
 Some saw an arm, and some a 
 hand. 
 And some the waving of a gown. 
 The guests in silence pray'd and 
 
 shook. 
 And terror dimm'd each lofty look. 
 But none of all the astonish'd train 
 Was so dismay'd as Deloraine; 
 His blood did freeze, his brain did 
 
 burn, 
 'Twas fear'd his mind would ne'er 
 return; 
 For he was speechless, ghastly, 
 
 wan. 
 Like him of whom the story ran, 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 211 
 
 Who spoke the spectre-hound in 
 Man, 
 At length, by fits, he darkly told, 
 With broken hint, and shuddering 
 cold — 
 That he had seen, right certainly, 
 A shape with amice wrapp'd a>-oundy 
 WUh a UTought Spanish baldric hound, 
 
 L'tke pilgrim from beyond the sea ; 
 And knew — but how it matter'd 
 
 not^ 
 It was the wizard, Michael Scott. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The anxious crowd, with horror pale, 
 All trembling, heard the wondrous 
 tale; 
 No sound was made, no word was 
 
 spoke, 
 Till noble Angus silence broke; 
 
 And he a solemn sacred plight 
 Did to St. Bride of Douglas make, 
 That he a pilgrimage would take 
 To Melrose Abbey, for the sake 
 Of Michael's restless sprite. 
 Then each, to ease his troubled 
 
 breast 
 To some bless'd saint his prayers 
 
 address'd : 
 Some to St. Moden made their vows, 
 Some to St. Mary of the Lowes, 
 Some to the Holy Hood of Lisle, 
 Some to our Ladye of the Isle ; 
 Each did his patron witness make, 
 That he such pilgrimage would take, 
 And monks should sing, and bells 
 
 should toll. 
 All for the weal of Michael's soul. 
 While vows were ta'en, and prayers 
 
 were pray'd, 
 'Tis said tie noble dame, dismay'd, 
 Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid. 
 
 xxvm. 
 
 Nought of the bridal will I tell, 
 Which after in short space befell ; 
 Nor how brave sons and daughters 
 
 fair 
 Bless'd Teviot's Flower and Cran- 
 
 stoun's heir : 
 After such dreadful scene, 'twere 
 
 vain 
 
 To wake the note of mirth again. 
 More meet it were to mark the day 
 
 Of penitence and prayer divine, 
 When pilgrim chiefs, in sad array. 
 
 Sought Melrose' holy shrine. 
 
 XX^X. 
 
 With naked foot, and sackcloth vest. 
 And arms enfolded on his breast, 
 
 Did every pilgrim go ; 
 The standers-by might hear uneath,* 
 Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn 
 breath. 
 Through all the lengthen'd row : 
 No lordly look, nor martial stride. 
 Gone was their glory, sunk their 
 pride, 
 Forgotton their renown ; 
 Silent and slow, like ghosts they 
 
 glide 
 To the high altar's hallow'd side, 
 
 And there they knelt them down : 
 Above the suppliant chieftains wave 
 The banners of departed brave ; 
 Beneath the letter'd stones were laid 
 The ashes of their fathers dead ; 
 From many a garnish'd niche around, 
 Stern saints and tortured martyrs 
 frown'd. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And slow up the dim aisle afar. 
 With sable cowl and scapular. 
 And snow-white stoles, in order due, 
 The holy Fathers, two and two. 
 
 In long procession came ; 
 Taper and host, and book they bear. 
 And holy banner, flourish'd fair 
 
 With the Bedeemer's name. 
 Above the prostrate pilgrim band 
 The mitred Abbot stretch'd his 
 
 hand. 
 And bless'd them as they kneel'd ; 
 With holy cross he sign'd them all. 
 And pray'd they might be sage in 
 
 hall, 
 And fortunate in field. 
 Then mass was sung, and prayers 
 
 were said. 
 And solemn requiem for the dead ; 
 And bells toll'd out their mighty peal. 
 
 * Scarcely hear 
 
2 12 
 
 SCOTT'S FOKTICAL WOliKS. 
 
 For the departed spirit's weal ; 
 
 And ever in the office close 
 
 The hymn of intercession rose ; 
 
 And far the echoing aisles prolong 
 
 The awful burden of the song, — 
 Dies ir^, dies illa, 
 solvet s^clum in fayilla ; 
 
 While the pealing organ rung. 
 Were it meet with sacred strain 
 To close my lay, so light and vain, 
 
 Thus the holy Fathers sung : — 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 HYMN FOK THE DEAD. 
 
 That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
 When heaven and earth shall pass 
 
 away, 
 What power shall be the sinner's 
 
 stay? 
 How shall he meet that dreadful day ? 
 
 When, shrivelling like a parched 
 
 scroll, 
 The flaming heavens together roll ; 
 When louder yet, and yet more dread. 
 Swells the high trump that wakes 
 
 the dead, 
 Oh ! on that day, that wrathful day, 
 When man to judgment wakes from 
 
 clay. 
 Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay. 
 Though heaven and earth shall pass 
 
 away ! 
 
 Hush'd is the harp— the Minstrel 
 gone. 
 
 And did he wander forth alone ? 
 Alone, in indigence and age, 
 To linger out his pilgrimage ? 
 No; close beneath proud Newark's 
 
 tower, 
 Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower; 
 A simple hut; but there was seen 
 The little garden hedged with green. 
 The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. 
 There shelter'd wanderers, by the 
 
 blaze. 
 Oft heard the tale of other days; 
 For much he loved to ope his door, 
 And give the aid he begg'd before. 
 So pass'd the winter's day; but still, 
 When summer smiled on sweet Bow- 
 hill, 
 And July's eve, with balmy breath. 
 Waved the blue-bells on Newark 
 
 heath; 
 When throstles sung in Harehead- 
 
 shaw. 
 And corn was green on Carterhaugh, 
 And flourish'd, broad, Blackandro's 
 
 oak. 
 The aged Harper's soul awoke ! 
 Then would he sing achievements 
 
 high, 
 And circumstance of chivalry, 
 Till the rapt traveller would stay. 
 Forgetful of the closing day ; 
 And noble youths, the strain to hear, 
 Forsook the hunting of the deer; 
 And Yarrow, as he roll'd along. 
 Bore burden to the Minstrel's song. 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 211 
 
 EOKEBY. 
 
 CANTO FIEST, 
 
 I. 
 
 The Moon is in her summer glow, 
 But hoarse and liigh the breezes blow, 
 And, racking o'er her face, the cloud 
 Varies the tincture of her shroud ; 
 On Barnard's towers, and Tees's 
 
 stream, 
 uha changes as a guilty dream, 
 \ r'hen conscience, with remorse and 
 
 fear, 
 Goads sleeping Fancy's wild career, 
 iler light seems now the blush of 
 
 shame, 
 Seems now fierce anger's darker flame, 
 Shifting that shade, to come and go. 
 Like apprehension's hurried glow; 
 Then sorrow's livery dims the air, 
 And dies in darkness, like despair. 
 Such varied hues the warder sees 
 Iveflected from the woodland Tees, 
 xhen from old Baliol's tower looks 
 
 forth, 
 C>ees the clouds mustering in the 
 
 north. 
 Hears, upon turret-roof and wall, 
 J.y fits the plashing rain-drop fall, 
 Lists to the breeze's boding sound, 
 And wraps his shaggy mantle round. 
 
 • n. 
 
 Those towers, which in the changeful 
 
 gleam 
 Throw murky shadows on the stream, 
 Those towers of Barnard hold a guest, 
 The emotions of whose troubl^ed 
 
 brea»t. 
 In wild and strange confusion driven, 
 Rival the flitting rack of heaven. 
 Ere sleep stern Oswald's senses tied. 
 Oft had he changed his weary side. 
 Composed his limbs, and vainly 
 
 sought 
 By eflbrt strong to banish thought, 
 ^leep came at length, but with a train 
 
 Of feelings fcme and fancies vain, 
 Mingling, in wild disorder cast, 
 The expected future with the past* 
 Conscience, anticipating time, 
 Already rues the enacted crime, 
 And calls her furies forth, to shake 
 The sounding scourge and hissing 
 
 snake ; 
 "While her poor victim's outward 
 
 throes 
 Bear witness to his mental woes, 
 And show what lesson may be read 
 Beside a sinner's restless bed. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thus Oswald's labouring feelings trace 
 Strange changes in his sleeping face, 
 Bapid and ominous as these 
 With which the moonbeams tinge the 
 
 Tees. 
 There might be seen of shame the 
 
 blush. 
 There anger's dark and fiercer flush. 
 While the perturbed sleeper's hand 
 Seem'd grasping dagger-knife, or 
 
 brand. 
 Relax' d that grasp, the heavy sigh. 
 The tear in the half-opening eye, 
 The pallid cheek and brow, confess'd 
 That grief was busy in his breast; 
 Nor paused that mood— a sudden start 
 Impell'd the life-blood from the heart: 
 Features convulsed, and mutterings 
 
 dread, 
 Show terror reigns in sorrow's stead. 
 That pang the painful slumber broke. 
 And Oswald with a start awoke. 
 
 rv. 
 
 He woke, and fear'd again to close 
 
 His eyelids in such dire repose; 
 
 He woke, — to watch the lamp, and 
 
 tell 
 From hour to hour the castle-beU. 
 Or listen to the owlet's cry, 
 Or the sad breeze that whistles by, 
 
212 
 
 ISCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Or catch, by fits, the tuneless rhyme 
 With which the warder cheats the 
 
 time, 
 And envying think, how, when the 
 
 Bun 
 Bids the poor soldier's watch be done, 
 Couch'd on his straw, and fancy-free, 
 He sleeps like careless infancy. 
 
 Y. 
 
 Far town ward sounds a distant tread, 
 And Oswald, starting from his bed. 
 Hath caught it, though no human 
 
 ear, 
 Unsharpen'd by revenge and fear. 
 Could e'er distinguish horse's clank, 
 "Until it reach'd the castle bank. 
 Now nigh and plain the sound ap- 
 pears, 
 The warder's challenge now he hears, 
 Thea clanking chains and levers tell, 
 That o'er the moat the drawbridge 
 
 fell. 
 And, in the castle court below, 
 Voices are heard, and torches glow. 
 As marshalling the stranger's way, 
 Straight for the room where Oswald 
 
 lay; 
 The cry was, —** Tidings from the 
 
 host, 
 Of weight — a messenger comes post." 
 Stifling the tumult of his breast, 
 His answer Oswald thus express'd — 
 "Bring food and wine, and trim the 
 
 fire ; 
 Admit the stranger, and retire." 
 
 VI. 
 
 The stranger came with heavy stride, 
 The morion's plumes his visage hide. 
 And the buff-coat, an ample fold, 
 Mantles his form's gigantic mould. 
 Full slender answer deigned he 
 To Oswald's anxious courtesy, 
 But mark'd, by a disdainful smile, 
 He saw and scorn' d the i)etty wile. 
 When Oriwald changed the torch's 
 
 place. 
 Anxious that on the soldier's face 
 Its partial lustre might be thrown, 
 To show his looks, yet hide his own. 
 His guest, the while, laid low aside 
 
 The ponderous cloak of tough bull's 
 
 hide, 
 And to the torch glanced broad and 
 
 clear 
 The corslet of a cuirassier; 
 Then from his brows the casque he 
 
 drew. 
 And from the dank plume dash'd the 
 
 dew. 
 From gloves of mail relieved his 
 
 hands, 
 And spread them to the kindling 
 
 brands. 
 And, turning to the genial board, 
 V/ithout a health, or pledge, or word 
 Of meet and social reverence said. 
 Deeply he drank and fiercely fed; 
 As free from ceremony's sway. 
 As famish'd wolf that tears his prey. 
 
 VII. 
 
 With deep impatience, tinged with 
 
 fear. 
 His host beheld him gorge his cheer, 
 And quaff the full carouse, that lent 
 His brow a fiercer hardiment. 
 Now Oswald stood a space aside. 
 Now paced the room with hasty stride. 
 In feverish agony to learn 
 Tidings of deep and dread concern, 
 Cjursing each moment that his guest 
 Protracted o'er his ruf&an feast. 
 Yet, viewing with alarm, at last. 
 The end of that uncouth repast, 
 Almost he seem'd their haste to rue. 
 As, at his sign, his train withdrew. 
 And left him with Qxe stranger, free 
 To question of his mystery. 
 Then did his silence long proclaim 
 A struggle between fear and shame. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Much in the stranger's mein appears, 
 To justify suspicious fears. 
 On his dark face a scorching clime, 
 And toil, had done the work of time, 
 Boughen'd the brow, the temples 
 
 bared. 
 And sable hairs with silver shared. 
 Yet left — what age alone could 
 
 tame — 
 The lip of pride, the eye of flame; 
 
nOKEBY. 
 
 213 
 
 The full-drawn lip that lip-ward curl'd, 
 The eye, that seem'd to scorn the 
 
 world. 
 That lip had terror never blench'd ; 
 Ne'er in that eye had tear - drop 
 
 quench'd 
 The flash severe of swarthy glow, 
 Thatmock'd at pain, and knew not 
 
 woe. 
 Inured to danger's direst form, 
 Tornade and earthquake, flood and 
 
 storm, 
 Death had he seen by sudden blow, 
 By wasting plague, by tortures slow, 
 By mine or breach, by steel or ball. 
 Knew all his shapes, and scorn'd 
 them all. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But yet, though Beetram's harden'd 
 
 look, 
 Unmoved, could blood and danger 
 
 brook. 
 Still worse than apathy had place 
 On his swart brow and callous face; 
 For evil passions, cherish'd long. 
 Had ploughed them with impressions 
 
 strong. 
 All that gives gloss to sin, all gay 
 Light folly, past with youth away, 
 But rooted stood, in manhood's hour, 
 The weeds of vice without their 
 
 flower. 
 And yet the soil in which they grew, 
 Had it been tamed when life was new. 
 Had depth and vigour to bring forth 
 The harder fruits of virtuous worth. 
 Not that, e'en then, his heart had 
 
 known 
 The gentler feelings' kindly tone; 
 But lavish waste had been refined 
 To bounty in his chasten d mind, 
 And lust of gold, that waste to feed, 
 Been lost in love of glory's meed, 
 And, frantic then no more, his pride 
 Had ta'en fair virtue for its guide. 
 
 X. 
 
 Even now, by conscience unrestrain'd, 
 Clogg'd by gross vice, by slaughter 
 
 stain' d, 
 Still knew his daring soul to soar. 
 And mastery o'er the mind he borej 
 
 For meaner guilt, or heart less hard. 
 Quaii'd beneathBertram's boldregard. 
 And this felt Oswald, while in vain 
 lie strove, by many a winding train, 
 To lure his sullen guest to show, 
 Unask'd, the news he long'd to know, 
 While on far other subject hung 
 His heart, than falter' d from his 
 
 tongue. 
 Yet nought for thathis guest did deign 
 To note or spare his secret pain. 
 But still, in stern and stubborn sort, 
 Return'd him answer dark and short. 
 Or started from the theme, to range 
 Inloosedigression wild and strange, 
 And forced the embarrass' d host to 
 
 By query close, direct reply. 
 XL 
 
 A while he glozed upon the cause 
 Of Commons, Covenant, and Laws, 
 And Church Eeform'd — but felt re- 
 buke 
 Beneath grim Bertram's sneering look. 
 Then stammer' d — "Has a field been 
 
 fought ? 
 Has Bertram news of battle brought ? 
 For sure a soldier, famed so far 
 In foreign fields for feats of war. 
 On eve of fight ne'er left the host, 
 Until the field were won and lost." 
 "Here, in your towers by circling 
 
 Tees, 
 You, Oswald Wyclifie, rest at ease ; 
 Why deem it strange that others come 
 To share such safe and easy home. 
 From fields where danger, death, and 
 
 toil, 
 Are the reward of civil broil?" — 
 ' ' Nay, mock not, friend ! since well 
 
 we know 
 The near advances of the foe, 
 To mar our northern army's work, 
 Encamp'd before beleaguer'd York; 
 Thy horse with valiant Fairfax lay, 
 And must have fought— how went the 
 day?" 
 
 xn. 
 
 " Wouldst hear the tale?— On Mars- 
 ton heath 
 Met, front to front, the ranks of death; 
 
214 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Flourish'd the trumpets fierce, and 
 
 now 
 Fired was each eye, and flush 'd each 
 
 brow; 
 On either side loud clamours ring, 
 'God and the Cause!' — 'God and 
 
 the King !' 
 Right English all, they rush'd to 
 
 blows, 
 With nought to win, and all to lose. 
 I could have laugh'd — but lack'd the 
 
 time^ 
 To see, in phrenesy sublime, 
 How the fierce zealots fought and 
 
 bled, 
 For king or state, as humour led. 
 Some for a dream of public good. 
 Some for church-tippet, gown and 
 
 hood. 
 Draining their veins, in death to 
 
 claim 
 A patriot's or a martyr's name. — 
 Lad Bertram Risingham the hearts, 
 Tiicit counter' d there on adverse 
 
 parts, 
 No superstitious fool had I 
 Sjught El Dorados in the sky ! 
 Chili had heard me through her 
 
 states. 
 And Lima oped her silver gates, 
 Rich Mexico I had march'd through, 
 And sack'd the splendours of Pera, 
 Till sunk Pizarro's daring name. 
 And, Cortez, thine, in Bertram's 
 
 fame." — 
 "Still from the purpose wilt thou 
 
 Soray ! 
 Good gentle friend, how went the 
 
 day?"— 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Good am I deem'd at trumpet- 
 sound, 
 
 And good where goblets dance the 
 round, 
 
 Though gentle ne'er was join'd, till 
 now. 
 
 With rugged Bertram's breast and 
 brow. — 
 
 But I resume. The battle's rage 
 
 Was like the strife which currents 
 wage, 
 
 Where Orinoco, in his pride. 
 Rolls to the main no tribute tide, 
 But 'gainst broad ocean urges far 
 A rival sea of roaring war; 
 While, in ten thousand eddies driven, 
 The billows fling their foam to heav- 
 en, 
 And the pale pilot seeks in vain, 
 Where rolls the rivers, where the 
 
 main. 
 Even thus upon the bloody field, 
 The eddying tides of conflict wheel'd 
 Ambiguous, till that heart of flame. 
 Hot Rupert, on our squadrons came. 
 Hurling against our spears a line 
 Of gallants, fiery as their wine, 
 Then ours, though stubborn in their 
 
 zeal. 
 In zeal's despite began to reel. 
 What wouldst thou more ? — in tumult 
 
 tost, 
 Our leaders fell, our ranks were 
 
 lost. 
 A thousand men, who drew the 
 
 sword 
 For both the Houses and the Word, 
 Preach'd forth from hamlet, grange, 
 
 and down, 
 To curb the crosier and the crown, 
 Now, stark and stiff, lie stretch 'd in 
 
 gore, 
 And ne'er shall rail at mitre more. — 
 Thus fared it, when I left the fight. 
 With the good Cause and Commons' 
 
 right."— 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "Disastrous news!" dark Wycliffe 
 
 said; 
 Assumed despondence bent his head, 
 While troubled joy was in his eye. 
 The well-feign'd sorrow to belie. — 
 "Disastrous news! — when needed 
 
 most, 
 Told ye not that your chiefs were 
 
 lost? 
 Complete the woful tale and say. 
 Who fell upon that fatal day ; 
 What leaders of repute and name 
 Bought by their death a deathless 
 
 fame. 
 If such my direst foeman's doom. 
 
nOKEBT. 
 
 215 
 
 My tear shall dew his honour'd 
 
 tomb. — 
 No answer? — Friend, of all our host, 
 Thou know'st whom I should hate the 
 
 most, 
 Whom thou, too, once wert wont to 
 
 hate, 
 Yet leavest me doubtful of his fate." 
 With look unmoved, — "Of friend or 
 
 . foe, 
 Aught," answ^er'd Bertram, "would'st 
 
 thou know 
 Demand in simple terms and plain, 
 A soldier's answer shalt thou gain ; — 
 Tor question dark, or riddle high, 
 J have nor judgment nor reply." 
 
 XV. 
 
 The wrath his art and fear sup- 
 
 press'd, 
 Now blazed at once in Wycliff's 
 
 breast; 
 And brave, from man so meanly 
 
 born, 
 r»,oused his hereditary scorn. 
 " Wretch ! bast thou paid thy bloody 
 
 debt? 
 Philip of Mortham, lives he yet ? 
 False to thy patron or thine oath, 
 Trait'rous or perjured, one or both. 
 Slave ! hast thou kept thy promise 
 
 plight, 
 To slay thy leader in the fight?" — 
 Then from his feet the soldier 
 
 sprung, 
 And Wycliffe's hand he strongly 
 
 wrung; 
 His grasp, as hard as glove of mail. 
 Forced the red blood-drop from the 
 
 nail— 
 "A health!" he cried; and, ere he 
 
 quaff d. 
 Flung from him Wyclifife's hand, and 
 
 laugh'd : 
 — "Now, Oswald "Wycliffe, speaks 
 
 thy heart ! 
 Now play'st thou well thy genuine 
 
 part! 
 "Worthy, but for thy craven fear, 
 Like me to roam a bucanier. 
 What reck'st thou of the Cause divine, 
 
 If Mortham's wealth and lands be 
 
 thine ? 
 What carest thou for beleaguer d 
 
 York, 
 If this good hand have done its work ? 
 Or what, though Fairfax and his best 
 Are reddening Marston's swarthy 
 
 breast, 
 If Philip Mortham with them lie. 
 Lending his life-blood to the dye ? — 
 Git, then ! and as 'mid comrades free 
 Carousing after victory, 
 When tales are told of blood and fear. 
 That boys and women shrink to hear, 
 From point to point I frankly tell 
 The deed of death as it befell. 
 
 XYI. 
 
 " When purposed vengeance I forego. 
 Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe; 
 And when an insult I forgive. 
 Then brand me as a slave, and live ! — 
 Philip of Mortham is with those 
 Whom Bertram Bisingham calls foes; 
 Or whom more sure revenge attends, 
 If number'd with ungrateful friends. 
 As was his wont, era battle glow'd. 
 Along the marshali'd ranks he rode, 
 And wore his vizor up the while. 
 I saw his melancholy smile. 
 When, full opposed in front, he knew 
 Where Kokeby's kindred banner flew. 
 * And thus,' he said, < will friends di- 
 vide !' — 
 I heard, and thought how, side by 
 
 side, 
 We two had turn'd the battle's tide, 
 In many a well-debated field. 
 Where Bertram's breast was Philip's 
 
 shield. 
 I thought on Darien's deserts pale. 
 Where death bestrides the evening 
 
 gale. 
 How o'er my friend my cloak I. threw, 
 And fenceless faced the deadly dew; 
 1 thought on Quariana's cliff, 
 Where, rescued from our foundering 
 
 ekiiT, 
 Through the white breakers* wrath I 
 
 bore 
 Exhausted Mortham to the shore; 
 And when his side an arrow found. 
 
216 
 
 SCOTrS POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 I suck'd the Indian's venom'd wound. 
 These thoughts like torrents rush'd 
 
 along, 
 To sweep away my purpose strong. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 • 
 
 "Hearts are not flint, and flints are 
 
 rent; 
 Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent. 
 When Mortham bade me, as of yore. 
 Be near him in the battle's roar, 
 I scarcely saw the spears laid low, 
 I scarcely heard the trumpets blow; 
 Lost was the war in inward strife, 
 Debating Mortham's death or life. 
 'Twas then I thought, how, lured to 
 
 come, 
 As partner of his wealth and home, 
 Years of piratic wandering o'er, 
 With him I sought our native shore. 
 But Mortham "s lord grew far es- 
 tranged 
 From the bold heart with whom he 
 
 ranged; 
 Doubts, horrors, superstitious fears 
 Sadden'd and dimm'd descending 
 
 years; 
 The wily priests their victim sought, 
 And damn'd each free-born deed and 
 
 thought. 
 Then must I seek another home, 
 My license shook his sober dome; 
 If gold he gave, in one wild day 
 I revell'd tHrice the sum away. 
 An idle outcast then I stray'd, 
 Unfit for tillage or for trade. 
 Deem'd, like the steel of rusted lance, 
 Useless and dangerous at once. 
 The women fear'd my hardy look, 
 At my approach the peaceful shook; 
 The merchant saw my glance of flame. 
 And lock'd his hoards when Bertram 
 
 came; 
 Each child of coward peace kept far 
 From the neglected son of v/ar. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 *'But civil discord gave the call, 
 And made my trade the trade of aU. 
 By Mortham urged, I came again 
 His vassals to the light to train. 
 What Guerdon waited on my care ? 
 
 I could not cant of creed or prayer; 
 Sour fanatics each trust obtain'd. 
 And I, dishonour'd and disdain'd, 
 Gain'd but the high and happy lot, 
 in these poor arms to front the shot ! 
 All this thou know'st, thy gestures 
 
 teU;^ 
 Yet hear it o'er, and mark it well. 
 'Ti":? honour bids me now relate • " 
 Each circumstance of Mortham's fate. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "Thoughts, from the tongue that 
 
 slowly part, 
 Glance quick as lightning through 
 
 the heart. 
 As my spur press'd my courser's 
 
 s.de, 
 Philip of Mortham's cause was 
 
 tried. 
 And, ere the charging squadrons 
 
 mix'd, 
 His plea was cast, his doom was fix'd. 
 I watch'd him through the doubtful 
 
 fray, 
 That changed as March's moody day, 
 Till, like a stream that bursts icS 
 
 bank, 
 Fierce Kupert thunder'd on our 
 
 flank. 
 'Twas then, 'midst tumult, smoke, 
 
 and strife, 
 Where each man fought for death or 
 
 life, 
 'Twas then I fired my petronel, 
 And Mortham, steed and rider, fell. 
 One dying look he upward cast, 
 Of wrath and anguish — 'twas his last. 
 Think not that there I stopp'd to 
 
 view 
 What of the battle should ensue ; 
 But ere I cleai-^d that bloody press, 
 Ournorthern horse ran masterless ; 
 Monckton and Mitton told the news, 
 How troops of roundheads choked 
 
 the Ouse, 
 And many a bonny Scot, aghast, 
 Spurring his palfrey northward, past. 
 Cursing the day when zeal or meed 
 First lured their Lesley o'er the 
 
 Tweed. 
 
ROKEBT. 
 
 217 
 
 Yet ■when I reacli'd the banks of 
 
 Swale, 
 Had rumour learn'd another tale ; 
 Yv'ith his barb'd horse fresh tidings 
 
 Stout Cromwell has redeem'd the day : 
 But whether false the news, or true, 
 Oswald, I reck as light as you. " 
 
 XX. 
 
 Not then by Wycliffe might be shown, 
 How his pride startled at the tone 
 In which his complice, fierce and free, 
 Asserted guilt's equality. 
 In smoothest terms his speech he 
 
 wove, 
 Of endless friendship, faith, and love ; 
 Promisedandvow'd in courteous sort, 
 Lut Bertram broke professions short. 
 '* Wyclifife, be sure not here I st.rr. 
 No, scarcely till the rising day ; 
 Vv arn'd by the legends of my youth, 
 I trust not an associate's truth. 
 Do not my native dales prolong 
 Of Percy Eede the tragic song, 
 Train' d forward to his bloody fall. 
 By Girsonfield.that treacherous Hall? 
 Oft, by the Pringlc's haunted side, 
 The shepherd sees his spectre glide. 
 And near the spot that gave me name, 
 The moated mound of Kisingham, 
 Where Keed upon her margin sees 
 Sweet Woodburne's cottages and 
 
 trees, 
 Some ancient sculptor's art has shown 
 An outlaw's imago on the stone ; 
 Unmatch'd in strength, a giant he, 
 With quiver'd back, andkirtled knee. 
 Ask how he died, that hunter bold, 
 The tameless monarch of the wold, 
 And age and infancy can tell. 
 By brother's treachery he fell. 
 Thus warn'd by legends of my youth, 
 I trust to no associate's truth. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " When last we reason'd of this deed, 
 Nought, I bethink me, was agreed. 
 Or by what rule, or when, or where, 
 The wealth of Mortham we should 
 
 share ; 
 Then list, while \ the portion name. 
 
 Our difi'ering laws give each to claim. 
 Thou, vassal sworn to England's 
 
 throne, 
 Her lules of heritage must own ; 
 They deal thee, as to nearest heir, 
 Thy kinsman's lands and livings fair, 
 And these I yield : — do thou revere 
 The statutes of the Bucanier. 
 Friend to the sea, and foeman sworn 
 To all that on her waves are borne, 
 Yvlien falls a mate in battle broil, 
 His comrade heirs his portion'd spoil; 
 V/hen dies in fight a daring foe, 
 He claims his wealth who struck the 
 
 blow; 
 And either rule to me assigns 
 Those spoils of Indian seas and 
 
 mines, 
 Hoarded in Mortham 's caverns dark; 
 Ingot of gold and diamond spark. 
 Chalice and plate from churches 
 
 borne. 
 And gems from shrieking beauty 
 
 torn. 
 Each Etring of pearl, each silver bar, 
 And all the wealth of western war. 
 I go to search, where, dark and deep, 
 Tboso Trans-atlantic treasures sleep. 
 Thou must along — for, lacking thee, 
 The heir will scarce find entrance 
 
 frse; 
 7\.nd then farewell. I haste to try 
 Each varied pleasure wealth can buy; 
 W^hen cloyed each wish, those wars 
 
 afford 
 Fresh work for Bertram's restless 
 
 sword." 
 
 xxn. 
 
 An undecided answer hung 
 On Oswald's hesitating tongue. 
 Despite his craft, he heard with awe 
 This ruffian stabber fix the law ; 
 While his own troubled passions veer 
 Through hatred, joy, regret, and 
 
 fear; — 
 Joy'd at the soul that Bertram flies, 
 He grudged the miirderer's mighty 
 
 prize, 
 Hated his pride's presumptuous tone, 
 And fear'd to wend with him alone. 
 At length, that middle course to steer, 
 
218 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 To cowardice and craft so dear, 
 ''His charge," he said, "would ill 
 
 allow 
 His absence from the fortress now; 
 Wilfrid on Bertram should attend, 
 His son should journey with his 
 
 friend. " 
 
 xxm. 
 
 "Contempt kept Bertram's anger down, 
 And wreathed to savage smile his 
 
 frown. 
 "Wilfrid, or thou — 'tis one to me, 
 Whichever bears the golden key. 
 Yet think not but I mark, and smile 
 To mark, thy poor and selfish wile ! 
 If injury from me you fear. 
 What, Oswald Wycliffe, shields thee 
 
 here? 
 I've sprung from walls more high 
 
 than these, 
 I've swam through deeper streams 
 
 than Tees. 
 Might I not stab thee, ere one yell 
 Could rouse the distant sentinel ? 
 Start not— it is not my design. 
 But, if it were, weak fence were thine ; 
 And, trust me, that, in time of need, 
 This hand hath done more desperate 
 
 deed. 
 Go, haste and rouse thy slumbering 
 
 son; 
 Time calls, and I must needs be 
 
 gone." 
 
 XXIY. 
 
 Nought of his sire's ungenerous part 
 Polluted Wilfrid's gcnUo heart; 
 A heart tro soft froiu early life 
 To hold with fortune needful strife. 
 His sire, while yet a har-lier race 
 Of numerous sons were Wycliffe's 
 
 grace. 
 On Wilfrid set contemptuous brand, 
 For feeble heart and forceless hand ; 
 But a fond mother's care and joy 
 Were centred in her sickly boy. 
 No touch of childhood's frolic mood 
 BhowVl the elastic spring of blood; 
 Hour after hour he loved to pore 
 On Shakspeare's rich and varied lore, 
 But turn'd from martial scenes and 
 
 light 
 
 From Falstaff's feast and Percy's fight, 
 To ponder Jaques' moral strain. 
 And muse with Hamlet, wise in vain; 
 And weep himself to soft repose 
 O'er gentle Desdemona's woes. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 In youth he sought not pleasures 
 
 found 
 By youth in horse, and hawk, and 
 
 hound. 
 But loved the quiet joys that wake 
 By lonely stream and silent lake; 
 In Deepdale's solitude to lie. 
 Where all is cliff and copse and sky 
 To climb Catcastle's dizzy peak. 
 Or lone Pendragon's mound to see^:. 
 Such was his wont, and there his 
 
 dream 
 Soar'd on some wild fantastic theme. 
 Of faithful love, or ceaseless sprinq;, 
 Till Contemplation's wearied win j 
 The enthusiast could no more ii;5- 
 
 tain, 
 And sad he sunk to earth again. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 He loved — as many a lay can tell. 
 Preserved in Stanmore's lonely dell; 
 lor his was minstrel's skill, he caught 
 The ait unteachable, untaught; 
 lie loved — his soul did nature frame 
 For love, and fancy nursed the flame; 
 Vainly he loved — for seldom swain 
 Of such soft mould is loved again; 
 Hilent he loved —in every gaze 
 Was passion, friendship in his phrase. 
 So mused his life away— till died 
 His brethren all, their father's pride. 
 Wilfrid is now the only heir 
 Of all his stratagems and care, 
 And destined, darkling, to pursue 
 Ambition's maze by Oswald's clue. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Wilfrid must love and woo the bright 
 Matilda, heir of Bokeby's knight. 
 To love her was an easy hest, 
 The secret empress of his breast; 
 To woo her was a harder task 
 To one that durst not hope or ask. 
 Yet all Matilda could, she gave 
 In pity to her gentle slave; 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 J19 
 
 Friendship, esteem, and fair regard, 
 And praise, the poet's best reward ! 
 Ghe read the tales his taste approved. 
 And Sling tho lays he framed or 
 
 loved; 
 Tet, loth to nnrse the fatal flame 
 Of hopeless love in friendship's name, 
 In kind caprice she oft withdrew 
 The favouring glance to friendship 
 
 due, 
 Then grieved to see her victim's pain, 
 And gave the dangerous smiles again. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 So did the suit of Wilfrid stand, 
 When war's loud summons waked 
 
 the land. 
 Three banners, floating o'er the Tees, 
 The wo-forboding peasant sees; 
 In concert oft they braved of old 
 The bordering Scot's incursion bold; 
 Frowning defiance in their pride. 
 Their vassals now and lords divide. 
 From his fair hall on Greta banks, 
 The Knight of Eokeby led his ranks, 
 To aid the valiant northern Earls, 
 Who drew the sword for Boyal 
 
 Charles. 
 Mortham, by marriage near allied, — 
 His sister had been Rokeby's bride, 
 Though long before the civil fray, 
 In peaceful grave the lady lay; — 
 Philip of Mortham raised his band, 
 And march'd at Fairfax's command; 
 While Wycliffe, bound by many a 
 
 train 
 Of kindred art with wily Vane, 
 Less prompt to brave the bloody field. 
 Made Barnard's battlements his 
 
 shield. 
 Secured them with his Lunedale 
 
 powers, 
 And for the Commons held the 
 
 towers. 
 
 XXIX. 
 The lovely heir of Eokeby's Knight 
 Waits in his halls tlie event of fight; 
 For England's war revered the claim 
 Of every unprotected name, 
 And spared, amid its fiercest rage, 
 Childhood and womanhood and age. 
 But Wilfrid, son to Bokeby's foe, 
 
 Must the dear privilege forego, 
 By Greta's side, in evening grey. 
 To steal upon Matilda's way, 
 Striving, with fond hypocrisy. 
 For careless step and vacant eye; 
 Calming each anxious look and 
 
 glance, 
 To give the meeting all to chance, 
 Or framing, as a fair excuse. 
 The book, the pencil, or the muse: 
 Something to give, to sing, to say, 
 Some modern tale, some ancient lay. 
 Then, while the long'd-for minutes 
 
 last, — • 
 Ah ! minutes quickly over-past ! 
 Recording each expression free. 
 Of kind or careless courtesy. 
 Each friendly look, each softer tone. 
 As food for fancy when alone. 
 All this is o'er — ^but still unseen, 
 Yvllfrid may lurk in Eastwood green. 
 To watch Matilda's wonted round, 
 While springs his heart at every 
 
 sound. 
 She comes ! — 'tis but a passing sight, 
 Yet serves to cheat his weary night; 
 She comes not — He will wait the 
 
 hour, 
 When her lamp lightens in the 
 
 tower; 
 'Tis something yet, if, as she past. 
 Her shade is o'er the lattice cast. 
 "What is my life, my hope?" he 
 
 said; 
 " Alas ! a transitory shade.'* 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Thus wore his life, though reason 
 
 strove 
 For mastery in vain with love, 
 Forcing upon his thoughts the sum 
 Of present woe and ills to come. 
 While still he turn'd impatient ear 
 From Truth's intrusive voice severe. 
 Gentle, indifferent, and subdued, 
 In all but this, unmoved he view'd 
 Each outward change of ill and good: 
 Bi;t Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild, 
 Was Fancy's spoil' d and wayward 
 
 child; 
 In her bright car she bade him ride. 
 With one fur form to rrace his side, 
 
::3 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOEKS. 
 
 Or, in some wild and lone retreat, 
 Flung lier high spells around his seat, 
 Bathed in her dews his languid head, 
 Her fairy mantle o'or him spread. 
 For him her opiates gave to flow. 
 Which he who tastes can ne'er forego, 
 And placed him in her circle, free 
 From every stern reality, 
 Till, to the Visionary, seem 
 Her day-dreams truth, and truth a 
 dream. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Woe to the youth whom fancy gains. 
 Winning from Reason's hand thereins, 
 Pity and woo ! for such a mind 
 Is soft, contemplative, and kind; 
 And woe to those who train such 
 
 youth, 
 And spare to press the rights of truth, 
 The mind to strengthen and anneal, 
 While on the stithy glows the steel ! 
 O teach him, while your lessons last, 
 To judge the present by the past; 
 Remind him of each wish i^ursued. 
 How ,rich it glow'd with promised 
 
 good; 
 Remind him of each wish enjoy'd, 
 How soon his hopes possession cloy'd ! 
 Tell him, we play unequal gaiuo. 
 Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim; 
 And, ere he strip him for her race, 
 Show the condiLions of the chase. 
 Two sisters by the goal are set. 
 Cold Disappointment and R?gret; 
 One disenchants the winner's eyes. 
 And strips of all its worth the prize. 
 While one augments its gaudy show, 
 More to enhance the loser's woe. 
 The victor sees his fairy gold, 
 Transform'd, when won, to drossy 
 
 mold, 
 But still the vanquish'd mourns his 
 
 loss, 
 And rues, as gold, that glittering 
 
 dross. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 More wouldst thou know — yon tower 
 
 survey, 
 Yon couch unpress'd since parting 
 
 day, 
 
 Yon untrimm'd lamp, whose yellow 
 
 gleam 
 Is mingling with the cold moonbeam, 
 And yon thin form '.—the hectic red 
 On his pale cheek unequal spread; 
 The head reclined, the loosen'd hair, 
 The limbs relax'd, the mournful air. 
 See, he looks up;— awoful smile 
 Lightens his wo-worn cheek a while, 
 'Tis fancy wakes some idle thought, 
 To gild the ruin she has wrought; 
 For, like the bat of Indian brakes, 
 Her pinions fan the wounds she 
 
 makes. 
 And soothing thus the dreamer's pain, 
 She drinks his life-blood from the 
 
 vein. 
 Now to the lattice turn his eyes, 
 \ ain hope ! to see the sun arise. 
 The moon with clouds is still o'ercast, 
 rill howls by fits the stormy blast; 
 Another hour must wear away, 
 Ere the East kindle into day. 
 And hark ! to waste that weary hour, 
 lie tries the minstrel's magic power. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Sonrj, 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 Hail to thy cold and clouded beam, 
 
 Pale pilgrim of the troubled sky ! 
 Hail, though the mists that o'er thee 
 stream 
 
 Lend to thy brow their sullen dye ! 
 IIow should thy pure and peaceful 
 eye 
 
 Untroubled view our scenes below, 
 Or how a tearless beam supply 
 
 To light a world of war and woe I 
 
 Fair Queen ! I will not blame thee 
 now. 
 As once by Greta's fairy side 
 Each little cloud that dimm'd thy 
 brow 
 Did then an angel's beauty hide. 
 And of the shades I then could chide. 
 Still are the thoughts to memory 
 
 dear, 
 For, while a softer strain I tried, 
 They hid my blush, and calm'd my 
 fear. 
 
ROKEBT. 
 
 221 
 
 Then did I swear thy ray serene 
 
 Was form'd to light some lonely 
 dell, 
 By two fond lovers only seen, 
 
 Reflected from the crystal well, 
 Or sleeping on their mossy cell, 
 
 Or quivering on the lattica bright, 
 Or glancing on their couch, to tell 
 
 How swiftly wanes the summer 
 night ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 He starts — a step at this lone hour ! 
 A voice ! — his father seeks the tower, 
 With haggard look and troubled 
 
 sense, 
 Fresh from his dreadful conference. 
 "Wilfrid! — what, not to sleep ad- 
 
 dress'd ? 
 Thou hast no cares to chase thy rest. 
 Mortham has fall'n on Marston-moor; 
 Bertram brings warrant to secure 
 His treasures, bought by spoil and 
 
 blood. 
 For the State's use and public good. 
 The mcDiais vv^ill thy voice obey; 
 Let his commission have its way, 
 In every point, in every word." — 
 Then, in a whisper, — "Take thy 
 
 sword ! 
 Bertram is — what I must not tell. 
 I hear his hasty step — farewell !" 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Fab in the chambers of the west, 
 The gale has sigh'd iiself to rest; 
 The moon was cloudless now and 
 
 clear. 
 But pale, and soon to disappear. 
 The thin grey clouds wax dimly light 
 On Crusleton and Houghton height; 
 And the rich dale, that eastward lay, 
 Waited the waliening touch of day. 
 To give its woods and cultured j^lain. 
 And towers and spires, to light again. 
 But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless 
 
 swell, 
 And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell, 
 And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar, 
 And Arkingarth, lay dark afar; 
 
 While, as a livelier twilight falls. 
 Emerge proud Barnard's banner'd 
 
 walls. 
 High-crown'd he sits, in dawning 
 
 pale. 
 The sovereign of the lovely vale. 
 
 n. 
 
 What prospects, from his watch-tower 
 
 high. 
 Gleam gradual on the warder s eye ! — 
 Far sweeping to the east, he sees 
 Down his deep woods the course of 
 
 Tees, 
 And tracks his wanderings by the 
 
 steam 
 Of summer vapours from the stream; 
 And ere he paced his destined hour 
 By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower, 
 These silver mists shall melt away, 
 And dew the woods with glittering 
 
 spray. 
 Then in broad lustre shall be shown 
 That mighty trench of living stone. 
 And eaca huge trunk that, from the 
 
 side, 
 Reclines him o'er the darksome tide. 
 Where Tees, full many a fathom low, 
 Wears with his rage no common foe; 
 For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here. 
 Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce ca- 
 reer, 
 Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way, 
 O'er solid sheets of marble grey. 
 
 ni. 
 
 Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright, 
 Shall rush upon the ravish'd sight; 
 But many a tributary stream 
 Each from its own dark dell shall 
 
 gleam: 
 Stain drop, who, from her silvan 
 
 bowers, 
 Srdutes proud Raby's battled towers; 
 The rural brook of Egliston, 
 And Balder, nam^d from Odin's son; 
 And Greta, to whose banks ere long 
 Yv'o lead the lovers of the song; 
 An 1 silver Lune,from Stanmore wild. 
 And fairy Thorsgili's murmuring 
 
 child, 
 And last and least, but loveliest still, 
 
222 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Romantic Deepdale's slender rill. 
 Who in tnat dim-wood glen liath 
 
 stray' d, 
 Yet long'd for Roslin's magic glade ? 
 Who, wandering there, hath sought 
 
 to change 
 Even for that vale so stern and strange, 
 Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic 
 
 rent, 
 Through her green copse like spires 
 
 are sent ? 
 Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thino, 
 Thy scenes and story to combine ! 
 Thou bid'st him, who by Itonlyn 
 
 strays. 
 List to the deeds of other days ; 
 'Mid Cartland's Crags thou show'st 
 
 the cave, 
 The refuge of thy champion brave; 
 Giving each rock its storied tale, 
 Pouring a lay from every dale, 
 Knitting, as with a moral band. 
 Thy native legends with thy land, 
 To lend each scene the interest 
 
 high 
 Which genius beams from Beauty's 
 
 eye. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Bertram awaited not the sight 
 Which sun-rise shows from Barnard's 
 
 height, 
 But from the towers, preventing day. 
 With Wilfrid took his early way, 
 While misty dawn, and moonbeam 
 
 pale, 
 Still mingled in the silent dale. 
 By Barnard's bridge of stately stone. 
 The southern bank of Tees they 
 
 won; 
 Their winding path then eastward 
 
 cast, 
 And Egliston's grey ruins pass'd; 
 Each on his own deep visions bent, 
 Silent and sad they onward went. 
 Well may you think that Bertram's 
 
 mood, 
 To Wilfrid savage seem'd and rude ; 
 Well may you think bold Risingham 
 Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame ; 
 And small the intercourse, I ween, 
 Such unconrrenial soula between. 
 
 V. 
 
 Stern Bertram shunn'd the nearer 
 
 way. 
 Through Rokeby's park and chase 
 
 that lay, 
 And, skirting high the valley's ridge, 
 They cross'd by Greta's ancient 
 
 bridge. 
 Descending where her waters wind 
 Free for a space and unconlined, 
 As, 'scaped from Brignall's dark- 
 wood glen. 
 She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den. 
 There, as his eye glanced o'er the 
 
 mound, 
 Raised by that Legion long renown'd. 
 Whose votive shrine asserts their 
 
 claim, 
 Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, 
 •'Stern sons of war!' sad Wilfrid 
 
 sigh'd, 
 " Behold the boast of Roman pride ! 
 What now of all your toils are known? 
 A grassy trench, a broken stone !" — 
 This to himself ; for moral strain 
 To Bertram were address'd in vain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Of different mood, a deeper sigh 
 Awake, when Rokeby's turrets high 
 Were northward in the dawning seen 
 To rear them o'er the thicket green. 
 O then, though Spenser's self had 
 
 stray 'd 
 Beside him through the lovely glade, 
 Lending the rich luxuriant glow 
 Of fancy, all its charms to show. 
 Pointing the stream rejoicing free, 
 As captive set at liberty. 
 Flashing her sparkling waves abroad. 
 And clamouring joyful on her road ; 
 Pointing where, up the sunny banks. 
 The trees retire in scatter'd ranks, 
 Save where, advanced before the rest. 
 On knoll or hillock rears his crest, 
 Lonely and huge, the giant Oak, 
 As champions, when their band is 
 
 broke, 
 Stand forth to guard the rearward 
 
 post, 
 The bulwark of the scatter'd host — 
 All this, and more, might Spenser say, 
 
ROKEBT. 
 
 228 
 
 Yet waste in vain his magic lay, 
 While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower, 
 Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower. 
 
 vn. 
 
 The open vale is soon passed o'er, 
 Bokeby, though nigh, is seen no more; 
 Sinking 'mid Gretas thickets deep, 
 A wild and darker course they keep, 
 A stern and lone, yet lovely road, 
 As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode ! 
 Broad shadows o'er their passage fell, 
 Deeper and narrower grew the dell ; 
 It seem'd some mountain, rent and 
 
 riven, 
 A channel for the stream had given, 
 So high the cliffs of limestone grey 
 Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way. 
 Yielding, along their rugged base, 
 A flinty footpath's niggard space, 
 Where he, who winds 'twist rock and 
 
 wave, 
 May hear the headlong torrent rave, 
 And like a steed in frantic fit. 
 That flings the froth from curb and 
 
 bit. 
 May view her chafe her waves to 
 
 spray, 
 O'er every rock that bars her way, 
 Till foam-globes on her eddies ride, 
 Thick as the schemes of human pride 
 That down life's current drive amain. 
 As frail, as frothy, and as vain ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The cliffs that rear their haughty 
 
 head 
 High o'er the river's darksome bed, 
 Were now all naked, wild, and grey, 
 Now waving all with greenwood spray ; 
 Here trees to every crevice clung, 
 And o'er the dell their branches 
 
 hung; 
 And there, all splinter'd and uneven, 
 The shiver'd rocks ascend to heaven ; 
 Oft, too, the ivy swath'd their breast, 
 And wreathed its garland round their 
 
 crest, 
 Or from the spires bade loosely flare 
 Its tendrils in the middle air. 
 As pennons wont to wave of old 
 O'er the high feast of Baron bold, 
 
 When revell'd loud the feudal rout, 
 And the arch'd halls return'd their 
 
 shoiit; 
 Such and moie wild is Greta's roar, 
 And such the echoes from her shore. 
 And so the ivied banners' gleam. 
 Waved wildly o'er the brawling 
 
 stream. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Now from the stream the rocks re- 
 cede. 
 But leave between no sunny mead. 
 No, nor the spot of pebbly sand. 
 Oft found by such a mountain strand; 
 Forming such warm and dry retreat, 
 As fancy deems the lonely seat. 
 Where hermit wandering from his 
 
 cell, 
 His rosary might love to tell. 
 But here, 'twixt rock and river, grew 
 A dismal grove of sable yew. 
 With whose sad tints were mingled 
 
 seen 
 The blighted fir's sepulchral green. 
 Seem'd that the trees their shadows 
 
 cast. 
 The earth that nourish'd them to 
 
 blast; 
 For never knew that swarthy grove 
 The verdant hue that fairies love ; 
 Nor wilding green, nor woodland 
 
 flower. 
 Arose within its baleful bower: 
 The dank and sable earth receives 
 Its only carpet from the leaves. 
 That, from the withering branches 
 
 cast, 
 Bestrew'd the ground with every 
 
 blast. 
 Though now the sun was o'er the 
 
 hill, 
 In this dark spot 'twas twilight still. 
 Save that on Greta's farther side 
 Some straggling beams through 
 
 copsewood glide; 
 And wild and savage contrast made 
 That dingle's deep and funeral shade, 
 With the bright tints of early day, 
 Which, glimmenng through the ivy 
 
 spray, 
 On the opposing summit lay. 
 
224 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 X. 
 
 The lated peasant phunn'cl the dell; 
 For Superstition -wont to tell 
 Of many a grisly sound and sight, 
 Scaring its path at dead of night. 
 When Christmas logs blaze high and 
 
 •wide, 
 Such wonders speed the festal tide ; 
 While Curiosity and Fear, 
 Pleasure and Pain, sit crouching 
 
 near, 
 Till childhood's cheek no longer 
 
 glows, 
 And village maidens lose the rose. 
 The thrilling interest rises higher, 
 The circle closes nigh and nigher, 
 And shuddering glance i3 cast be- 
 hind, 
 As louder moans the wintry wind. 
 Believe, that fitting scene was laid 
 For such wild tales in Mortham 
 
 glade ; 
 For who had seen, on Greta's side, 
 By that dim light fierce Bertram 
 
 stride, 
 In such a B-r>ot, at such an hour,--- 
 If touch'd by Superstition's power. 
 Might well have deem'd that Hell had 
 
 given 
 A murderer's ghost to upper Heaven, 
 While Wilfrid's form had seem'd to 
 
 glide 
 Like his pale victim by his side. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Nor think to village swains alono 
 Are these unearthly terrors known ; 
 For not to rank nor sex confined 
 Is this vain ague of the mind : 
 Hearts firm as steel, as marble hard, 
 'Gainst faith,and love,andpity barr'd. 
 Have quaked, like aspen leaves in 
 
 May, 
 Beneath its universal sway. 
 Bertram had listed many a tale 
 Of wonder in his native dale, 
 That in his secret soul retain'd 
 The credence they in childhood 
 
 gain'd : 
 Nor less his wild adventurous youth 
 Believed in every legend's truth ; 
 
 Learn'd when, beneath the tropic 
 
 gale, 
 Full swell'd the vessel's steady sail, 
 And the broad Indian moon her 
 
 light 
 Pour'd on the watch of middle night. 
 When seamen love to hear and tell 
 Of portent, prodigy, and spell : 
 What gales are sold on Lapland's 
 
 shore, 
 How winstle rash bids tempests roar. 
 Of witch, of mermaid, auTi of sprite. 
 Of Erick's cap and Elmo's light ; 
 Or of that Phantom Ship, whose form 
 Ghoots lilie a meteor through the 
 
 storm ; 
 When the dark scud comes driving 
 
 hard. 
 And lower'd is every topsail yard. 
 And canvas, wove in earthly looms, 
 Ho more to brave the storm presumes! 
 Then, 'miei the war of sea and sky, 
 Top and top-gallant hoisted high, 
 Full siDread and crowded every sail, 
 The Demon Frigate braves the gale; 
 And well the doom'd spectators know 
 The harbinger of wreck and woe. 
 
 xn. 
 
 Then, too, were told, in stifled tone. 
 Marvels and omens all their own ; 
 How, by some desert isle or key, 
 Where Spaniards wrought their 
 
 cruelty, 
 Or where the savage pirates mood 
 Repaid it homo in deeds of blood. 
 Strange nightly sounds of woe and 
 
 fear 
 Appall'd the listening Bucanier, 
 Whose light-arm'd shallop anchor'd 
 
 lay 
 In ambush by the lonely bay. 
 The groan of grief, the shriek of 
 
 pain 
 King from the moonlight groves of 
 
 cane ; 
 The fierce adventurer's heart they 
 
 scire, 
 Who wearies memory for a prayer. 
 Curses the roadstead, and with gale 
 Of early morning lifts the sail. 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 2-25 
 
 To give, in thirst of blood and prey, 
 A legend for another bay. 
 
 xm. 
 
 Thus, as a man, a youth, a child, 
 Train'd in the mystic and the wild. 
 With this on Bertram's soul at times 
 Eush'd a dark feeling of his crimes ; 
 Such to his troubled soul their form, 
 As the pale Death-ship to the storm. 
 And such their omen dim and dread, 
 As shrieks and voices of the dead, — 
 That pang, whose transitory force 
 Hover'd 'twixt horror and remorse ; 
 That pang, perchance, his bosom 
 
 press'd, 
 As "Wilfrid sudden he address'd :— 
 "Wilfrid, this glen is never trode 
 Until the sun rides high abroad ; 
 Yet twice have I beheld to-day 
 A Form that seem'd to dog our way ; 
 Twice from my glance it seem'd to 
 
 flee, 
 And shroud itself by clifE or tree. 
 How think'st thou ? — Is our jDath way- 
 laid? 
 Or hath thy sire my trust betray' d ? 
 
 If so" Ere, starting from his 
 
 dream. 
 That turned upon a gentler theme, 
 Wilfred had roused him to reply, 
 Bertram sprung forward, shouting 
 
 high, 
 " Wliate'er thou art, thou now shalt 
 
 stand !" 
 And forth he darted^ sword in hand. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 As bursts the levin in his wrath. 
 He shot him down the sounding path ; 
 Rock, wood, and stream, rang wildly 
 
 out, 
 To his loud step and savage shout. 
 Seems that the object of his race 
 Hath scaled the cliffs; his frantic 
 
 chase 
 Sidelong he turns, and now 'tis bent 
 Eight up the rock's tall battlement ; 
 8training each sinew to ascend, 
 Foot, hand, and knee, their ai^ juust 
 
 lend. 
 Wilfrid, all dizzy with dismay, 
 
 Views from beneath, his dreadful way: 
 Now to the oak's warp'd roots he 
 
 clings, 
 Now trusts his weight to ivy strings; 
 Now, like the wild-goat, must he dare 
 An unsupported leap in air; 
 Hid in tho shrubby rain-course now. 
 You mark him by the crashing bough. 
 And by his corslet's sudden clank, 
 And by the stones spurn'd from the 
 
 bank. 
 And by the hawk scared from her nest. 
 And ravens croaking o'er tkeir guest. 
 Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pay 
 The tribute of his bold essay. 
 
 XV. 
 
 See ! he emerges ! — desperate now 
 All farther course — Yon beetling 
 
 brow. 
 In craggy nakedness sublime, 
 What heart or foot shall dare to climb? 
 It bears no tendril for his clasp. 
 Presents no anglo to his grasp: 
 Sole stay his foot may re^t upon, 
 Is yon earth-bedded jetting stone. 
 Balanced on such precarious prop, 
 He strains his grasp to reach the top. 
 Just as the dangerous stretch he 
 
 makes. 
 By heaven, his faithless footstool 
 
 shakes ! 
 Beneath his tottering bulk it bends. 
 It sways, ... it loosens, ... it de- 
 scends ! 
 And downward holds its headlong 
 
 way, 
 Crashing o'er rock and copsewood 
 
 spray. 
 Loud thunders shake the echoing 
 
 dell !— 
 Fell it alone ? — alone it fell. 
 Just on tho very verge of fate. 
 The hardy Bertram's falling weight 
 He trusted to his sinewy hands. 
 And on the top unharm'd he stands! — 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Wilfrid a safer path pursued; 
 At intervals where, roughly hew'd, 
 Bude steps ascending from the dell 
 Render 'd the cliffs accessible. 
 
^26 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOUKS. 
 
 By circuit slow lie thus attain'd 
 The height that Risingham had gain'd, 
 And when he issued from the wood, 
 Before the gate of Mortham stood. 
 'Twas a fair scene ! the sunbeam lay 
 On battled tower and portal grey: 
 And from the grasSy slope he sees 
 The Greta flow to meet the Tees; 
 Where, issuing from her darksome 
 
 bed, 
 She caught the morning's eastern red, 
 And through the softening vale below 
 lloll'd her bright waves, in rosy glow. 
 All blushing to her bridal bed. 
 Like some shy maid in convent bred ; 
 While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay. 
 Sing forth her nuptial roundelay. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Twas sweetly sung that roundelay ; 
 That summer morn shonie blithe and 
 
 gay; 
 
 But morning beam, and wild-bird's 
 
 call, 
 Awaked not Mortham's silent hall. 
 No porter, by the low-brow'd gate, 
 Took in the wonted niche his seat; 
 To the paved court no peasant drew ; 
 Waked to their toil no menial crew; 
 The maiden's carol was not heard, 
 As to her morning task she fared: 
 In the void offices around, 
 Rung not a hoof, nor bay'd a hound; 
 Nor eager steed, with shrilling neigh, 
 Accused thd lagging groom's delay; 
 Untfimm'd, undress'd,neglected now, 
 Was alley'd walk and orchard bough; 
 All spoke the master's absent care^ 
 All spoke neglect and disrepair. 
 South of the gate, an arrow flight, 
 Two mighty elms their limbs unite. 
 As if a canopy to spread 
 O'er the lone dwelling of the dead; 
 For their huge boughs in arches 
 
 bent 
 Above a massive monument, 
 Carved o'er in ancient Gothic wise, 
 With many a scutcheon and device ; 
 There, spent with toil and sunk in 
 
 gloom, 
 Bertram stood pondering by thetomb. 
 
 xvin. 
 
 *' It vanish'd, like a flitting ghost ! 
 Behind this tomb," he said, " 'twas 
 
 lost — 
 This tomb, where oft I deem'd lies 
 
 stored 
 Of Mortham's Indian wealth the 
 
 hoard. 
 'Tis true, the aged servants said 
 Here his lamented wife is laid; 
 But weightier reasons maybe guess'd 
 For their lord's strict and stern be- 
 hest, 
 That none should on his steps in- 
 trude, 
 WTiene'er he sought this solitude. — 
 An ancient mariner I knew, 
 What time I sail'd with Morgan's crew, 
 Who oft, 'mid our carousals, spake 
 Of Raleigh, Frobisher, and Drake; 
 Adventurous hearts ! who barter'd, 
 
 bold. 
 Their English steel for Spanish gold. 
 Trust not, would his experience say. 
 Captain or comrade with your prey; 
 But seek some charnel, when, at full. 
 The moon gilds skeleton and skull; 
 There dig, and tomb your precious 
 
 heap ; 
 And bid the dead your treasure keep; 
 Sure*stewards they, if fitting spell 
 Their service to the task compel. 
 Lacks there such charnel? — kill a 
 
 slave, 
 Or prisoner, on the treasure-grave ; 
 And bid his discontented ghost 
 Stalk nightly on his lonely post. — 
 Such was his tale. Its truth, I ween, 
 Is in my morning vision seen." — 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Wilfrid, who scorn'd the legend wild, 
 In mingled mirth and pity smiled. 
 Much marvelling that a breast so bold 
 In such fond tale belief should hold; 
 But yet of Bertram sought to know 
 The apparition's form and show. — 
 The power within the guilty breast, 
 Oft vanquish'd, never quite sup- 
 press d. 
 That unsubdued and lurking lies 
 To take the felon by surprise, 
 
ttOKEBT, 
 
 227 
 
 And force liim, as by magic spell, 
 In his despite his guilt to tell, — 
 That power in Bertram's breast awoke ; 
 Scarce conscious he was heard, he 
 
 spoke ; 
 '• 'Twas Mortham's form, from foot to 
 
 head ! 
 His morion, with the plume of red. 
 His shape, his mien — 'twas Mortham, 
 
 right 
 As when I slew him in the fight." — 
 "Thou slay him ? -thou ?"— With con- 
 scious start 
 He heard, then mann'd his haughty 
 
 heart — 
 " I slew him ?— I ! — I had forgot 
 Thou, stripling, knew'st not of the 
 
 plot. 
 But it is spoken — nor will I 
 Deed done, or spoken word, deny. 
 I slew him : I ! for thankless pride ; 
 'Twas by this hand that Mortham 
 
 died. 
 
 "Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart. 
 Averse to every active part, 
 But most averse to martial broil, 
 From danger shrunk, and tTirn'd 
 ¥ from toil, 
 
 Yet the meek lover of the lyre ' 
 Nursed one brave spark of noble fire, 
 Against injustice, fraud, or wrong. 
 His blood beat high, his hand wax'd 
 
 strong. 
 Not his the nerves that could sustain 
 Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain ; 
 But, when that spark blazed forth to 
 
 flame. 
 He rose superior to his frame. 
 And now it came, that generous 
 
 mood: 
 And, in full current of his blood, 
 On Bertram he laid desperate hand, 
 Placed firm his foot, and drew his 
 
 brand. 
 " Should every fiend, to whom thou'rt 
 
 sold. 
 Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold. — 
 Arouse there, ho! take spear and 
 
 sword ! 
 Attac!i the murderer of your Lord I" 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A moment, fix'd as by a spell, 
 Stood Bertram — It seem'd miracle, 
 That one so feeble, soft, and tame 
 Set grasp on warlike Risingham. 
 But when he felt a feeble stroke, 
 The fiend within the ruffian woke ! 
 To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's 
 
 hand, 
 To dash him headlong on the sand, 
 Was but one moment's work, — one 
 
 more 
 Had drench'd the blade in Wilfrid's 
 
 gore; 
 But, in the instant it arose, 
 To end his life, his love, his woes, 
 A warlike form, that mark'd the scene, 
 Presents his rapier sheathed between. 
 Parries the fast-descending blow, 
 And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe; 
 Nor then unscabbarded his brand. 
 But, sternly pointing with his hand, 
 With monarch's voice forbade tho 
 
 fight, 
 And motion'd Bertram from his sight. 
 "Go, and repent," he said, "while 
 
 time 
 Is given thee ; add not crime to 
 
 crime." 
 
 xxn. 
 
 Mute, and uncertain, and amazed, 
 As on a vision Bertram gazed ! 
 'Twas Mortham's bearing, bold and 
 
 high. 
 His sinewy frame, his falcon eye. 
 His look and accent of command, 
 The martial gesture of his hand. 
 His stately form, spare-built and tall. 
 His war-bleach'd locks — 'twas Mor- 
 tham all. 
 Through Bertram's dizzy brain career 
 A thousand thoughts, and all of fear; 
 His wavering faith received not quite 
 The form he saw as Mortham's sprite, 
 But more he f ear'd it, if it stood 
 His lord, in living flesh and blood. — 
 What spectre can tbe charnel send, 
 So dreadful as an injured friend? 
 Then, too, the habit of command. 
 Used by the leader of the band. 
 When Bisingham, for many a day, 
 
m 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Had march'd and fought beneath his 
 
 sway, 
 Tamed him — and, with reverted face, 
 Backwards he bore his sullen pace ; 
 Oft stopp'd, and oft on Mortham 
 
 stared. 
 And dark as rated mastiff glared ; 
 But when the tramp of steeds was 
 
 heard, 
 Plunged in the glen, and disap- 
 
 pear'd; — 
 Nor longer there the warrior stood, 
 Eetiring eastward through the wood; 
 But first to "Wilfrid warning gives, 
 **Tell thou to none that Mortham 
 
 lives." 
 
 xxin. 
 
 still rung these words in Wilfrid's 
 
 ear, 
 Hinting he knew not what of fear; 
 When nearer came the coursers' tread, 
 And, with his father at their head. 
 Of horsemen arm'd a gallant power 
 Eein'd up their steeds before the 
 
 tower. 
 * ' Whence these pale looks, my son ?" 
 
 he said: 
 "Where's Bertram.? — Why that naked 
 
 blade?" 
 Wilfrid ambiguously replied, 
 (For Mortham's charge his honour 
 
 tied,) 
 "Bertram is gone — the villain's word 
 Avouch'd him murderer of his lord ! 
 Even now we fought — but, when your 
 
 tread 
 Announced you nigh, the felon fled." 
 In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear 
 A guilty hope, a guilty fear; 
 On his pale brow the dewdrop broke, 
 And his lip quiver'd as he spoke: — 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " A murderer ! — Philip Mortham died 
 Amid the battle's wildest tide. 
 Wilfrid, or Bertram raves, or you ! 
 Yet, grant such strange confession 
 
 true, 
 Pursuit were vain — let him fly afar — 
 Justice must sleep in civil war." 
 A gallant Youth rode near his side. 
 Brave Rokeby's page, in battle tried; 
 
 That morn, an embassy of weight 
 He brought to Barnard's castle gate. 
 And follow'd now in Wyclifle's train, 
 An answer for his lord to gain. 
 His steed, whose arch'd and sable neck 
 An hundred wreaths of foam bedeck, 
 Chafed not against the curb more high 
 Than he at Oswald's cold reply; 
 He bit his lip, implored his saint, 
 (His the old faith) — then burst re- 
 straint. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Yes ! I beheld his bloody fall 
 By that base traitor's dastard ball, 
 Just when I thought to measure 
 
 sword. 
 Presumptuous hope ! with Mortham's 
 
 lord. 
 And shall the murderer 'scape who 
 
 slew 
 His leader, generous, brave, and true ? 
 Escape, while on the dew you trace 
 The marks of his gigantic pace ? 
 No ! ere the sun that dew shall dry. 
 False Kisingham shall yield or die. — 
 Eing out the castle 'larum bell ! 
 Arouse the peasants with the knell ! 
 Meantime disperse — ride, gallants, 
 
 ride I 
 Beset the wood on every side. 
 But if among you one there be, 
 That honours Mortham's memory, 
 Let him dismount and follow me ! 
 Else on your crests sit fear and shame. 
 And foul suspicion dog your name !" 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Instant to earth young Kedmond 
 
 sprung; 
 Instant on earth the harness rung 
 Of twenty men of Wycliffe's band, 
 Who waited not their lord's com- 
 mand. 
 Bedmond his spurs from buskins 
 
 drew. 
 His mantle from his shoulders threw. 
 His pistols in hia bclb ho placed, 
 The green-wood gain'd, the footsteps 
 
 traced, 
 Shouted like huntsman to his hounds. 
 « To cover, hark !" — and in he bounds. 
 
nOKEBT. 
 
 ^29 
 
 Scarce heard was Oswald's anxious 
 
 cry, 
 " Suspicion ! yes — pursue him, fly — 
 But venture not, in useless strife, 
 On ruffian desperate of his life, 
 Whoever finds him, shoot him dead ! 
 Five hundred nobles for his head !" 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The horsemen gallop'd, to make good 
 Each path that issued from the wood. 
 Loud from the thickets rung the 
 
 shout 
 Of Eedmond and his eager rout; 
 With them was Wilfrid, stung with 
 
 ire, 
 And envying Eedmond's martial fire, 
 And emulous of fame. — But where 
 Is Oswald, noble Mortham's heir? 
 He, bound by honour, law, and faith, 
 Avenger of his kinsman's death ? — 
 Leaning against the elmin tree, 
 With drooping head and slacken'd 
 
 knee, 
 And clenched teeth, and close-clasp'd 
 
 hands. 
 In agony of soul he stands ! 
 His downcast eye on earth is bent. 
 His soul to every sound is lent; 
 For in each shout that cleaves the air. 
 May ring discovery and despair. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 What 'vail'd it him, that brightly 
 
 play'd 
 The morning sun on Mortham's 
 
 glade? 
 All seems in giddy round to ride. 
 Like objects on a stormy tide, 
 Seen eddying by the moonlight dim. 
 Imperfectly to sink and swim. 
 What 'vail'd it, that the fair domain, 
 Its battled mansion, hill, and jjlain. 
 On which the sun bo brightly shone. 
 Envied so long, was now his own? 
 TH^ lowest dungeon, in that hour, 
 Of Erackenbury's dismal tower. 
 Had been his choice, could such a 
 
 doom 
 Have open'd Mortham's bloody tomb! 
 Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear 
 To each surmise of hope or fear, 
 
 Murmur'd among the rustics round. 
 Who gather'd at the 'larum sound; 
 He dared not turn his head away. 
 E'en to look up to heaven to pray. 
 Or call on hell, in bitter mood. 
 For one sharp death-shot from the 
 wood ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 At length, o'erpast that dreadful 
 
 space, 
 Back straggling came the scatter'd 
 
 chase : 
 Jaded and weary, horse and man, 
 Eeturn'd the troopers one by one. 
 Wilfrid, the last, arrived to say, 
 All trace was lost of Bertram's way, 
 Though Eedmond still, up Brignall 
 
 wood. 
 The hopeless quest in vain pursued. — 
 O, fatal doom of human race ! 
 What tyrant passions passions chase ! 
 Eemorse from Oswald's brow is gone, 
 Avarice and pride resume their 
 
 throne ; 
 The pang of instant terror by, 
 They dictate thus their slave's re- 
 ply :— 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Ay — let him range like hasty 
 
 hound ! 
 And if the grim wolf's lair be found, 
 Small is my care how goes the game 
 With Eedmond, or with Eisingham. — 
 Nay, answer not, thou simple boy ! 
 Thy fair Matilda, all so coy 
 To thee, is of another mood 
 To that bold youth of Erin's blood. 
 Thy ditties will she freely praise. 
 And pay thy pains v/ith courtly 
 
 phrase; 
 In a rough path will oft command — 
 Accept at least — thy friendly hand; 
 His she avoids, or, urged and pray'd. 
 Unwilling takes his pro£fer'd aid. 
 While conscious passion plainly 
 
 speaks 
 In downcast look and blushing 
 
 cheeks. 
 Whene'er he sings, will she glide 
 
 nigh, 
 And all her soul is in her eye; 
 
230 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Yet doubts she still to tender free 
 The wonted words of courtesy. 
 These are strong signs ! — yet where- 
 fore sigh, 
 And wipe, effeminate, thine eye ? 
 Thine shall she be, if thou attend 
 The counsels of thy sire and friend. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 "Scarce wert thou gone, when peep 
 
 of light 
 Brought genuine news of Marston's 
 
 fight. 
 Brave Cromwell tum'd the doubtful 
 • tide, 
 
 And conquest bless'd the rightfulside; 
 Three thousand cavaliers lie dead, 
 Kupert and that bold Marquis fled; 
 Nobles and knights, so proud of late, 
 Must fine for freedom and estate. 
 Of these, committed to my charge. 
 Is Rokeby, prisoner at large ; 
 Redmond, liis page, arrived to say 
 He reaches Barnard's towers to-day. 
 Eight heavy shall his ransom be, 
 Unless that maid compound with 
 
 thee! 
 Go to her now — be bold of cheer. 
 While her soul floats 'twixt hope and 
 
 fear; 
 It is the very change of tide. 
 When best the female heart is tried — 
 Pride, prejudice, and modesty, 
 Are in the current swept to sea; 
 And the bold swain, who plies his oar. 
 May lightly row his bark to shore. " 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 I. 
 
 The hunting tribes of air and earth 
 Respect the brethren of their birth ; 
 Nature, who loves the claim of kind, 
 Less cruel chase to each assign 'd. 
 The falcon, poised on soaring wing, 
 Watches the wild-duck by the spring; 
 The slow-hound wakes the fox's lair ; 
 The greyhound presses on the hare; 
 The eagle jDOunces on the lamb; 
 The wolf devours the fleecy dam: 
 Even tiger fell, and sullen bear, 
 
 Their likeness and their lineage spare, 
 Man, only, mars kind Nature's plan, 
 And turns the fierce pursuit on man; 
 Plying war's desultory trade. 
 Incursion, flight, and ambuscade, 
 Since Nimrod, Gush's mighty son, 
 A.t first the bloody game begun. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Indian, prowling for his prey, 
 Who hears the settlers track his way, 
 And knows in distant forests far 
 Camp his red brethren of the war; 
 He, when each double and disguise 
 To baffle the pursuit he tries. 
 Low crouching now his head to hide. 
 Where swampy streams through rush- 
 es glide, 
 Now covering with the wither'd leaves 
 The foot-prints that the dew receives: 
 He, skill'd in every silvan guile. 
 Knows not, nor tries, such various 
 
 wile. 
 As Risingham, when on the wind 
 Arose the loud pursuit behind. 
 In Redesdale his youth had heard 
 Each art her wily dalesmen dared, 
 When Rooken-edge, and Redswair 
 
 high, 
 To bugle rung and blood-hound's cry, 
 Announcing Jedwood-axe and spear, 
 And Lid'sdale riders in the rear; 
 And well his venturous life had 
 
 proved, 
 The lessons that his childhood loved. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oft had he shown, in climes afar, 
 Each attribute of roving war; 
 The sharpen'd ear, the piercing eye, 
 The quick resolve in danger nigh; 
 The speed, that in the flight or chase, 
 Outstripp'd the Charib's rapid race; 
 The steady brain, the sinewy limb. 
 To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim; 
 The iron frame, inured to bear 
 Each dire inclemency of air, 
 Nor less confirm 'd to undergo 
 Fatigue's faint chill, and famine's 
 
 throe. 
 These arts he proved, his life to save. 
 In peril oft by land and wave, 
 
ROKEBY, 
 
 231 
 
 On Arawaca's desert shore, 
 Or where La Plata's billows roar, 
 When oft the sons of vengeful Spain 
 Track'd the marauder's steps in vain. 
 These arts, in Indian warfare tried, 
 Must save him now by Greta's side. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Twas then, in hour of utmost need, 
 He proved his courage, art, and 
 
 speed. 
 Now slow he staUs'd with stealthy- 
 pace, 
 Now started forth in rapid race, 
 Oft doubling back in mazy train. 
 To blind the trace the dews retain ; 
 Now clomb the rocks projecting high. 
 To baffle the pursuer's eye ; 
 Now sought the stream, whose brawl- 
 ing sound 
 The echo of his footsteps drown'd. 
 But if the forest verge he nears. 
 There trample steeds, and glimmer 
 
 spears ; 
 If deeper down the copse he drew, 
 He heard the rangers' loud halloo. 
 Beating each cover while they came. 
 As if to start the silvan game. 
 'Twas then— like tiger close beset. 
 At every pass with toil and net, 
 'Counter'd, where'er he turns his 
 
 glare, 
 By clashing arms and torches' flare. 
 Who meditates, with furious bound. 
 To burst on hunter, horse, and hound, 
 'Twas then that Bertram's soul arose, 
 Prompting to rush upon his foes: 
 But as that crouching tiger, cow'd 
 By brandish'd steel and shouting 
 
 crowd, 
 Betreats beneath the jungle's shroud, 
 Bertram suspends his purpose stern, 
 And couches in the brake and fern, 
 Hiding his face, lest foemen spy, 
 The sparkle of his swarthy eye. 
 
 Then Bertram might the bearing trace 
 Of the bold youth who led the chase; 
 Who paused to list for every sound. 
 Climb every height to look around. 
 Then rushing on with naked sword, 
 
 Each dingle's bosky depths explored. 
 'Twas Redmond — by the azure eye ; 
 'Twas Redmond — by the locks that 
 
 fly 
 
 Disorder'd from his glowing cheek ; 
 Mien, face, and form, young Red- 
 mond speak. 
 A form more active, light, and strong. 
 Ne'er shot the ranks of war along; 
 The modest, yet the manly mien, 
 Might grace the court of maiden 
 
 queen ; 
 A face more fair you well might find, 
 For Redmond's knew the sun and 
 
 wind, 
 Nor boasted, from their tinge when 
 
 free. 
 The charm of regularity ; 
 But every feature had the power 
 To aid the expression of the hour : 
 Whether gay wit, and humour sly, 
 Danced laughing in his light-blue 
 
 eye ; 
 Or bended brow, and glance of fire, 
 And kindling cheek, spoke Erin's ire; 
 Or soft and sadden'd glances show 
 Her ready sympathy with woe ; 
 Or in that wayward mood of mind, 
 When various feelings are combined. 
 When joy and sorrow mingle near, 
 And hope's bright wings are check'd 
 
 by fear. 
 And rising doubts keep transport 
 
 down. 
 And anger lends a short-lived frown ; 
 In that strange mood which maids 
 
 approve 
 Even when they dare not call it love; 
 With every change his features play'd 
 As aspens show the light and shade. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Well Risingham young Redmond 
 
 knew : 
 And much he marvell'd that the 
 
 crew, 
 Roused to revenge bold Mortham 
 
 dead. 
 Were by that Mortham's foeman led ; 
 For never felt his soul the woe, 
 That wails a generous foeman low, 
 Far less that sense of justice strong, 
 
232 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 That wreaks a generous foeman's 
 
 wrong. 
 But small his leisure now to pause ; 
 Eedmcnd is first, whate'er the cause: 
 And twice that Eedmond came so 
 
 near 
 Where Bertram couch'd like hucated 
 
 deer, 
 The very boughs his steps displace, 
 Rustled against the ru£6ian's face, 
 Who, desperate, twice prepared to 
 
 start, 
 And plunge Lis dagger in his heart ! 
 But Bedmond turn'd a different way, 
 And the bent boughs resumed their 
 
 sway, 
 And Bertram held ib wise, unseen, 
 Deeper to plunjo in coppice green. 
 Thus, circled in his coil, the snake, 
 When roving hunters beat the brake, 
 Yv'atches wl^h red and glistening eye. 
 Prepared, it' heedless stop draw nigh, 
 \/ith forked tongue and venom'd fang 
 Instant to clait the deadly pang; 
 But ;if tho intruders turn aside, 
 /.way his coils unfolded glide, 
 And through the deep savannah wind, 
 8ome unr-ioturb'd retreat to find. 
 
 vn. 
 
 But Bertram, as ho backward drew, 
 And heard the loud pursuit renew, 
 And B-edmond's hollo on the wind. 
 Oft mutter' d in his savage mind — 
 •'Redmond O'Nealo ! were thou and I 
 Alone this days event to try, 
 With not a second hero to see. 
 But the grey cliff and oaken tree, — 
 That voice of thine, that shouts so 
 
 loud, 
 nhould ne'er repeat its summons 
 
 proud ! 
 No ! nor e'er try its melting power 
 Again in maiden's summer bower." 
 Eludes!, now behind him die, 
 Faint and more faint, each hostile 
 
 cry; 
 He stands in Scargill wood alone, 
 Nor hears ho now a harsher tone 
 Than the hoarse cushat's plaintive 
 
 cry. 
 Or Greta's sound that murmurs by; 
 
 And on the dale, so lone and wild. 
 The summer sun in quiet smiled. 
 
 vni. 
 
 He listen'd long with anxious heart, 
 Ear bent to hear, and foot to start, 
 And, while his stretch'd attention 
 
 glows, 
 Refused his weary frame repose. 
 'Twas silence all — he laid him down, 
 V/here purple heath profusely strown, 
 And throatwort, with its azure bell, 
 And moss and thyme his cushion 
 
 swell. 
 There, spent with toil, he listless 
 
 eyed 
 Tho course of Greta's playful tide; 
 Jcneath, her banks now eddying dun, 
 ITow brightly gleaming to the sun. 
 As, dancing over rock and stone. 
 In yellow light her currents shone, 
 Hatching in hue the favorite gem 
 Oi Albin's mountain-diadem. 
 Then, tired to watch the current's 
 
 lie turn'd his weary eyes away. 
 
 To whera the bank opposing show'd 
 
 Its huge, square cliffs tnrough shaggy 
 
 wood. 
 
 One, prominent above tho rest, 
 Bear'd to the sun its pale grey breast; 
 Around its broken summit grew 
 The hazel rude, and sable yew; 
 A thousand varied lichens dyed 
 Its waste and weather-beaten side, 
 And round its rugged basis lay. 
 By time or thunder rent away, 
 Fragments, that, from its frontlet 
 
 torn. 
 Were mantled now by verdant thorn. 
 Such was the scene's wild majesty, 
 That fiU'd stern Bertram's gazing 
 
 eye. 
 
 IX. 
 
 In sullen mood he lay reclined, 
 Revolving, in his stormy mind, 
 The felon deed, the fruitless guilt, 
 His patron's blood by treason spilt; 
 A crime, it seem'd, so dire and dread, 
 That it had power to wake the dead. 
 Then, pondering en hio life betray 'd 
 
ttOKEBY. 
 
 233 
 
 By Oswald's art to Kedmond's blade, 
 In treacherous purpose to withhold, 
 So seem'd it, Mortham's xjromised 
 
 gold, 
 A deep and full revenge he vow'd 
 On Eedmond, forward, fierce, and 
 
 proud; 
 Eevenge on "Wilfrid— on his sire 
 Eedoubled vengeance, swift and 
 
 dire ! — 
 If, in such mood, (as legends say, 
 And well believed that simple day,) 
 The Enemy of man has power 
 To profit by the evil hour. 
 Here stood a wretch, prepared to 
 
 change 
 His soul's redemption for revenge ! 
 But though his vows, with such a fire 
 Of earnest and intense desire 
 For vengeance dark and fell, were 
 
 made, 
 As well might reach hell's lowest 
 
 shade. 
 No deeper clouds the grove em- 
 brown' d. 
 No nether thunders shook the 
 
 ground;— 
 The demon knew his vassal's heart. 
 And spared temptation's needless art. 
 
 Oft, mingled with the direful theme, 
 Came Mortham's form — Was it a 
 
 dream ? 
 Or had he seen, in vision true. 
 That very Mortham whom he slew ? 
 Or had in living flesh appear'd 
 The^only man on earth he f ear'd ? — 
 To try the mystic cause intent, 
 His eyes, that on the cliff were bent, 
 'Counter'd at once a dazzling glance. 
 Like sunbeam flash'd from sword 
 
 or lance. 
 At once he started as for fight, 
 But not a foeman was in sight; 
 He heard the cushat's murmur 
 
 hoarse. 
 He heard the river's sounding course; 
 The solitary woodlands lay, 
 As slumbering in the summer ray. 
 He gazed, like lion roused, around, 
 Then sunk again upon the ground, 
 
 'Twas but, he thought, some fitful 
 
 beam, 
 Glanced sudden from the sparkling 
 
 stream ; 
 Then plunged him from his gloomy 
 
 train 
 Of ill-connected thoughts again, 
 Until a voice behind him cried, 
 "Bertram ! well met on Greta side.'' 
 
 XI. 
 
 Instant his sword was in his hand, 
 As instant sunk the ready brand ; 
 Yet, dubious still, opposed he stood 
 To him that issued from the wood: 
 " Guy Denzil !— is it thou ?" he said; 
 ' 'Do we two meet in Scargill shade? — 
 Stand back a space !— tUy purpose 
 
 show, 
 Whether thou comest as friend or 
 
 foe. 
 Report hath said, that Denzil's name 
 From Rokeby's band was razed with 
 
 shame." — 
 "A shame I owe that hot O'Neale, 
 Who told his knight, in peevish zeal. 
 Of my marauding on the clowns 
 Of Calverley and Bradford downs. 
 I reck not. In a war to strive, 
 Where, save the leaders, none can 
 
 thrive, " 
 Suits ill my mood; and better game 
 Awaits us both, if thou'rt the same 
 Unscrupulous, bold Eisingham, 
 Who watched with me in midnight 
 
 dark, 
 To snatch a deer from Eokeby-park. 
 How think'st thou?'— " Speak thy 
 
 purpose out; 
 I love not mystery or doubt." — 
 
 xn. 
 
 "Then,list. — Not far their lurk a crew 
 Of trusty comrades, staunch and true, 
 Glean' d from both factions— Round- 
 heads, freed 
 From cant of sermon and of creed ; 
 And Cavaliers, whose souls, like 
 
 mine, 
 Spurn at the bonds of discipline. 
 Wiser, we judge, by dale and woi 
 A warfare of our own to hold, 
 
234 
 
 SCOTT 8 POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Than breathe our last on battle- 
 down, 
 For cloak or surplice, mace or crown. 
 Our schemes are laid, our purpose 
 
 set, 
 A chief and leader lack we yet. — 
 Thou art a wanderer, it is said ; 
 For Mortham's death, thy stejjs way- 
 laid, 
 Thy head at price — so say our spies, 
 "VVho range the valley in disguise. 
 Join then with us : — though wild de- 
 bate 
 And wrangling rend our infant state, 
 Each to au equal loth to bow, 
 Will yield to chief renown'd as 
 thou."— 
 
 xni. 
 
 •*Even now,'' thought Bertram, pas- 
 
 sion-stirr'd, 
 "I caii'd en hell, and hell has heard ! 
 What lack I, vengeance to command, 
 But of stanch comrades such a band ? 
 This Denzil, vow'd to every evil, 
 Might read a lesson to the devil. 
 Well, be it so ! each knave and fool 
 Shall serve as my revenge's tool." — 
 Aloud, " I take thy proffer, Guy, 
 But tell me where thy comrades 
 
 lie?" 
 "Not far from hence," Guy Denzil 
 
 said ; 
 "Descend, and cross the river's bed, 
 Where rises yonder cliff so grey." — 
 "Do thou," said Betram, "lead the 
 
 way.'' 
 Then mutter' d, "It is best make 
 
 sure; 
 Guy Denzil's faith was never pure. " 
 He foUow'd down the deep descent, 
 Then through the Greta's streams 
 
 they went; 
 And, when they reach'd the farther 
 
 shore. 
 They stood the lonely cliff before. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 With wonder Bertram heard within 
 The flinty rock a murmur'd din ; 
 But when Guy pull'd the wilding 
 spray, 
 
 And brambles, from its base away, 
 He saw, appearing to the air, 
 A little entrance, low and square, 
 Like opening cell of hermit lone, 
 Dark, winding through the living 
 
 stone. 
 Here enter'd Denzil, Bertram here ; 
 And loud and louder on their ear, 
 As from the bowels of the earth, 
 llesounded shouts of boisterous mirth. 
 Of old, the cavern straight and rude, 
 In slatey rock the peasant hcv/'d; 
 And Brignall's woods, and Scargill's, 
 
 wave, 
 E'en now, o'er many a sister cave, 
 \Yhere, far within the darksome rift, 
 The wedge and lever ply their thrift. 
 But war had silenced rural trade. 
 And the deserted mine was made 
 The banquet-hall and fortress too. 
 Of Denzil and his desperate crew. — 
 There Guilt his anxious revel kejJt; 
 There, on his sordid pallet, slept 
 Guilt-born Excess, the goblet drain'd 
 Still in his slumbering grasp retain'd; 
 Kegret was there, his eye still cast 
 With vain repining on the past; 
 Among the f casters waited near 
 Sorrow, and unrepentant Pear, 
 And Blasphemy, to frenzy driven, 
 With his own crimes reproaching 
 
 heaven ; 
 While Bertram show'd,amid the crew, 
 The Master-Fiend that Milton drew. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Hark ! the loud revel wakes again, 
 
 To greet the leader of the train. 
 
 Behold the group by the pale lamp. 
 
 That struggles with the earthy damj^. 
 
 By what strange features Vice hatli 
 known. 
 
 To single out and mark her own ! 
 
 Yet some there are, whose brows re- 
 tain 
 
 Less deeply stamp'd her brand and 
 stain. 
 
 See yon pale stripling ! when a boy, 
 
 A mother's pride, a father's joy ! 
 
 Now, 'gainst the vault's rude walls 
 reclined, 
 
 An early image fills his mind : 
 
JiOKEBY, 
 
 285 
 
 The cottage, once his sire's, he sees, 
 Embower'd -upon the banks of Tees; 
 He views sweet Winston's woodland 
 
 scene, 
 And shares the dance on G^inford- 
 
 green. 
 A tear is springing — but the zest 
 Of some wild tale, or brutal jest. 
 Hath to loud laughter stirr'd the rest. 
 On him they call, the aptest mate 
 For jovial song and merry feat: 
 Fast flies his dream — with dauntless 
 
 air, 
 As one victorious o'er Despair, 
 He bids the ruddy cup go round. 
 Till sense and sorrow both are 
 
 drown' d: 
 And soon, in merry wassail, he, 
 The life of all their revelry, 
 Peals his loud song ! — The muse has 
 
 found 
 Her blossoms on the wildest ground, 
 'Mid noxious weeds at random 
 
 strew'd, 
 Themselves all profitless and rude. — 
 With desperate merriment he sung, 
 The cavern to the chorus rung; 
 Yet mingled with his reckless glee 
 Eemorse's bitter agony. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Song. 
 0, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green, 
 And you may gather garlands there, 
 
 Would grace a summer queen. 
 And as I rode by Dalton-hall, 
 
 Beneath the turrets high, 
 A Maiden on the castle wall 
 
 Was singing merrily, — 
 
 CHOKUS. 
 
 " 0, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
 Ajid G-reta woods are green; 
 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there, 
 Than reign our English queen.'' — 
 
 " If , Maiden, thou wouldst wend with 
 
 me, 
 To leave both tower and town, 
 Thou first must guess what life lead 
 
 we, 
 
 That dwell by dale and down ? 
 And if thou canst that riddle read, 
 
 As read full well you may, 
 Then to the greenwood shalt thou 
 speed, 
 
 As blithe as Queen of May." — 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are 
 fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green; 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there. 
 
 Than reign our English queen. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ** I read you, by your bugle-horn, 
 
 And by your palfrey good, 
 I read you for a ranger sworn. 
 
 To keep the king's greenwood." — 
 " A Ranger, lady, winds his horn. 
 
 And 'tis at peep of light; 
 His blast is heard at merry morn. 
 
 And mine at dead of night." — 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Yet sung she, '' BrignaU. banks are 
 fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are gay; 
 I would I were with Edmund there. 
 
 To reign his Queen of May ! 
 
 " With burnish'd brand and muske- 
 toon. 
 
 So gallantly you come, 
 I read you for a bold Dragoon, 
 
 That lists the tuck of drum." — 
 " I list no more the tuck of drum. 
 
 No more the trumpet hear; 
 But when the beetle sounds his hum, 
 
 My comrades take the spear. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 *'And, ! though Brignall banks be 
 fair, 
 
 And Greta woods be gay. 
 Yet mickle must the maiden dare, 
 
 Would reign my Queen of May ! 
 
 • xvin. 
 
 "Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 
 A nameless death I'll die ! 
 
 The fiend, whose lantern lights the 
 mead, 
 Were better made than I ! 
 
286 
 
 SCOTT' 8 POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And when I'm with my comrades met, 
 Beneath the greenwood bough, 
 
 "What once we were we all forget, 
 Nor think what we are now. 
 
 CHOBUS. 
 
 "Yet Brignall banks are fresh and 
 fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green. 
 And you may gather garlands there 
 
 Would grace a summer queen." 
 
 When Edmund ceased his simple 
 
 ^ong, 
 Was silence on the sullen throng, 
 Till waked some ruder mate their glee 
 With note of coarser minstrelsy. 
 But, far apart, in dark divan, 
 Denzil and Bertram many a plan, 
 Of import foul and fierce, design'd. 
 While still on Bertram's grasping 
 
 mind 
 The wealth of murder'd Mortham 
 
 hung; 
 Though half he fear'd his daring 
 
 tongue, 
 When it should give his wishes birth, 
 Might raise a spectre from the earth ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 At length his wondrous tale he told : 
 When, scornful, smiled his comrade 
 
 bold; 
 For, train'd in license of a court. 
 Religion's self was Denzil's sport; 
 Then judge in what contempt he held 
 The visionary tales of eld ! 
 His awe for Bertram scarce repress 'd 
 The unbeliever's sneering jest. 
 *' 'Twere hard," he said, "for sage or 
 
 seer 
 To spell the subject of your fear; 
 Nor do I boast the art renown'd, 
 Vision and omen to expound. 
 Yet, faith if I must needs afford 
 To spectre watching treasured hoard, 
 As bandog keeps his master's roof. 
 Bidding the plunderer stand aloof, 
 This doubt remains — thy goblin 
 
 gaunt 
 Hath chosen ill his ghostly haunt ; 
 For why his guard on Mortham hold, 
 When Rokeby castle hath the gold 
 
 Thy patron won on Indian soil. 
 By stealth, by piracy, and spoil ?" 
 
 XX. 
 
 At this he paused — for angry shame 
 Lower'd on the brow of Risingham. 
 He blush'd to think, that he should 
 
 seem 
 Assertor of an airy dream. 
 And gave his wrath another theme. 
 "Denzil," he says, "though lowly 
 
 laid. 
 Wrong not the memory of the dead; 
 For, while he lived, at Mortham's look 
 Thy very soul, Guy Denzil, shook ! 
 And when he tax'd thy breach of word 
 To yon fair Rose of AUenford, 
 Isawthee crouch likechasten'dhound. 
 Whose back the huntsman's lash hath 
 
 found. 
 Nor dare to call his foreign wealth 
 The spoil of piracy or stealth ; 
 He won it bravely with his brand, 
 When Spain waged warfare with our 
 
 land, 
 Mark, too— I brook no idle jeer, 
 Nor couple Bertram's name with fear; 
 Mine is but half the demon's lot. 
 For I believe, but tremble not. — 
 Enough of this. — Say, why this hoard 
 Thou deem'st at Rokeby castle stored; 
 Or think'st that Mortham would be- 
 stow 
 His treasure with his faction's foe ?" 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Soon quench'd was Denzil's ill-timed 
 
 mirth ; 
 Rather he would have seen the earth 
 Give to ten thousand spectres birth, 
 Than venture to awake to flame \ 
 The deadly wrath of Risingham. 
 Submiss he answer'd, — "Mortham's 
 
 mind, 
 Thou*know'st, to joy was iU inclined. 
 In youth, 'tis said, a gallant free, 
 A lusty reveller was he; 
 But since return'd from over sea, 
 A sullen and a silent mood 
 Hath numb'd the current of his blood. 
 Hence he refused each kindly call 
 To Rokeby 's hospitable haU, 
 
nOKEBT. 
 
 2S7 
 
 And our stout knight, at dawn of 
 
 morn 
 Who loved to hear the bugle-horn, 
 Nor less, when eve his oaks em- 
 brown' d, 
 To see the ruddy cup go round, 
 Took umbrage that a friend so near 
 Refused to share his chase and cheer; 
 Thus did the kindred barons jar, 
 Ere they divided in the war. 
 Yet, trust me, friend, Matilda fair 
 Of Mortham's wealth is destined heir. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 "Destined to her ! to yon slight maid ! 
 The prize my life had wellnigh paid, 
 When 'gainst Laroche, by Cayo's 
 
 wave, 
 I fought, my patron's wealth to save ! 
 Denzil, I knew him long, yet ne'er 
 Knew him that joyous cavalier, 
 Whom youthful friends and early 
 
 fame 
 Call'd soul of gallantry and game. 
 A moody man, he sought our crew, 
 Desperate and dark, whom no one 
 
 knew; 
 And rose, as men with us must rise, 
 ] >y scorning life and all its ties. 
 On each adventure rash he roved. 
 As danger for itself he loved; 
 On his sad brow nor mirth nor wine 
 Could e'er one wrinkled knot untwine ; 
 Dl was the omen if he smiled, 
 For 'twas in peril stern and wild ; 
 But when he laugh'd, each luckless 
 
 mate 
 Might hold our fortune desperate. 
 Foremost he fought in every broil, 
 Then scornful turned him from the 
 
 spoil ; 
 Nay, often strove to bar the way 
 Between his comrades and their prey; 
 Preaching, even then, to such as we. 
 Hot with our dear-bought victory, 
 Of mercy and humanity. 
 
 xxni. 
 
 "I loved him well — His fearless part. 
 His gallant leading, won my heart. 
 And after each victorious fight, 
 
 *Twas I that wrangled for his right, 
 liedeem'd his portion of the prey 
 That greedier mates had torn away: 
 In field and storm thrice saved his 
 
 life. 
 And once amid our comrades' strife. — 
 Yes, I have loved thee ! Well hath 
 
 proved 
 My toil, my danger, how I loved ! 
 Yet will I mourn no more thy fate, 
 Ingrate in life, in death ingrate, 
 Eise if thou canst !" he look'd around, 
 And sternly stamp'd upon the 
 
 ground — 
 "Eise, with thy bearing proud and 
 
 high, 
 Even as this morn it met mine eye, 
 And give me, if thou darest, the lie !" 
 He paused — then, calm and passion- 
 freed, 
 Bade Denzil with his tale proceed. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 "Bertram, to thee I need not tell. 
 What thou hast caused to wot so well, 
 How Superstition's nets were twined 
 Around the Lord of MorthEim's mind ! 
 But since he drove thee from his 
 
 tower, 
 A maid he found in Greta's bower, 
 Whose speech, like David's harp, had 
 
 sway, 
 To charm his evil fiend away. 
 I know not if her features moved 
 Eemembrance of the wife he loved; 
 But he would gaze upon her eye. 
 Till his mood soften'd to a sigh. 
 He, whom no living mortal sought 
 To question of his secret thought. 
 Now every thought and care con- 
 
 fess'd 
 To his fair niece's faithful breast; 
 Nor was there aught of rich and rare, 
 In earth, in ocean, or in air. 
 But it must deck Matilda's hair. 
 Her love still bound him unto life ; 
 But then awoke the civil strife. 
 And menial bore, by his commands, 
 Three coffers, with their iron bands, 
 From Mortham's vault, at midnight 
 
 deep. 
 To her lone bower in Rokeby-Keep, 
 
238 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 Ponderous with gold and plate of 
 
 pride, 
 His gift, if he in battle died."— 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Then, Denzil, as I guess, lays train, 
 These iron-banded chests to gain ; 
 Else, wherefore should he hover 
 
 here, 
 Where many a peril waits him near, 
 For all his feats of war and peace, 
 For plunder'd boors, and harts of 
 
 grease ? 
 Since through the hamlets as he 
 
 fared, 
 "What hearth has Guy's marauding 
 
 spared, 
 Or where the chase that hath not 
 
 rung 
 "With Denzil's bow, at midnight 
 
 strung ?' — 
 " I hold my wont — my rangers go, 
 Even now to track a milk-white doe. 
 By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair. 
 In Greta wood she harbours fair, 
 And when my huntsman marks her 
 
 way, 
 "What think'st thou, Bertram, of the 
 
 prey? 
 "Were Rokeby's daughter in our pow- 
 er, 
 We rate her ransom at her dower." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 "'Tis well ! — there's vengeance in the 
 
 thought, 
 Matilda is by Wilfrid sought; 
 And hot-brain'd lledmoiid, too, 'tis 
 
 said. 
 Pays lover's homage to the maid. 
 Bertram she scorn'd — If met by 
 
 chance. 
 She turn'd from me her shuddering 
 
 glance, 
 Like a nice dame, tha,t will not 
 
 brook 
 On what she hates and loathes to look ; 
 She told to Mortham she could ne'er 
 Behold me without secret fear, 
 Foreboding evil ; - She may rue 
 To find her prophecy fnll true ! — 
 The war has weeded Eokeby's train, 
 
 Few followers in his halls remain; 
 If thy scheme miss, then, brief and 
 
 bold, 
 "We are enow to storm the hold; 
 Bear off the plunder, and the dame, 
 And leave the castle all in flame." — 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 "StiU art thou Valour's venturous 
 
 son ! 
 Yet ponder first the risk to run : 
 The menials of the castle, true, 
 And stubborn to their charge, though 
 
 few; 
 The w all to scale — the moat to cross — 
 The wicket-grate — the inner fosse." — ■ 
 — "Fool ! if we blench for toys Illce 
 
 these, 
 On what fair guerdon can we seize ? 
 Our hardiest venture, to explore 
 Some wretched peasant's fenceless 
 
 door, 
 And the best prize wo bear away. 
 The earnings of his sordid day." — 
 " A while thy hasty taunt forbear : 
 In sight of road more sure and fair, 
 Thou wouldst not choose, in blind- 
 fold wrath, 
 Or wantonness, a desperate path ? 
 List, then; — for vantage or assault. 
 From gilded vane to dungeon-vault, 
 Each pass of Hokeby-house I know : 
 There is one postern, dark and low, 
 That issues at a secret spot. 
 By most neglected or forgot. 
 Now, could a spial of our train 
 On fair pretext admittance gain, 
 That sally-port might be unbarr'd : 
 Then, vain were battlement and 
 ward!" — 
 
 xxvni. 
 
 "Now speak'st thou well: — to me the 
 
 same, 
 If force or art shall urge the gam^; 
 Indifferent, if like fox I wind, 
 Or spring like tiger on the hind.--- 
 But, bark ! our merry-men so gay 
 Troll forth another roundelay." — 
 
 Song. 
 
 " A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 
 A weary lot is thine ! 
 
ROKEBT. 
 
 239 
 
 To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 
 And press the rue for wine ! 
 
 A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 
 A feather of the blue, 
 
 A doublet of the Lincoln green, — 
 No more of me you knew, 
 
 My love I 
 
 No more of me you knew. 
 
 *' This morn is merry June, I trow, 
 
 The rose is budding fain ; 
 But she shall bloom in winter snow. 
 
 Ere we two meet again." 
 He turn'd his charger as he spake, 
 
 Upon the river shore, 
 He gave his bridle-reins a shake. 
 
 Said, " Adieu for evermore. 
 
 My love ! 
 And adieu for evermore." — 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 "What youth is this, your band 
 
 among, 
 The best for minstrelsy and song 
 In his wild notes seem aptly met 
 A strain of pleasure and regret." — 
 "Edmund of Winston is his name; 
 The hamlet sounded with the fame 
 Of early hopes his childhood gave, — 
 Now center'd all in Brignall cave \ 
 I watch him well — his wayward course 
 Shows oft a tincture of remorse. 
 Some early love-shaft grazed his 
 
 heart, 
 And oft the scar will ache and smart. 
 Yet is he useful; — of the rest, 
 But fits, the darling and the jest. 
 His harp, his story, and his lay. 
 Oft aid the idle hours away. 
 When unemploy'd, each fiery mate 
 Is ripe for mutinous debate. 
 He tuned his strings e'en now — again 
 He wakes them, with a blither strain." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Song. 
 
 AIxLEN-A-DALE. 
 
 Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 
 Allen -a-Dale has no furrow for turn- 
 ing. 
 Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the 
 spinning. 
 
 Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the 
 winning. 
 
 Come, read me my riddle! come, 
 hearken my tale ! 
 
 And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a- 
 Dale. 
 
 The Baron of Kavensworth* prances 
 in pride. 
 
 And he views his domains upon Ar- 
 kindale side, 
 
 The mere for his net, and the land 
 for his game. 
 
 The chase for the wild, and the park 
 for the tame, 
 
 Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer 
 of the vale, 
 
 Are less free to Lord Dacre than Al- 
 len-a-Dale ! 
 
 Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a 
 knight, 
 
 Though his spur be as sharp, and 
 his blade be as bright ; 
 
 Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord. 
 
 Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at 
 his word; 
 
 And the best of our nobles his bon- 
 net will vail, 
 
 Who at Kere-cross on Stanmore 
 meets Allen-a-Dale. 
 
 Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; 
 
 The mother, she ask'd of his house- 
 hold and home: 
 
 "Though the castle of Eichmond 
 stand fair on the hill, 
 
 My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows 
 gallanter still ; 
 
 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its 
 crescent so pale, 
 
 And with all its bright spangles ! " 
 said Allen-a-Dale. 
 
 The father was steel, and the mother 
 
 was stone; 
 They lifted the latch, and they bade 
 
 him begone ; 
 
 * The ruins of EavensworUi Castle stand 
 i 1 the North Hiding- of Yorksliiie, ubout three 
 miles from the town of Eichmond. and ad- 
 joinint^ to the waste culled tlio Forest of 
 Arkinjrarth. It belonged originally to the 
 powerful family of Fitz-Hugh, from whom it 
 passed to the Lords Dacre of the South. 
 
240 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 But loud, on the morrow, their wail 
 
 and their cry : 
 He had laugh'd on the lass with his 
 
 bonny black eye. 
 And she fled to the forest to hear a 
 
 love tale, 
 And the youth it was told by was 
 
 AUen-a-Dale ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 ' 'Thou see'st that, whether sad or gay, 
 Love mingles ever in his lay. 
 But when his boyish wayward fit 
 Is o'er, he hath address and wit; 
 
 ! 'tis a brain of fire, can ape 
 Each dialect, each various shape." 
 
 " Nay, then, to aid thy project, Guy — 
 Soft ! who comes here?"— "My trusty 
 
 spy. 
 
 Speak, Hamlin ! hast thou lodged our 
 
 deer ?" — 
 •* I have — but two fair stags are near. 
 
 1 watch'd her, as she slowly stray'd 
 From Egliston up Thorsgill glade ; 
 But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side, 
 And then young Kedmond, in his 
 
 pride, 
 Shot down to meet them on their way : 
 Much, as it seem'd, was theirs to say: 
 There's time to pitch both toil and 
 
 net. 
 Before their path be homeward set." 
 A hurried and a whisper' d speech 
 Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach; 
 Who, turning to the robber band. 
 Bade four, the bravest, take the brand. 
 
 CANTO FOUETH. 
 I. 
 
 When Denmark's raven soar'd on 
 
 high, 
 Triumphant through Northumbrian 
 
 sky. 
 Till, hovering near, her fatal croak 
 BadeReged's Britons dread the yoke, 
 And the broad shadow of her wing 
 Blacken'd each cataract and spring, 
 Where Tees in tumult leaves his 
 
 source, 
 Thundering o'er Caldron and High- 
 Force: 
 
 Beneath the shade the Northmen 
 
 came, 
 Fix'd on each vale a Runic name, 
 Rear'd high their altar's rugged stone. 
 And gave their Gods the land they 
 
 won. 
 Then, Balder, one bleak garth was 
 
 thine. 
 And one sweet brooklet's silver line, 
 And Woden's Croft did title gain 
 From the stern Father of the Slain; 
 But to the Monarch of the Mace, 
 That held in fight the foremost place. 
 To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse. 
 Near Stratforth high they paid their 
 
 vows, 
 Remember'd Thor's victorious fame. 
 And gave the dell the Thunderer's 
 
 name. 
 
 n. 
 
 Yet Scald or Kemper err'd, I ween. 
 Who gave that soft and quiet scene. 
 With all its varied light and shade. 
 And every little sunny glade. 
 And the blithe brook that strolls 
 
 along 
 Its pebbled bed with summer song. 
 To the grim God of blood and scar, 
 The grizzly King of Northern War. 
 O, better were its banks assign'd 
 To spirits of a gentler kind ! 
 For where the thicket groups recede, 
 And the rath primrose decks the 
 
 mead. 
 The velvet grass seems carpet meet 
 For the light fairies' lively feet. 
 Yon tufted knoll, with daisies strown. 
 Might ma-ke proud Oberon a throne. 
 While, hidden in the thicket nigh. 
 Puck should brood o'er his frolic sly; 
 And where profuse the wood-vetch 
 
 clings 
 Round ash and elm, in verdant rings, 
 Its pale and azure-pen cill'd flower 
 Should canopy Titania's bower. 
 
 m. 
 
 Here rise no clifis the vale to shade; 
 But, skirting every sunny glade. 
 In fair variety of green 
 The woodland lends its silvan screen. 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 241 
 
 Hoary, yet haughty, frowns the oak, 
 Its boughs by -weight of ages broke; 
 And towers erect, in sable spire, 
 The pine-tree scathed by lightning 
 
 fire; 
 The drooping ash and birch, be- 
 tween, 
 Hang their fair tresses o'er the green, 
 And all beneath, at random grow 
 Each coppice dwarf of varied show, 
 Or, round the stems profusely twined, 
 Fling summer odours on the wind. 
 Such varied group Urbino's hand 
 Bound Him of Tarsus nobly plann'd, 
 What time he bade proud Athens 
 
 own 
 On Mars's Mount the God unknown ! 
 Then grey Philosophy stood nigh, 
 Though bent by age, in spirit high : 
 Then rose the scar-seam'd veteran's 
 
 spear. 
 There Grecian Beauty bent to hear. 
 While Childhood at her foot was 
 
 placed, 
 Or clung delighted to her waist. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "And rest we here," Matilda said, 
 And sat her in the varying shade. 
 "Chance-met, we well may steal an 
 
 hour, 
 To friendship due, from fortune's 
 
 power. 
 Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend 
 Thy counsel to thy sister-friend ; 
 And, Eedmond, thou, at my behest. 
 No farther urge thy desperate 'quest. 
 For to my care a charge is left, 
 Dangerous to one of aid bereft; 
 Wellnigh an orphan, and alone. 
 Captive her sire, her house o'er- 
 
 thrown." 
 Wilfrid, with wonted kindness 
 
 graced, 
 Beside her on the turf she placed ; 
 Then paused, with downcast look 
 
 and eye, 
 Nor bade young Eedmond seat him 
 
 nigh. 
 Her conscious diffidence he saw. 
 Drew backward, as in modest awe, 
 
 And sat a little space removed, 
 Unmark'd to gaze on her he loved, 
 
 V. 
 
 Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, 
 
 her hair 
 Half hid Matilda's forehead fair. 
 Half hid and half reveal'd to view 
 Her full dark eye of hazel hue. 
 The rose, with faint and feeble 
 
 streak. 
 So slightly tinged the maiden's 
 
 cheek. 
 That you had said her hue was pale; 
 But if she faced the summer gale. 
 Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved, 
 Or heard the praise of those she 
 
 loved. 
 Or when of interest was express'd 
 Aught that waked feeling in her 
 
 breast, 
 The mantling blood in ready play 
 Rivall'd the blush of rising day. 
 There was a soft and pensive grace, 
 A cast of thought upon her face. 
 That suited well the forehead high, 
 The eyelash dark, and downcast eye; 
 The mild expression spoke a mind 
 In duty firm, composed, resign'd; 
 'Tis that which Koman art has given. 
 To mark their maiden Queen of 
 
 Heaven. 
 In hours of sport, that mood gave 
 
 way 
 To Fancy's light and frolic play ; 
 And when the dance, or tale, or song. 
 In harmless mirth sped time along. 
 Full oft her doating sire would call 
 His Maud the merriest of them all. 
 But days of war and civil crime, 
 AUow'd but ill such festal time, 
 And her soft pensiveness of brow 
 Had deepen'd into sadness now. 
 In Marston field her father ta'en, 
 Her friends dispersed, brave Mor- 
 
 tham slain. 
 While every ill her soul foretold, 
 From Oswald's thirst of power and 
 
 gold, 
 And boding thoughts that she must 
 
 part 
 With a soft vision of her heart, — 
 
242 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOEKS. 
 
 All lower'd around the lovely maid, 
 To darken her dejection's shade. 
 
 VI. ' 
 
 Who has not heard — while Erin yet 
 Strove Against the Saxon's iron bit — 
 Who has not heard how brave 
 
 O'Neale 
 In English blood imbrued his steel, 
 Against St. George's cross blazed 
 
 high 
 The banners of his Tanistry, 
 To fiery Essex gave the foil, 
 And reign'd a prince on Ulster's soil ? 
 But chief arose his victor pride, 
 When that brave Marshal fought and 
 
 died, 
 And Avon-Duff to ocean bore 
 His billows red with Saxon gore. 
 'Twas first in that disastrous fight, 
 Eokeby and Mortham, proved their 
 
 might. 
 There had they fallen 'mongst the 
 
 rest. 
 But pity touch'd a chieftain's breast; 
 The Tanist he to great O'Neale; 
 He check 'd his followers' bloody zeal, 
 To quarter took the kinsmen bold, 
 And bore them to his mountain-hold, 
 Gave them each silvan joy to know, 
 Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods could 
 
 show, 
 Shared with them Erin's festal cheer, 
 Show'd them the chase of wolf and 
 
 deer. 
 And, when a fitting time was come, 
 Safe and unransom'd sent them 
 
 home, 
 Loaded with many a gift, to prove 
 A generous foe's respect and love. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Years speed away. On Bokeby's head 
 Some touch of early snow was shed; 
 Calm he enjoy'd, by Greta's wave, 
 The peace which James the Peaceful 
 
 gave, 
 While Mortham, far beyond the 
 
 main, 
 Waged his fierce wars on Indian 
 
 Spain, — 
 It chanced upon a wintry night, 
 
 That whiten'd Stanmore's stormy 
 
 height, 
 The chase was o'er, the stag was kill'd, 
 In Eokeby hall the cup were fiU'd, 
 And by the huge stone chimney sate 
 The Knight in hospitable state. 
 Moonless the sky, the hour was late, 
 When a loud summons shook the gate, 
 And sore for entrance and for aid 
 A voice of foreign accent pray'd. 
 The porter answer'd to the call, 
 And instant rushed into the hall 
 A Man, whose aspect and attire 
 Startled the circle by the fire. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 His plaited hair in elf-locks spread 
 Around his bare and matted head; 
 On leg and thigh, close stretch'd and 
 
 trim, 
 His vesture show'd the sinewy limb ; 
 In saffron dyed, a linen vest 
 Was frequent folded round his breast; 
 A mantle long and loose he wore. 
 Shaggy with ice, and stain'd with 
 
 gore. 
 He clasp'd a burden to his heart. 
 And, resting on a knotted dart, 
 The snow from hair and beard he 
 
 shook, 
 And round him gazed with wilder'd 
 
 look. 
 Then up the hall, with staggering 
 
 pace. 
 He hastened by the blaze to place, 
 Half lifeless from the bitter air, 
 His load, a Boy of beauty rare. 
 To Eokeby, next, he louted low. 
 Then stood erect his tale to show, 
 With wild majestic port and tone. 
 Like envoy of some barbarous throne. 
 * ' Sir Ei chard. Lord of Eokeby, hear! 
 Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear; 
 He graces thee, and to thy care 
 Young Eedmond gives, his grandson 
 
 fair. 
 He bids thee breed him as thy son, 
 Eor Turlough's days of joy are done; 
 And other lords have seized his land, 
 And faint and feeble is his hand; 
 And all the glory of Tyrone 
 Is like a morning vapour flown. 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 243 
 
 To bind the duty on thy soul, 
 He bids thee think on Erin's bowl ! 
 If any wrong the young O'Neale, 
 He bids thee think of Erin's steel. 
 To Mortham firstthis charge was due, 
 But, in his absence, honours you. — 
 Now is my master's message by. 
 And Ferraught will contented die. 
 
 • IX. 
 
 His look grew fix'd, his cheek grew 
 
 pale, 
 He sunk when he had told his tale; 
 For, hid beneath his mantle wide, 
 A mortal wound was in his side. 
 Vain was all aid — in terror wild, 
 And sorrow, scream'd the orphan 
 
 Child. 
 Poor Ferraught raised his wistful 
 
 eyes. 
 And faintly strove to soothe his cries; 
 All reckless of his dying pain, 
 He blest and blest him o'er again ! 
 And kiss'd the little hands outspread, 
 And kiss'd and cross'd the infant 
 
 head, 
 And, in his native tongue and phrase, 
 Pray'd to each Saint to watch his 
 
 days; 
 Then all his strength together drew. 
 The chargo to Kokeby to renew. 
 VV^hen half was falter'd from his 
 
 breast, 
 And half by dying signs express 'd, 
 " Bless the O'Neale !" he faintly said, 
 And thus the faithful spirit fled. 
 
 X. 
 
 'Twas long ere soothing might prevail 
 Upon the Child to end the tale; 
 And then he said, that from his home 
 His grandsire had been forced to 
 
 roam, 
 Which had not been if Redmond's 
 
 hand 
 Had but had strength to draw the 
 
 brand, 
 The brand of Lenaugh More the Red, 
 That hung beside the grey wolf's 
 
 head. — 
 'Twas from his broken phrase des- 
 cried. 
 
 His foster-father was his guide. 
 Who, in his charge, from Ulster bore 
 Letters and gifts a goodly store: 
 But ruffians met them in the wood, 
 Ferraught in battle boldly stood, 
 Till wounded and o'erpower'd at 
 
 length. 
 And stripp'd of all, his failing 
 
 strength 
 Just bore him here — and then the 
 
 child 
 Renew'd again his moaning wild. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The tear down childhood's cheek 
 
 that flows. 
 Is like the dewdrop on the rose; 
 When next the summer breeze comes 
 
 ty, 
 
 And waves the bush, the flower is dry. 
 Won by their care, the orphan Child 
 Soon on his new protector smiled, 
 With dimpled cheek and eye so fair, 
 Througli his thick curls of flaxen hair. 
 But blithest laugh' d that cheek and 
 
 eye, 
 When Eokeby's little Maid was nigh; 
 'Twas his, with elder brother's pride, 
 Matilda's tottering steps to guide; 
 His native lays in Irish tongue, 
 To soothe her infant ear he sung. 
 And primrose twined with daisy fair, 
 To form a chaplet for her hair. 
 By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's 
 
 strand. 
 The children still were hand in hand, 
 And good Sir Eichard smiling eyed 
 The early knot so kindly tied. 
 
 xn. 
 
 But summer months bring wilding 
 
 shoot 
 From bud to bloom, from bloom to 
 
 fruit ; 
 And years draw on our human span, 
 From child to boy, from boy to man; 
 And soon in Eokeby's woods is seen 
 A gallant boy in hunter's green. 
 He loves to wake the felon boar. 
 In his dark haunt on Greta's shore, • 
 And loves, against the deer so dun, 
 To draw the shaft, or lift the gun, 
 
214 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Yet more lie loves, in autumn prime, 
 The hazel's spreading boughs to 
 
 climb, 
 And down its cluster'd stores to hail, 
 Where young Matilda holds her veil. 
 And she, whose veil receives the 
 
 shower, 
 Is alter'd too, and knows her power; 
 Assumes a monitress's pride, 
 Her Kedmond's dangerous sports to 
 
 chide; 
 Yet listens still to hear him tell 
 How the grim wild-boar fought and 
 
 fell, 
 How at his fall the bugle rung, 
 Till rock and greenwood answer 
 
 flung; 
 Then blesses her, that man can find 
 A pastime of such savage kind ! 
 
 xin. 
 
 But Kedmond knew to weave his tale 
 So well with praise of wood and dale, 
 And knew so well each point to trace. 
 Gives living interest to the chase, 
 And knew so well o'er all to throw 
 His spirit's wild romantic glow. 
 That, while she blamed, and while 
 
 she fear'd, 
 She loved each venturous tale she 
 
 heard. 
 Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain 
 To bower and hall their steps re- 
 strain. 
 Together they explored the page 
 Of glowing bard or gifted sage: 
 Oft, placed the evening fire beside. 
 The minstrel art alternate tried, 
 While gladsome harp and lively lay 
 Bade winter night flit fast away: 
 Thus, from their childhood, blending 
 
 still 
 Their sport, their study, and their 
 
 skill. 
 An union of the soul they prove. 
 But must not think that it was love. 
 But though they dared not, envious 
 
 Fame 
 Soon dared to give that union name; 
 And when so often, side by side, 
 From year to year the pair she eyed, 
 
 She sometimes blamed the good old 
 
 Knight, 
 As dull of ear and dim of sight, 
 Sometimes his purpose would declare, 
 That young O'Neale should wed his 
 
 heir. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise 
 And bandage from the lovers' eyes; 
 'Twas plain that Oswald, for his son, 
 Had Bokeby's favour well nigh won. 
 Now must they meet with change of 
 
 cheer, 
 With mutual looks of shame and fear; 
 Now must Matilda stray apart, 
 To school her disobedient heart: 
 And Kedmond now alone must rue 
 The love he never can subdue. 
 But factions rose, and Bokeby sware 
 No rebel's son should wed his heir; 
 And Bedmond, nurtured while a 
 
 child 
 In many a bard's traditions wild, 
 Now sought the lonely wood or 
 
 stream. 
 To cherish there a happier dream, 
 Of maid en won by sword or lance. 
 As in the regions of romance; 
 And count the heroes of his line. 
 Great Nial of the Pledges Nine, 
 'jhane-Dymas wild, and Geraldine, 
 And Connan-more, who vowed his 
 
 race, 
 For ever to the fight and chase, 
 And cursed him, of his lineage born, 
 Should sheath thesword to reap the 
 
 corn. 
 Or leave the mountain and the wold, 
 To shroud himself in castled hold. 
 From such examples hope he drew, 
 And brighten'd as the trumpet blev/. 
 
 XV. 
 
 If brides were won by heart and 
 
 blade, 
 Bedmond had both his cause to aid, 
 And all beside of nurture rare 
 That might beseem a baron's heir. 
 Turlough O'Neale, in Erin's strife, 
 On Bokeby's Lord bestow'd his life, 
 And well did Bokeby's generous 
 
 Knight 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 Young Bedmond for the deed requite. 
 Nor was his liberal care and cost 
 Upon the gallant stripling lost; 
 ►Seek the North-Riding broad and 
 
 wide, 
 Like Redmond none could steed be- 
 stride; 
 From Tynemouth search to Cumber- 
 land, 
 Like Redmond none could wield a 
 
 brand ; 
 And then, of humour kind and free, 
 And bearing him to each degree 
 With frank and fearless courtesy, 
 There never youth was form'd to steal 
 Upon the heart like brave O'Neale. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Sir Richard loved him as his son; 
 And when the days of peace were 
 
 done, 
 And to the gales of v/ar he gave 
 The banner of his sires to v/ave, 
 Redmond, distinguish'd by his care, 
 He chose that honour'd flag to bear, 
 And named his page, the next degree, 
 In that old time, to chivalry. 
 In five pitch' d fields he well main- 
 
 tain'd 
 The honour'd place his worth ob- 
 
 tain'd, 
 And high was Redmond's youthful 
 
 name 
 Blazed in the roll of martial fame. 
 Had fortune smiled on Marston fight, 
 The eve had seen him dubb'd a knight ; 
 Twice, 'mid the battle's doubtful 
 
 strife. 
 Of Rokeby's Lord he saved the life. 
 But when he saw him prisoner made. 
 He kiss'd and then resign'd his blade, 
 And yielded him an cany prey 
 To those who led the Knight away; 
 Resolved Matilda's sire should jDrove 
 In prison, as in fight, his love. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 When lovers meet in adverse hour, 
 'Tis like a sun-glimpse through a 
 
 shower, 
 A watery ray, an instant seen 
 The darkly closing clouds between. 
 
 As Redmond on the turf reclined. 
 The past and present fiU'd bis mind: 
 " It was not thus," Affection said, 
 "I dream 'd of my return, dear maid! 
 Not thus, when from thy trembling 
 
 hand, 
 I took the banner and the brand, 
 Y/hen round me, as the bugJes blew, 
 Their blades three hundred warriors 
 
 drew, 
 And, while the standard I unroU'd, 
 Clash'd their bright arms, with clam- 
 our bold. 
 Where is that banner now ? — its pride 
 Lies 'whelm'd in Ouse's sullen tide ! 
 Where now these warriors ? — in their 
 
 gore, 
 They cumber Marston 's dismal moor! 
 And what avails a useless brand, 
 Held by a captive's shackled hand. 
 That only would his life retain, 
 To aid thy sire to bear his chain !" 
 Thus Redmond to himself apart; 
 Nor lighter was his rival's heart; 
 For Wilfrid, while his generous soul 
 Disdain'd to profit by control. 
 By many a sign could mark too plain. 
 Save with such aid, his hopes were 
 
 vain. — 
 But now Matilda's accents stole 
 On the dark visions of their soul, 
 And bade their mournful musing fly. 
 Like mist before the zephyr's sigh. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " I need not to my friends recall. 
 How Mortham shunn'd my father's 
 
 hall; 
 A man of silence and of woe. 
 Yet ever anxious to bestow 
 On my poor self whate'er could prove 
 A kinsman's confidence and love. 
 Ily feeble aid could sometimes chase 
 The clouds of sorrow for a space : 
 But oftener, fix'd beyond my pov/er, 
 I mark'd his deep despondence 
 
 lower. 
 One dismal cause, by all unguess'd, 
 nis fearful confidence confess'd; 
 And twice it was my hap to see 
 Examples of that agony, 
 V/hich for a season can o'erstrain 
 
246 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And wreck the structure of the brain. 
 He had the awful power to know 
 The approaching mental overthrow, 
 And while his mind had courage yet 
 To struggle with the dreadful fit, 
 The -victim writhed against its throes, 
 Like wretch beneath a murderer's 
 
 blows. 
 This malady, I well could mark, 
 Sprung from some direful cause and 
 
 dark ; 
 But still he kept its source conceal'd, 
 Till arming for the civil field; 
 Then in my charge he bade me hold 
 A treasure huge of gems and gold, 
 With this disjointed dismal scroll, 
 That tells the secret of his soul, 
 In such wild words as oft betray 
 A mind by anguish forced astray." — 
 
 XIX. 
 
 moktham's histokt, 
 
 " Matilda ! thou hast seen me start, 
 As if a dagger thrill'd my heart, 
 When it has hap'd some casual 
 
 phrase 
 Waked memory of my former days. 
 Believe, that few can backward cast 
 Their thoughts with pleasure on the 
 
 past; 
 But I ! — my youth was rash and vain, 
 And blood and rage my manhood 
 
 stain. 
 And my r;rey hairs must now de- 
 scend 
 "'o my cold grave without a friend ! 
 Even thou, Matilda, will disown 
 Thy kinsman, when his guilt is 
 
 known. 
 And must I lift the bloody veil. 
 That hides my dark and fatal talc ! 
 I must — I will — Pale phantom, cease! 
 Leave me one little hour in peace ! 
 Thus haunted, think'st thou I have 
 
 skill 
 Thine own commission to fulfil? 
 Or, while thou jjoint'st with gesture 
 
 fierce. 
 Thy blighted cheek, thy bloody 
 
 hearse. 
 How can I paint thee as thou wert, 
 So fair in face, so warm in heart ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 "Yes, she was fair !— Matilda, thou 
 Hast a soft sadness on thy brow; 
 But hers was like the sunny glow. 
 That laughs on earth and all below ! . 
 We wedded secret — there was need — 
 DifEering in country and in creed; 
 And, when to Mortham's tower she 
 
 came. 
 We mentioned not her race and name, 
 Until thy sire, who fought afar. 
 Should turn him home from foreign 
 
 war, 
 On whose kind influence we relied 
 To soothe her father's ire and pride. 
 Few months we lived retired, un- 
 known, 
 To all but one dear friend alone, 
 One darling friend — I spare his 
 
 shame, 
 I will not write the villain's name ! 
 My trespasses I might forget, 
 And sue in vengeance for the debt 
 Due by a brother worm to me, 
 Ungrateful to God's clemency, 
 That spared me penitential time. 
 Nor cut me off amid my crime. — 
 
 XXI. 
 
 ' ' A kindly smile to all she lent. 
 But on her husband's friend 'twas 
 
 bent 
 So kind, that from its harmless glee, 
 The wretch misconstrued villany. 
 Kepulsed in his presumptuous love, 
 A vengeful snare the traitor wove. 
 Alone we sat — the flask had flow'd, 
 My blood with heat unwonted glow'd. 
 When through the alley'd walk we 
 
 spied 
 With hurried step my Edith glide, 
 Cov/ering beneath the verdant screen, 
 As one unwilling to be seen. 
 Words cannot paint the fiendish 
 
 smile, 
 That curi'd the traitor's cheek the 
 
 while ! 
 Fiercely I question'd of the cause; 
 He made a cold and artful pause, 
 Then pray'd it might not chafe my 
 
 mood — 
 ' There was a gallant in the wood !' 
 
ROKEBT. 
 
 247 
 
 We had been sliooting at tlie deer; 
 My cross-bow (evil chance!) was near: 
 That ready weapon of my wrath 
 I caught, and, hasting np the path, 
 In the yew grove my wife I found, 
 A stranger's arms her neck had 
 
 bound ! 
 I mark'd his heart — the bow I drew — 
 I loosed the shaft — 'twas more than 
 
 true ! 
 I found my Edith's dying charms 
 Lock'd in her murder" d brother's 
 
 armsl 
 He came in secret to enquire 
 Her state, and reconcile her sire. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 "All fled my rage — the villain first, 
 Whose craft my jealousy had nursed; 
 Pie sought in far and foreign clime 
 To 'scape the vengeance of his crime. 
 The manner of the slaughter done 
 Was known to few, my guilt to none; 
 Some tale my faithful steward 
 
 framed — 
 I l^now not what — of shaft mis-aim'd ; 
 .Ind even from those the act who 
 
 knew, 
 He hid the hand from which it flew. 
 Untouch 'd by human laws I stood, 
 But God had heard the cry of blood ! 
 There is a blank upon my mind, 
 A fearful vision ill-deflncd, 
 Of raving till my flesh was torn, 
 Of dungeon-bolts and fetters worn— 
 And when I waked to woe more mild, 
 And question'd of my infant child — 
 (Have I not written, that she bare 
 A boy, like summer morning fair?) — 
 V/ith looks confused my menials tell 
 That arme 1 men in Mortham dell 
 Beset the nurse's evening way, 
 And bore her, with her charge, away. 
 My f aithlesi friend, and none but he, 
 Could ])rofit by this villany; 
 Ilim then, I sought, with purpose 
 
 dread 
 Of treble vengeance on his head ! 
 lie 'scaped me — but my bosom's 
 
 wound 
 Some faint relief from wandering 
 
 found; 
 
 And over distant land and sea 
 I bore my load of misery. 
 
 xxin. 
 
 '"Twas then that fate my footsteps led 
 Among a daring crew and dread, 
 With whom full oft my bated life 
 I ventured in such desperate strife, 
 That even my fierce associates saw 
 llj frantic deeds with do iibt and awe. 
 Much then I learn'd, and much can 
 
 show, 
 Of human guilt and human woe, 
 Yet ne'er have, in my wanderings, 
 
 known 
 A wretch, whose sorrows match'd 
 
 my own ! — 
 It chanced, that after battle fray, 
 Upon the bloody field we lay; 
 The yellow moon her lustre shed 
 Upon the wounded and the dead, 
 While, sense in toil and wassail 
 
 drown' d, 
 My ruffian comrades slept around, 
 'xhere came a voice — its silver tone 
 Yv^as soft, Matilda, as thine own — 
 * Ah, wretch !' it said, ' what makest 
 
 thou here. 
 While unavenged my bloody bier, 
 While unprotected lives mine heir, 
 Without a father's nama and care ?' 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 "I heard — obey'd — and homeward 
 
 drew; 
 The fiercest of our desperate crew 
 I brought at time of need to aid 
 My purposed vengeance, long delay 'd. 
 Cut, humble bo my thanks to Heaven, 
 That better hopes and thoughts has 
 
 given, 
 And by our Lord's dear prayer has 
 
 taught, 
 Mercy by mercy must be bought ! — 
 Let mo in misery rejoice — ■ 
 I've seen his face— I've heard his 
 
 voice — 
 I claim'd of him my only child— 
 As he disown'd the theft, he smiled ! 
 That very calm and callous look, 
 That fiendish sneer his visage took, 
 As v/hen he said, in scornful mood, 
 
248 
 
 SCOTT 8 POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 ' There is a gallant in the wood !' — 
 I did not slay hiui as he stood — 
 All praise be to my Maker given ! 
 Long suffrance is one path to heav- 
 en." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Thus far the woful tale was heard, 
 When something in the thicket stirr'd. 
 Up Bedmond sprung ; the villain Guy, 
 (For he it was that lurk'd so nigh,) ^ 
 Drew back — he durst not cross his 
 
 steel 
 A moment's space with brave O'Neale, 
 For all the treasured gold that rests 
 In Mortham's iron-banded chests. 
 Eedmond resumed his seat;— he said, 
 Some roe was rustling in the shade. 
 Bertram laugh'd grimly when he saw 
 His timorous comrade backward 
 
 draw; 
 "A trusty mate art thou, to fear 
 A single arm, and aid so near ! 
 Yet have I seen thee mark a deer. 
 Give me thy carabine — I'll show 
 An art that thou wilt gladly know, 
 How thou mayst safely quell a foe." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 On hands and knees fierce Bertram 
 
 drew 
 The spreading birch and hazels 
 
 through. 
 Till he had Bedmond full in view; 
 The gun he levell'd— Mark like this 
 Was Bertram never known to miss. 
 When fair opposed to him there sate 
 An object of his mortal hate. 
 That day young Bedmond' s death 
 
 had seen. 
 But twice Matilda came between 
 The carabine and Bedmond' s breast, 
 Just ere the spring his finger press'd. 
 A deadly oath the ruffian swore, 
 But yet his fell design forbore : 
 "It ne'er," he mutter'd, "shall be 
 
 said, 
 That thus I scath'd thee, haughty 
 
 maid !" 
 Then moved to seek more open aim, 
 AVhen to his side Guy Denzil came: 
 " Bertram, forbear ! — we are undone 
 For ever, if thou fire the gun. 
 
 By all the fiends, an armed force 
 Descends the dell, of foot and horse ! 
 We perish if they hear a shot — 
 Madman ! we have a safer plot— 
 Nay, friend, be ruled^ and bear thee 
 
 back ! 
 Behold, down yonder hollow track, 
 The warlike leader of the band 
 Comes, with his broadsword in his 
 
 hand." 
 Bertram look'd up ; he saw, he knew 
 That Denzil's fears had counsell'd 
 
 true. 
 Then cursed his fortune and with- 
 drew. 
 Threaded the woodlands undescried, 
 And gained the cave on Greta side. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 They whom dark Bertram, in his 
 
 wrath, 
 Doom'd to captivity or death, 
 Their thoughts to one sad subject 
 
 lent. 
 Saw not nor heard the ambushment. 
 Heedless and unconcern'd they sate. 
 While on the very verge of fate ; 
 Heedless and unconcern'd remiiin'd, 
 When Heaven the murderer's arm re- 
 
 strain'd ; 
 As ships drift darkling down the tide, 
 Nor see the shelves o'er which they 
 
 glide. 
 Unin terrupted thus they heard 
 What Mortham's closing tale declared. 
 He spoke of wealth as of a load. 
 By Fortune on a wretch bestow'd, 
 In bitter mockery of hate. 
 His cureless woes to aggravate ; 
 But yet he pray'd Matilda's care 
 Might save that treasure for his heir — 
 His Edith's son— for still he raved 
 As confident his life was saved; 
 In frequent vision, he averr'd, 
 He saw his face, his voice he heard; 
 Then argued calm — had murder been, 
 The blood, the corpses, had been 
 
 seen; 
 Some had pretended, too, to mark 
 On Windermere a stranger bark. 
 Whose crew, with jealous care, yet 
 
 mild. 
 
noKEBY. 
 
 249 
 
 Guarded a female and a child. 
 While these faint proofs he told and 
 
 ^^iressd, 
 Hope seem'd to kindle in his breast; 
 Though inconsistent, vague, and vain, 
 It warp'd his judgment, and his 
 
 brain. 
 
 xxvni. 
 
 These solemn words his story close: — 
 "Heaven witness for me, that I chose 
 My part in this sad civil fight, 
 Moved by no cause but England's 
 
 right. 
 My country's groans have bid me 
 
 draw 
 My sword for Gospel and for law; — 
 These righted, I fling arms aside, 
 And seek my son through Europe 
 
 wide, 
 My wealth, on which a kinsman nigh 
 Already casts a grasping eye, 
 V/ith thee may unsuspected lie. 
 When of my death Matilda hears, 
 Let her retain her trust three years; 
 If none, from me, the treasure claim, 
 Perish'd is Mortham's race and name. 
 Then let it leave her generous hand. 
 And flow in bounty o'er the land; 
 Soften the wounded prisoner's lot, 
 Rebuild the peasant's ruin'd cot; 
 So spoils, acquired by fight afar, 
 Shall mitigate domestic war." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The generous youths, who well had 
 
 known 
 Of Mortham's mind the powerful tone. 
 To that high mind, by sorrow 
 
 swerved, 
 Gave sympathy his woes deserved ; 
 But Wilfrid chief, who saw reveal'd 
 Why Mortham wish'd his life con- 
 ceal' d, 
 In secret, doubtless, to pursue 
 The schemes his wilder'd fancy drew. 
 Thoughtful he heard Matilda tell, 
 That she would share her father s cell, 
 His partner of captivity, 
 Where'er his prison-house should be; 
 Yet grieved to think that Rokeby hall, 
 Dismantled, and forsook by all, 
 
 Open to rapine and to stealth, 
 Had now no safe-guard for the wealth 
 Intrusted by her kinsman kind. 
 And for such noble use design'd. 
 "Was Barnard Castle then her choice " 
 Wilfrid enquired with hasty voice, 
 "Since there the victor's laws ordain. 
 Her father must a space remain?" 
 A flutter'd hope his accents shook, 
 A flutter'd joy was in his look. 
 Matilda hasten'd to reply. 
 For anger flash'd in Redmond's eye; — 
 "Duty," she said, with gentle grace, 
 "Kind Wilfrid, has no choice of place; 
 Else had I for my sire assign'd 
 Prison less galling to his mind, 
 Than that his wild -wood haunts 
 
 which sees 
 And hears the murmur of the Tees, 
 RecalHng thus, with every glance. 
 What captive's sorrow can enhance; 
 But where those woes are highest, 
 
 there 
 Needs Rokeby nTost his daughter's 
 
 care." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 He felt the kindly check she gave. 
 And stood abash'd — then answer'd 
 
 grave — 
 " I sought thy purpose, noble maid, 
 Thy doubts to clear, thy schemes to 
 
 aid. 
 I have beneath mine own command, 
 So wills my sire, a gallant band, 
 And well could send some horseman 
 
 wight 
 To bear the treasure forth by night. 
 And so bestow it as you deem 
 In these ill days may safest seem." — 
 "Thanks, gentle Wilfrid, thanks," 
 
 she said: 
 " O, be it not one day delay 'd ! 
 And, more, thy sister-friend to aid, 
 Ue thou thyself content to hold. 
 In thine own keeping, Mortham's 
 
 gold. 
 Safest with thee."— While thus she 
 
 spoke, 
 Arm'd soldiers on their converse 
 
 broke. 
 The same of whose approach afraid, 
 
250 
 
 scorrs poetical wouks. 
 
 The rufi&.inK left their ambuscade. 
 Their chief to Wilfrid bended low, 
 Then look'd around as for a foe. 
 " What mean'st thou, friend," young 
 
 Wycliffe said, 
 " Why thus in arms beset the 
 
 glade?"— 
 ' ' That would I gladly learn from you : 
 For up my squadron as I drew, 
 To exercise our martial game, 
 Upon the moor of Barninghame, 
 A stranger told you were waylaid, 
 Surrounded, and to death betray'd. 
 He had a leader's voice, I ween, 
 A falcon glance, a warrior's mien. 
 He bade me bring you instant aid; 
 I doubted not, and I obey'd." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Wilfrid changed colour, and, amazed, 
 Turn'd short, and on t-ie speaker 
 
 gazed ; 
 While Kedmond every thicket round 
 Track'd earnest as a questing hound, 
 And Denzil's carabine lie found; 
 Sure evidence, by which they knew 
 The warning was as kind as true. 
 Wisest it seem'd, with cautious speed 
 To leave the dell. It was agreed. 
 That Eedmond, with Matilda fair, 
 And fitting guard, should home re- 
 pair; 
 At nightfall Wilfrid should attend. 
 With a strong band, his sister-friend, 
 To bear with her from Bokeby's 
 
 bowers 
 To Barnard Castle's lofty towers. 
 Secret and safe the banded chests, 
 In which the wealth of Mortham 
 
 rests. 
 This hasty purpose fix'd, they part, 
 Each with a grieved and anxious 
 heart. 
 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 
 I. 
 
 The sultry summer day is done, 
 The western hills have hid the sun. 
 But mountain j^eak and village spire 
 Retain reflections of his Hre. 
 
 Old Barnard's towers are purple still, 
 To those that gaze from Toller-hill ; 
 Distant and high, the tower of Bowes 
 Like steel upon the anvil glows; 
 And Stanmore's ridge, behind thai 
 
 lay, 
 Eich with the spoils of parting day. 
 In crimson and in gold array'd. 
 Streaks yet a while the closing shade. 
 Then slow resigns to darkening 
 
 heavnn 
 The tints which brighter hours had 
 
 given. 
 Thus aged men, full loth and slow, 
 The vanities of life forego. 
 And count their youthful follies o'er. 
 Till Memory lends her light no more. 
 
 n. 
 
 The eve, that slow on upland fades. 
 Has darker closed on Bokeby's 
 
 glades, 
 Y/here, sunk within their banks pro- 
 found. 
 Her guardian streams to meeting 
 
 wound. 
 The stately oaks, whose sombre 
 
 frown 
 Of noontide made a twilight brown, 
 Impervious now to fainter light, 
 Of twilight make an early night. 
 Hoarse into middle air arose 
 The vespers of the roosting crows, 
 And with congenial murmurs seem 
 To wake the Genii of the stream ; 
 For louder clamour'd Greta's tide. 
 And Tees in'deeper voice replied. 
 And fitful waked the evening wind. 
 Fitful in sighs its breath resign'd. 
 Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured 6oul 
 Felt in the scene a soft control, 
 With lighter footstep press'd the 
 
 ground. 
 And of ted paused to look around ; 
 And, though his path was to his love, 
 Could not but linger in the grove, 
 To drink the thrilling interest dear, 
 Of awful pleasure check'd by fear. 
 Such inconsistent moods have we. 
 Even when our passions gtrike the 
 key. 
 
-BOKEBT. 
 
 251 
 
 ni. 
 
 Now, througli the wood's dark mazes 
 
 past, 
 The opening lawn he reach d at last, 
 Where, silver' d by the moonlight ray, 
 The ancient Hall before him lay. 
 Those martial terrors long were fled. 
 That frown'd of old around its head: 
 The battlements, the turrets grey, 
 Seem'd half abandon'd to decay; 
 On barbican and keep of stone 
 Stern Time the foeman's work had 
 
 Where banners the invader braved, 
 The harebell now and wallflower 
 
 waved; 
 In the rude guard-room, where oi 
 
 yore 
 Their weary hours the warders wore. 
 Now, while the cheerful fagots blaze, 
 On the paved floor the spindle plays ; 
 The flanking guns dismounted lie, 
 The moat is ruinous and dry, 
 The grim portcullis gone— and all 
 The fortress turn'd to peaceful Hall. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But yet precautions, lately ta'en, 
 Show'd dangp-r's day revived again; 
 The court-yard wall show'd marks of 
 
 care. 
 The fall'n defences to repair. 
 Lending such strength as might with- 
 stand, 
 The insult of marauding band. 
 The beams once more were taught to 
 
 bear 
 The trembling drawbridge into air. 
 And not, till question'd o'er and o'er. 
 For Wilfrid oped the jealous door, 
 And when he entered, bolt and bar 
 Eesumed their place with sullen jur; 
 Then, as he cross'd the vaulted porch, 
 The old grey porter raised his torch. 
 And view'd him o'er, from foot to 
 
 head, 
 Ere to the hall his steps he led. 
 That huge old hall, of knightly state. 
 Dismantled seem'd and desolate. 
 The moon through transom-shafts of 
 gtone, 
 
 Which cioss'd the latticed oriels, 
 
 shone. 
 And by the mournful light she gave. 
 The Gothic vault seem'd funeral cave. 
 Pennon and banner waved no more 
 O'er beams of stag and tusks of boar, 
 Nor glimmering arms were marshall'd 
 
 seen, 
 To glance those silvan spoils between. 
 Those arms, those ensigns, borne 
 
 away, 
 Accomplish'd Bokeby's brave array. 
 But all were lost on Marston's day ! 
 Yet here and there the moonbeams 
 
 fidl 
 Where armour yet adorns the wall, 
 Cumbrous in size, uncouth to sight, 
 And useless in the modern fight I 
 Like veteran relic of the wars. 
 Known only by neg,leGted scaiB. 
 
 Matilda soon to greet him came. 
 And bade them light the evening 
 
 flame; 
 Said, all for parting was prepared, 
 And tarried but for Wilfrid's guard. 
 But then, reluctant t<^ unfold 
 His father's avarice of gold, 
 He hinted, that lest jealous eye 
 Should on their precious burden pry. 
 He judged it best the castle gate 
 To enter when the night wore late; 
 And therefore he had left command 
 With those he trusted of his band, 
 That they should be at Eokeby met, 
 J What time the midnight-watch was 
 
 set. 
 Not/ Kedmond came, whose anxious 
 
 care 
 Till then was busied to prepare 
 All needful, meetly to arrange 
 The mansion for its mournful change. 
 With Wilfrid's care and kindness 
 
 pleased. 
 His cold unready hand he seized, ^ 
 .Vnd press'd it, till his kindly strain 
 The gentle youth return' d again. 
 Seem'd as between them this was 
 
 said, 
 " A while let jealousy be dead; 
 
252 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And let our contest be, whose care 
 Shall best assist this helpless fair. ' ' 
 
 VI. 
 
 There was no speech the truce to bind, 
 
 It was a compact of the raiad, — 
 
 A generous thought, at once impress'd 
 
 On either rival's generous breast. 
 
 Matilda well the secret took, 
 
 From sudden change of mien and 
 
 look; 
 And— for not small had been her fear 
 Of jealous ire and danger near — 
 Felt, even in her dejected state, 
 A joy beyond the reach of fate. 
 They closed beside the chimney's 
 
 blaze, 
 And talk'd and hoped for happier 
 
 days. 
 And lent their spirits' rising glow 
 A while to gild impending woo ; — 
 High privilege of youthful time, 
 "Worth all the pleasures of our prime! 
 The bickering fagot sparkled bright, 
 And gave the scene of love to sight. 
 Bade Wilfrid's cheek more lively glow, 
 Play'd on Matilda's neck of snow, 
 Her nut-brown curls and forehead 
 
 high, 
 And laugh'd inBedmond's azure eye. 
 Two lovers by the maiden sate, 
 "Without a glance of jealous hate; 
 The maid her lovers sat between, 
 With open brow and equal mien; — 
 It is a sight but rarely spied, 
 Thanks to man's wrath and woman's 
 
 pride. 
 
 vn. 
 
 While thus in peaceful guise they sate, 
 A ] nock alarm'd the outer gate. 
 And ere the tardy porter stirr'd. 
 The tinkling of a harp was heard. 
 A manly voice of mellow swell. 
 Bore burden to the music well. 
 
 Song. 
 
 "Summer eve is gone and past, 
 Summer dew is falling fast;^ 
 I have wander'd all the dzj, 
 Do not bid mo farther stray | 
 Genile hearts, of gentle kin, 
 Take the wandering harper in !" 
 
 But the Btern porter answer gave, 
 With "Get thee hence, thou stroll- 
 ing knave. 
 The king wants soldiers; war, I trow, 
 Were meeter trade for such as thou." 
 At this unkind reproof, again 
 Answer'd the ready Minstrels-strain. 
 
 Song resumed. 
 " Bid not me, in battle-field. 
 Buckler lift, or broadsword wield ! 
 All my strength and all my art 
 Is to touch the gentle heait, 
 With the wizard notes that ring 
 From the peaceful minstrel string." 
 
 The porter, all unmoved, replied, — 
 ' * Depart in peace, with Heaven to 
 
 guide; 
 If longer by the gate thou dwell. 
 Trust me, thou shalt not part bo well." 
 
 Yin. 
 
 With somewhat of appealing look, 
 The harper's part young Wilfrid took: 
 "These notes so wild and ready 
 
 thrill, 
 They shovr no vulgar minstrel's skill; 
 Hard were his task t3 seek a horae 
 Iloro distant, since the night ijcomc; 
 And for his faith I daro engage — 
 Your Harpool's blood 13 sour'd by 
 
 age; 
 His gate, once readily display'd, 
 To greet the friend, the poor to aid, 
 ITow even to me, though kaovn of old, 
 Did but reluctantly unfold." 
 "0 blame not, as poor Harpool's 
 
 crime, 
 An evil of this evil time, 
 lie deems dependent on his care 
 The safety of his patron's heir, 
 ITor judges meet to o-je the tower 
 To guest unknown at parting hour, 
 Urging his duty to excess 
 Of rough and stubborn faithfulness. 
 For this poor harper, I would fain 
 He may relax: — Hark to his strain!"—^ 
 
 IX. 
 
 Song resumed. 
 '* 1 have song of war for nig' 
 Lay of love for lady bright. 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 253 
 
 Fairy tale to lull the heir, 
 Goblin grim the maids to scare. 
 Dark the night, and long till day, 
 Do not bid me farther stray ! 
 
 " Rokeby's lords of martial fame, 
 I can count them name by name; 
 Legends of their lino there be, 
 Known to few, but known to me; 
 If you honour Eokeby's kin, 
 Take the wandering harper in ! 
 
 " Rokeby's lords had fair regard 
 For the harp, and for the bard : 
 Baron's race throve never well, 
 ' "Where the curse of minstrel fell 
 If you love that nobx j kin, 
 Take the weary harper in !" — 
 
 "Plark! Earpool parleys — there is 
 
 hope," 
 Said Redmond, "that the gate will 
 
 ope."— 
 — "For all thy brag and boast, I 
 
 trow, 
 K ought know'st thou of the Felon 
 
 Sow," 
 Quoth Harpool, " nor how Greta- 
 side 
 She roam'd, and Rokeby forest wide; 
 Nor how Ralph Rokeby gave the 
 
 beast 
 To Richmond's friars to make a feast, 
 (jf Gilbert Griffinson the talo 
 Goes, and of gallant Peter Dale, 
 That well could ctrike with sword 
 
 amain. 
 And of the valiant son of Spain, 
 Friar Middleton, and blithe Sir 
 
 Ralph : 
 There were a jest to make us laugh ! 
 If thou canst tell it, in yon shed 
 Thou'st won thy supper and thy 
 
 bed." 
 
 X. 
 
 Matilda smiled; "Cold hope," said 
 
 she, 
 " Froui Harpool's love of minstrelsy ! 
 But, for this harper, may we dare, 
 Redmond, to mend his couch and 
 
 fare ?"— 
 "'O, ask me not ! — At minstrel -string 
 
 My heart from infancy would spring; 
 Nor can I hear its simplest strain, 
 But it brings Erin's dream again, 
 When placed by Owen Lysagh's knee. 
 (The I ilea of O'Neale was he, 
 A blind and bearded man, whose eld 
 Was sacred as a prophet's held,) 
 I've seen a ring of rugged kerne, 
 With aspects shaggy, wild, and stern. 
 Enchanted by the master's lay. 
 Linger around the livelong day. 
 Shift from wild rage to wilder glee, 
 To love, to grief, to ecstacy, 
 And feel each varied change of soul 
 Obedient to the bard's control. — 
 Ah, Clandeboy ! thy friendly floor 
 Slieve-Donard's oak shall light no 
 
 more; 
 ITor Owen's harp, beside the blaze, 
 Tell maiden's love, or hero's praise ! 
 The mantling brambles hide thy 
 
 hearth, 
 Centre of hospitable mirth; 
 All undistinguish'd in the glade, 
 My sires' glad home is prostrate laid, 
 Their vassals wander wide and far. 
 Serve foreign lords in distant war, 
 And now the stranger's sons enjoy 
 The lovely woods or Clandeboy !" 
 He spoke, and proudly turn'd aside, 
 The starting tear to dry and hide, 
 
 XI. 
 
 Matilda's dark and soften 'd eye 
 \Yas glistening ere O'Neale's was dry, 
 Iler hand upon his arm she laid, — 
 " It is the will of Heaven," she said. 
 ''And think'st thou, Redmond, lean 
 
 part 
 Trom this loved home with lightsome 
 
 heart. 
 Leaving to wild neglect whate'er 
 Even Irom my infancy was dear? 
 For in this calm domestic bound 
 Were all Matilda's pleasure found. 
 That hearth, my eire was wont to 
 
 grace. 
 Full soon may be a stranger's place; 
 This hall, in which a child I play'd. 
 Like thine, dear Redmond, lowly" 
 
 laid, 
 
254 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The bramble and the thorn may 
 
 braid; 
 Or, pass'd for aye from me and mine, 
 It ne'er may shelter Rokeby's line. 
 Yet is this consolation given, 
 My Eedmond— 'tis the will of Heav- 
 en." 
 Her word, her action, and her phrase, 
 Were kindly as in early days; 
 For cold reserve had lost its power, 
 In sorrow's sympathetic hour. 
 Young Eedmend dared not trust his 
 
 voice; 
 But rather had it been his choice 
 To share that melancholy hour, 
 Than, arm'd with all a chieftain's 
 
 power, 
 In full possession to enjoy 
 Slieve-Donard wide, and Clandeboy. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The blood left Wilfrid's ashen cheek; 
 Matilda sees, and hastes to speak. — 
 "Happy in friendship's ready aid, 
 Let all my murmurs here be staid ! 
 And Eokeby's Maiden will not part 
 From Eokeby's hall with moody 
 
 heart. 
 This night at least, for Eokeby's fame, 
 The hospitable hearth shall flame, 
 And, ere its native heir retire, 
 Find for the wanderer rest and fire, 
 While this poor harper, by the blaze, 
 Eecounts the tale of other days. 
 Bid Harpool ope the door with speed, 
 Admit him, and relieve each need. — 
 Meantime, kind Wycliffe, wilt thou 
 
 try 
 Thy minstrel skill?— Nay, no reply— 
 And look not sad ! — I guess thy 
 
 thought, 
 Thy verse with laurels would be 
 
 bought; 
 And poor Matilda, landless now. 
 Has not a garland for thy brow. 
 True, I must leave sweet Eokeby's 
 
 glades. 
 Nor wander more in Greta's shades ; 
 But sure, no rigid jailer, thou 
 Wilt a short prison- walk allow, 
 Where summer flowers grow wild at 
 
 wiU, 
 
 On Marwood-chase and Toller Hill; 
 Then holly green and lily gay 
 Shall twine in guerdon of thy lay." 
 The mournful youth, a space aside. 
 To tune Matilda's harp applied; 
 And then a low sad descant rung, 
 As prelude to the lay he sung. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The Cypress Wreath. 
 0, Lady, twine no wreath for me, 
 Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! 
 Too lively glow the Llies light. 
 The varnish'd holly 's all too bright, 
 The May-flower and the eglantine 
 May shade a brow less sad than 
 
 mine; 
 But, Lady, weave no wreath for 
 
 me. 
 Or weave it of the cypress-tree ! 
 
 Let dimpled Mirth his temples 
 
 twine 
 With tendrils of the laughing vine; 
 The manly oak, the pensive yew, 
 To patriot and to sage be due; 
 The myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
 But that Matilda will not give ; 
 Then, Lady, twine no wreath for 
 
 me, 
 Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! 
 
 Let merry England proudly rear 
 Her blended roses, bought so dear; 
 Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
 With heath and harebell dipp'd in 
 
 dew; 
 On favour'd Erin's crest be seen 
 The flower she loves of emerald 
 
 green — 
 But, Lady, twine no wreath for 
 
 me, 
 Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 
 
 Strike the wild harp, while maids 
 prepare 
 
 The ivy meet for minstrel's hair; 
 
 And, while his crown of laurel- 
 leaves, ' 
 
 With bloody hand the victor 
 weaves. 
 
 Let the loud trump his triumph 
 tell} 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 255 
 
 But, -srhen you hear the passing- 
 bell, 
 Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me, 
 And twine it of the cypress-tree. 
 
 Yes ! twine for me the cypress 
 
 bough ; 
 But, O Matilda, twine not now ! 
 Stay till a few brief months are 
 
 past, 
 And have look'd and loved my 
 
 last! 
 When villagers my shroud bestrew 
 With pansies, rosemary, and rue, — 
 Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me, 
 And weave it of the cypress-tree. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 O'Neale observed the starting tear. 
 And spoke with kind and blithesome 
 
 cheer — 
 "No, noble Wilfrid ! ere the day 
 When mourns the land thy silent lay, 
 Shall many a wreath bo freely wove 
 By hand cf friendship and of love. 
 I would not wish that rigid Fate 
 Had doom'd thee to a captive's state, 
 Whose hands are bound by honour's 
 
 law, 
 Who wears a sword he must not draw; 
 But were it bo, in minstrel pride 
 Tho land together would we ride. 
 On prancing steeds, like harpers old, 
 Bound Lor the halls of barons bold. 
 Each lover of the lyre we'd seek, 
 From Michael's Mount to Skiddaw's 
 
 Peak, 
 Survey wild Albin's mountain strand, 
 And roam green Erin's lovely land. 
 While thou the gentler souls should 
 
 move. 
 With lay of pity and of love, 
 And I, th^ mate, in rougher strain, 
 Would sing of war and warriors 
 
 slain. 
 Old England's bards were vanquish'd 
 
 then, 
 And Scotland's vaunted Hawthorn- 
 den, 
 And, silenced on lemian shore, 
 M'Curtin's harp should charm no 
 
 more 
 
 t" 
 
 Li lively mood he spoke, to wile 
 From Wilfrid's wo-wom cheek a 
 smile. 
 
 XV. 
 
 "But," said Matilda, "ere thy name, 
 Crood Redmond, gain its destined 
 
 fame, 
 Say, wilt thou kindly deign to call 
 Thy brother-minstrel to the hall ? 
 Bid all the household, too, attend, 
 Each in his rank a humble friend; 
 I know their faithful hearts will 
 
 grieve. 
 When their poor Mistress takes her 
 
 leave; 
 So let tho horn and beaker flow 
 To mitigate their parting woe." 
 The harper came; — in youth's first 
 
 prime 
 Himself; in mode of olden time 
 His garb was fashion'd, to express 
 The ancient English minstrel's dress, 
 A seemly gown of Kendal green. 
 With gorget closed of silver sheen; 
 His harp in silken scarf was slung. 
 And by his side an anlace hung. 
 It seem'd some masquer's quaint 
 
 array, 
 For revel or for holiday. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 He made obeisance with a free 
 Yet studied air of courtesy. 
 Each look an daccent, framed to please, 
 Seem'd to affect a playful ease; 
 His face was of that doubtful kind, 
 That wins the eye, but not the mind; 
 Yet harsh it seem'd to deem amiss 
 Of brow so young and smooth as this. 
 His was the subtle look and sly, 
 That, spying all, seems nought to spy; 
 Round all the group his glances stole, 
 Unmark'd themselves, to mark the 
 
 whole. 
 Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look. 
 Nor could the eye of Redmond brook. 
 To the suspicious, or the old. 
 Subtle and dangerouj and bold 
 Had seem'd this self-invited guest; 
 But young our lovers, — and the rest, 
 Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear 
 At part,ing of their Mistress dear, 
 
SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Tear -blinded to the Castle-hall, 
 Came as to bear her funeral pall. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 All that expression base was gone, 
 AVhen waked the guest his minstrej 
 
 tone; 
 It fled at inspiration's call, 
 As erst tlio demon fled from Saul. 
 More noble glance he cast around, 
 More free-drawn breath inspired the 
 
 sound, 
 His pulse beat bolder and more high, 
 In all the pride of minstrelsy ! 
 Alas ! too soon that pride was o'er, 
 Sunk with the lay that bade it soar ! 
 His soul resumed, with habit's chain, 
 Its vices wild and follies vain, 
 And gave the talent, with him born, 
 To be a common curse and scorn. 
 Such was the youth whom Eokeby's 
 
 Maid, 
 With condescending kindness, pray'd 
 Here to renew the strains she loved. 
 At distance heard and well approved. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Song. 
 
 THE HAKP. 
 
 I was a wild and wayward boy, ^ 
 My childhood scorn'd each childish 
 
 toy, 
 Eetired from all, reserved and coy, 
 
 To musing prone, 
 I woo'd my solitary joy, 
 
 My Harp alone. 
 
 My youth, with bold Ambition's mood, 
 Des pised the humble stream and woo d, 
 Where my poor father's cottage stood, 
 
 To fame unknown; — 
 What should my soaring views make 
 good? 
 My Harp alone ! 
 
 Love came with all his frantic fire. 
 And wild romance of vain desire: 
 The baron's daughter heard my lyre. 
 
 And praised the tone; — 
 What could presumptuous hope in- 
 spire ? 
 
 My Harp alone ! 
 
 At manhood's touch the bubble burst, 
 And manhood's pride the vision curst, 
 And all that had my folly nursed 
 
 Love's sway to own; 
 Yet spared the spell that luU'd me 
 first, 
 
 My Harp alone ! 
 
 Woe came with war, and want with 
 
 woe; * 
 
 And it was mine to undergo 
 Each outrage of the rebel foe: — 
 
 Can aught atone 
 My fields laid waste, my cot laid low ? 
 
 My Harp alone ! 
 
 Ambition's dreams I've seen depart, 
 Have rued of penury the smart, 
 Have felt of love the venom" d dart 
 
 When hope was flown; 
 Yet rests one solace to my heart,— 
 
 My Harp alone ! 
 
 Then over mountain, moor, and hill, 
 My faithful Harp, I'll bear thee still ; 
 And when this life of want and iil 
 
 Is wellnigh gone. 
 Thy string? mine elegy shall thrill, 
 
 My TEarp alone ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "A pleasing lay!" Matilda said; 
 But Harpool shook his old grey head, 
 And took his baton and his torch. 
 To seek his guard-room in the porch. 
 Edmund observed; with sudden 
 
 change, 
 Among the strings his fingers range. 
 Until they waked a bolder glee 
 Of military melody ; 
 Then iDaused amid the martial sound, 
 And look'd with well-feign'd fear 
 
 around; — 
 " None to this noble house belong," 
 He said, "that would a Minstrel 
 
 wrong. 
 Whose fate has been, through good 
 
 and ill, 
 To love his Boyal Master still; 
 And with your honour'd leave, 
 
 would fain 
 Bejoice you with a loyal strain. " 
 
ROKEBT. 
 
 257 
 
 Then, as assured by sign and look, 
 The warlike tone again he took; 
 And Harpool stopp'd, and turn'd to 
 hear 
 A ditty of the Cavalier. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Song. 
 
 THE CAVAIilEK. 
 
 While the dawn on the mountain 
 
 was misty and grey, 
 My true love has mounted his steed 
 
 and away 
 Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and 
 
 o'er down; 
 Heaven shield the brave Gallant that 
 
 fights for the Crown ! 
 
 He has doff'd the silk doublet the 
 
 breast-plate to bear, 
 He has placed the steel-cap o'er his 
 
 long flowing hair, 
 From his belt to his stirrux^ his 
 
 broadsword hang>:i dov/n, — 
 Heaven shield the brave Gallant 
 
 that fights for the Crown ! 
 
 For the rights of fair England that 
 
 broadsword he draws, 
 Her King is his leader, her Church 
 
 is his cause; 
 Her watchword is honour, his pay is 
 
 renown, — 
 God strike with the Gallant that 
 
 strikes for the Crown ! 
 
 They may boast of their Fairfax, 
 their Waller, and all 
 
 The roundheaded rebels of West- 
 minster Hall ! 
 
 But tell these bold traitors of Lon- 
 don's proud town, 
 
 That the spears of the North have 
 encircled the Crown. 
 
 There's Derby and Cavendish, dread 
 
 of their foes; 
 There's Erin's high Ormond, and 
 
 Scotland's Montrose ! 
 Would you match the base Skippon, 
 
 and Massey, and Brown, 
 With the Barons of England, that 
 
 fight for the Crown ? 
 
 Now joy to the crest of the brave 
 
 Cavalier ! 
 Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless 
 
 his spear, 
 Till in peace and in triumph his toils 
 
 he may drown. 
 In a pledge to fair England, her ^ 
 
 Church, and her Crown. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Alas !" Matilda said, "that strain, 
 Good harper, now is heard in vain ! 
 The time has been, at such a sound. 
 When Eokeby's vassals gather'd 
 
 round, 
 An hundred manly hearts would 
 
 bound; 
 But now the stirring verse we hear, 
 Like trump in dying soldier's ear ! 
 Listless and sad the notes we own. 
 The power to answer them is flown. 
 Yet not without his meet applause, 
 Be he that sings the rightful cause,- 
 Even when the crisis of its fate 
 To human eye seems desperate. 
 While Boke by' s Heir such power re- 
 tains, 
 Let this slight guerdon pay thy 
 
 pains: — 
 And, lend thy harp ; I fain would try, 
 If my poor skill can aught supply, ' 
 Ere yet I leave my father's hall, 
 To mourn the cause in which we fall." 
 
 xxn. 
 
 The harper, with a downcast look, 
 And trembling hand, her bounty 
 
 took. — 
 As yet, the conscious pride of art 
 Had steel'd him in his treacherous 
 
 part; 
 A powerful spring, of force unguess ' d. 
 That hath each gentler mood sup- 
 press d. 
 And reign'd in many a human breast; 
 I'rom his that plans the red campaign, 
 To his that wastes the woodland 
 
 reign. 
 Thefailingwing,theblood-shoteye, — 
 The sportsman marks with apathy. 
 Each feeling of his victim's ill 
 Drown'd in his own successful skill. 
 
m 
 
 BCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 The veteran, too, who now no more 
 Aspires to head the battle's roar, 
 Love ;$ still the triumph of his art, 
 And traces on the peneill'd chart 
 Some stern invader's destined way. 
 Through blood and ruin, to his prey; 
 Patriots to death, and towns to flame. 
 He dooms, to raise another's name, 
 And shares the guilt, though not the 
 
 fame. 
 What pays him for his span of time 
 Spent in premeditating crime? 
 What against pity arms his heart? — 
 It is the conscious pride of art. 
 
 xxni. 
 
 But principles in Edmund's mind 
 Were baseless, vague, and undefined. 
 His soul, like bark with rudder lost. 
 On Passion's changeful tide was 
 
 tost, 
 Nor Vice nor Virtue had the power 
 Beyond the impression of the hour; 
 And, 0! when Passion rules, how 
 
 rare 
 The hours that fall to Virtue's share ! 
 Yet now she roused her — for the pride, 
 That lack of sterner guilt supplied. 
 Could scarce support him when arose 
 The lay that mourned Matilda's woes. 
 
 Song. 
 
 THE FABEWKTiTi. 
 
 The sound of Kokeby's woods I hear. 
 
 They mingle with the song: 
 Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear, 
 
 I must not hear them long. 
 From every loved and native haunt 
 
 The native Heir must stray, 
 And, like a ghost that sunbeams 
 daunt, 
 
 Must part before the day. 
 
 Soon from the halls my fathers rear'd, 
 
 Their scutcheons may descend. 
 A line so long beloved and fear'd 
 
 May soon obscurely end. 
 No longer here Matilda's tone 
 
 Shall bid those echoes swell; 
 Yet shall they hear her proudly own 
 
 The cause in which we fell. 
 
 The lady paused, and then again 
 Resumed the lay in loftier strain. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Let our halls and towers decay, 
 
 Be our name and line forgot, 
 Lands and manors pass away, — 
 
 We but share our Monarch's lot. 
 If no more our annals show 
 
 Battles won and banners taken. 
 Still in death, defeat, and woe. 
 
 Ours be loyalty unshaken. 
 
 Constant still in danger's hour, 
 
 Princes own'd our fathers' aid; 
 Lands and honours, wealth and 
 power, 
 
 Well their loyalty repaid. 
 Perish wealth, and power, and pride ! 
 
 ]\Iortal boons by mortals given; 
 But let constancy abide, — 
 
 Constancy's the gift of Heaven. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 While thus Matilda's lay was heard, 
 A thousand thoughts in Edmund 
 
 stirr'd. 
 In peasant life he might have known 
 As fair a face, as sweet a tone; 
 But village notes could ne'er supply 
 That rich and varied melody; 
 And ne'er in cottage-maid was seen 
 The easy dignity of mien, 
 Claiming respect, yet waving state, 
 That marks the daughters of the 
 
 great. 
 Yet not, perchance, had these alone 
 His scheme of purposed guilt o'er- 
 
 thrown; 
 But while her energy of mind 
 Superior rose to griefs combined, 
 Lending ils^kindling to her eye, 
 Giving her form new majesty, — 
 To Edmund's thought Matilda seem'd 
 The very object he had dream'd; 
 When, long ere guilt his soul had 
 
 known. 
 In Winston bowers he mused alone. 
 Taxing his fancy to combine 
 The face, the air, the voice divine, 
 j Of princess fair, by cruel fate 
 1 Heft of her honours, power, and state, 
 
ROKEBt. 
 
 259 
 
 Till to her rightful realm restored 
 By destined hero's conquering 
 sword. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 '* Such was my vision !" Edmund 
 
 thought; 
 " And have I, then, the ruin wrought 
 Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er 
 In fairest vision form'd her peer ? 
 Was it my hand that could unclose 
 The postern to her ruthless foes? 
 Foes lost to honour, law, and faith, 
 Their kindest mercy sudden death ! 
 Have I done this ? I T who have swore. 
 That if the globe such angel bore, 
 I would have traced its circle broad. 
 To kiss the ground on which she 
 
 trode ! — 
 And now — O ! would that earth would 
 
 rive 
 And close upon me while alive ! — 
 Is there no hope ? Is all then lost? — 
 Bertram's already on his post ! 
 Even now, beside the Hall's arch'd 
 
 door, 
 I saw his shadow cross the floor ! 
 He was to wait my signal strain — 
 A little respite thus we gain: 
 By what I heard the menials say, 
 Young Wycliffe's troop are on their 
 
 way— 
 Alarm precipitates the crime ! 
 My harp must wear away the time," — 
 And then, in accents faint and low, 
 He falter'd forth a tale of woe. 
 
 BaJlad. 
 
 "And whither would you lead me 
 then?" 
 
 Quoth the Friar of orders grey; 
 And the Ruffians twain replied again, 
 
 "By a dying woman to pray." 
 
 ^ "I see," he said, "a lovely sight, 
 A sight bodes little harm, 
 A lady as a lily bright, 
 With an infant on her arm." — 
 
 " Then do thine office, Friar grey, 
 And see thou shrive her free ? 
 
 Else shall the sprite, that parts to- 
 night. 
 Fling all his guilt on thee. 
 
 "Let mass be said, and trentals read. 
 When thou'rt to convent gone. 
 
 And bid the bell of St. Benedict 
 Toll out its deepest tone," 
 
 The shrift is done, the Friar is gone, 
 Blindfolded as he came — 
 
 Next morning, all in Littlecot Hall 
 Were weeping for their dame. 
 
 Wild Darrell is an alter 'd man. 
 The village crones can tell; 
 
 Ho looks pale as clay, and strives to 
 pi-ay, 
 If he hears the convent bell. 
 
 If prince or peer cross Darrell' s way, 
 He'll beard him in his pride — 
 
 If he meet a Friar of orders grey. 
 He droops and turns aside. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 '< Harper ! methinksthy magic lays," 
 Matilda said, "can goblins raise! 
 Wellnigh my fancy can discern. 
 Near the dark porch, a visage stern ; 
 Ee'n now, in yonder shadowy nook, 
 I see it ! — ^Redmond, Wilfrid, look ! — 
 A human form distinct and clear — 
 God for thy mercy ! — It draws near!" 
 She saw too true. Stride after stride, 
 The centre of that chamber wide 
 Fierce Bertram gain'd; then made a 
 
 stand. 
 And, proudly waving with his hand, 
 Thunder' d — Be stiU^ upon your 
 
 lives I — 
 He bleeds who speaks, he dies who 
 
 strives," 
 Behind their chief, the robber crew 
 Forth from the darken'd portal drew 
 In silence — save that echo dread 
 Keturn'd their heavy measured 
 
 tread. 
 The lamp's uncertain lustre gave 
 Their arras to gleam, their plumes to 
 
 wave; 
 File after file in order pass, 
 Like forms on Banquo s mystic glass. 
 Then, halting at their leader's sigzi. 
 
260 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 At once they form'd and curved their 
 
 line, 
 Hemming within its crescent drear 
 Their victims, like a herd of deer. 
 Another sign, and to the aim 
 Levell'd at once their muskets came, 
 As waiting but their chieftain's word, 
 To make their fatal volley heard. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Back in a heap the menials drew ; 
 Yet, even in mortal terror, true, 
 Their pale and startled group oppose 
 Between Matilda and the foes. 
 '^O, haste thee, Wilfrid!" Eedmond 
 
 cried ; 
 "Undo that wicket by thy side ! 
 Bear hence Matilda — gain the wood — 
 The pass may be awhile made good — 
 Thy band, ere this, must sure be 
 
 nigh — 
 
 speak not — dally not — but fly !" 
 While yet the crowd their motions 
 
 hide, 
 Through the low wicket door they 
 
 glide. 
 Through vaulted passages they wind. 
 In Gothic intricacy twined; 
 Wilfrid half led, and half he bore, 
 Matilda to the postern-door, 
 And safe beneath the forest tree, 
 The Lady stands at liberty. 
 Tho moonbeams, the fresh gale's 
 
 caress, 
 Renew'd, suspended consciousness; 
 "Where's Bedmond?"' eagerly she 
 
 cries; 
 •'Thou answer'st not — he dies! he 
 
 dies ! 
 And thou hast left him, all bereft 
 Of mortal aid — with murderers left ! 
 
 1 know it well— he would not yield 
 His Bword to man — his doom is 
 
 seal'd ! 
 For my scorn'd life, which thou hast 
 
 bought 
 At price of his, I thank thee not." 
 
 XXX. 
 The unjust reproach, the angry look, 
 The heart of Wilfrid could not brook. 
 " Lady," he said, " my band so near, 
 In safety thou mayst rest thee here. 
 
 For Eedmond' s death thou shalt not 
 
 mourn. 
 If mine can buy his safe return." 
 He turn'd away — his heart throbb'd 
 
 high, 
 The tear was bursting from his eye; 
 The sense of her injustice press'd 
 Upon the Maid's distracted breast, — 
 "Stay, Wilfrid, stay ! all aid is vain!" 
 He heard, but turn'd him not again; 
 He reaches now the postern-door, 
 Now enters — and is seen no more. 
 XXXI. 
 
 With all the agony that e'er 
 
 Was gender'd 'twixt suspense and 
 
 fear. 
 She watch' d the line of windows tall. 
 Whose Gothic lattice lights the Hall, 
 Distinguish' d by the paley red 
 The lamps in dim reflection shed, 
 While all beside in wan moonlight 
 Each grated casement glimmer'd 
 
 white. 
 No sight of harm, no sound of ill. 
 It is a dccjD and midnight still. 
 Who lookd upon tiie scene, had 
 
 guess'd 
 All in tho Castle were at rest : 
 When sudden on the windows shone 
 A lightning flash, just seen and gone ! 
 A shot is heard — Again the flame 
 Flash'd thick and fast — a volley 
 
 came ! 
 Then echo'd wildly, from within, 
 Of shout and scream the mingled 
 
 dm, 
 And weapon-crash and maddening 
 
 cry. 
 Of those who kill, and those who 
 
 die!— 
 As flll'd the Hall with sulphurous 
 
 smoke, 
 More red, more dark, the death-flash 
 
 broke ; 
 And forms were on the lattice cast, 
 Tiiat struck, or struggled, as they 
 
 past. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 What sounds upon the midnight 
 
 wind 
 Approach bo rapidly behind ? 
 
BOKEBY. 
 
 261 
 
 It is, it is, the tramp of steeds, 
 Matilda hears the sound, she speeds, 
 Seizes upon the leader's rein — 
 *' O, haste to aid, ere aid be vain ! 
 Fly to the postern — gain the Hall !" 
 From saddle spring the troopers all ; 
 Their gallant steeds, at liberty, 
 Kun -wild along the moonlight lea. 
 But, ere they burst upon the scene, 
 Full stubborn had the conflict been. 
 When Bertram mark'd Matilda's 
 
 flight. 
 It gave the signal for the fight; 
 And Kokeby's veterans, seam'd with 
 
 scars 
 Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars, 
 Their momentary panic o'er, 
 Stood to the arms which then they 
 
 bore; 
 (For they were weapon'd, and pre- 
 pared 
 Their Mistress on her way to guard. ) 
 Then cheer'd them to the fight 
 
 O'Neale, ^ 
 
 Then peal'd the shot, and clash'd the 
 
 steel; 
 The war-smoke soon with sable 
 
 breath 
 Darken'd the scene of blood and 
 
 death, 
 While on the few defenders close 
 The Bandits, with redoubled blows, 
 And, twice driven back, yet fierce 
 
 and fell 
 Eenew the charge with frantic yell. 
 
 xxxni. 
 
 him 
 
 Wilfrid has fall'n — but o'er 
 
 stood 
 Young Redmond, soil'd with smoke 
 
 and blood, 
 Cheering his mates with heart and 
 
 hand 
 Still to make good their desperate 
 
 stand. 
 "Up, comrades, up! In Eokeby 
 
 halls 
 Ne'er be it said our courage falls. 
 What ! faint ye for their savage cry, 
 Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your 
 
 eye? 
 Tlieso rafters have return'd a shout 
 
 As loud as Rokeby's wassail rout, 
 As thick a smoke these hearths have 
 
 given 
 At Hallow-tide or Christmas-even. 
 Stand to it yet ! renew the fight. 
 For Eokeby's and Matilda's right ! 
 These slaves ! they dare not, hand 
 
 to hand. 
 Bide buffet from a true man's 
 
 brand." 
 Impetuous, active, fierce, and young, 
 Upon the advancing foes he sprung. 
 Woe to the wretch at whom is bent 
 His brandish'd falchion's sheer de- 
 scent ! 
 Backward they scatter'd as he came. 
 Like wolves before the levin flame. 
 When, 'mid their howling conclave 
 
 driven. 
 Hath glanced the thunderbolt of 
 
 heaven. 
 Bertram rush'd on — but Harpool 
 
 clasp'd 
 His knees, although in death he 
 
 gasp'd. 
 His tailing corpse before him flung, 
 Anti round the trammell'd rufdan 
 
 clung. 
 Just then, the soldiers fill'd the 
 
 dome. 
 And, shouting, charged the felons 
 
 home 
 So fiercely, that, in panic dread. 
 They broke, they yielded, fell, or 
 
 fled. 
 Bertram's stem voice they heed no 
 
 more, 
 Though heard above the battle's 
 
 roar; 
 While, trampling down the dying 
 
 man, 
 He strove, with voUey'd threat and 
 
 ban, 
 In scorn of odds, in fate's despite. 
 To rally up the desperate fight. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Soon murkier clouds the Hall enfold 
 Than e'er from battle-thunders 
 
 roU'd ; 
 So < :is5, the combatants scarca 
 
 .' :i<!\v 
 
262 
 
 SCOTT'f^ POETICAL WOLKS. 
 
 To aim or to avoid the blow. . 
 Smothering and blindfold grows the 
 
 fight- 
 But soon shall dawn a dismal light ! 
 'Mid cries, and clashing arms, there 
 
 came 
 The hollow sound of rushing flame; 
 New horrors on the tumult dire 
 Arise — the Castle is on fire ! 
 Doubtful if chance had cast the 
 
 brand. 
 Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand. 
 Matilda saw — for frequent broke 
 From the dim casements gusts of 
 
 smoke. 
 Yon tower, which late so clear de- 
 fined 
 On the fair hemisphere reclined, 
 That, pencil] 'd on Its azure pure. 
 The eye could count each embrazure, 
 Now, swath'd within the sweeping 
 
 cloud, 
 Seems giant spectre in his shroud; 
 Till, from each loop-hole flashing 
 
 liglit, 
 A spout of fire shines ruddy bright, 
 And, gathering to united glare, 
 Streams high into the midnight air; 
 A dismal beacon, far and wide 
 That waken'd Greta's slumbering 
 
 side. 
 Soon all beneath, through gallery 
 
 long. 
 And pendant arch the fire flash'd 
 
 strong. 
 Snatching whatever could maintain, 
 Raise, or extend, its furious reign ; 
 Startling, with closer caase of dread, 
 The females who the conflict fled. 
 And now rush'd forth upon the plain, 
 Filling the air with clamours vain. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 But ceased not yet, the Hall within. 
 The shriek, the shout, the carnage- 
 din, 
 Till bursting lattices give proof 
 The flames have caught the rafter'd 
 
 roof. 
 What ! wait they till its beams amain 
 Crash on the slayers and the slain? 
 
 The alarm is caught — the drawbridge 
 
 falls, 
 The warriors hurry from the walls, 
 But, by the conflagration's light, 
 Upon the lawn renew the fight. 
 Each struggling felon down was 
 
 hew'd, 
 Not one could gain the sheltering 
 
 wood; 
 But forth the affrighted harper 
 
 sprung, 
 And to Matilda's robe he clung. 
 Her shriek, entreaty, and command, 
 Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand. 
 Denzil and he alive were ta'en; 
 The rest; save Bertram, all are slain, 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And where is Bertram? — Soaring 
 
 high 
 The general flame ascends the sky; 
 In gather'd group the soldiers gaze 
 Upon the broad and roaring blaze. 
 When, like infernal demon, sent, 
 Red from his penal element, 
 To plague and to pollute the air, — 
 His face all gore, on fire his hair, 
 Forth from the central mass of smoke 
 The giant form of Bertram broke ! 
 His brandish'd sword on high he 
 
 rears, 
 Then plunged among opposing 
 
 spears ; 
 Round his left arm his mantle 
 
 truss'd. 
 Received and foil'd three lances* 
 
 thrust; 
 Nor these his headlong course with- 
 stood, 
 Like reeds he snapp'd the tough ash- 
 wood. 
 In vain his foes around him clung, 
 With matchless force aside he flung 
 Their boldest, — as the bull, at bay, 
 Tosses the ban-dogs from his way. 
 Through forty foes his path he made, 
 And safely gain'd the forest glade. 
 
 xxxvn. 
 
 Scarce was this final conflict o'er, 
 When from the postern Redmond 
 
 bore 
 Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft. 
 
BOEEBY. 
 
 263 
 
 Had in the fatal Hall been left, 
 Deserted there by all his train: 
 Bait Kedmond saw' and turn'd 
 
 again.— 
 Beneath an oak he laid him down, 
 That in the blaze gleam'd ruddy 
 
 brown, 
 And then his mantle's clasp undid; 
 Matilda held his drooping head, 
 Till, given to breathe the freer air, 
 Keturning life repaid their care. 
 He gazed on them with heavy sigh, — 
 " I could have wish'd even thus to 
 
 die !" 
 No more he said — fornowwith speed 
 Each trooper had regain'd his steed; 
 The ready palfrey's stood array'd, 
 For Eedmond and for Eokeby's Maid; 
 Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain, 
 Ono leads his charger by the rein. 
 But oft Matilda look'd behind. 
 As up the \ ale of Tees they wind. 
 Where far the mansion of her sires 
 Beacon'd the dale with midnight 
 
 fires. 
 In gloomy arch above them spread, 
 The clouded heaven lower' d bloody 
 
 red; 
 Beneath, in sombre light, the flood 
 Appear'd to roll in waves of blood. 
 Then, one by one, was heard to fall 
 The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall. 
 Each rushing down with thunder 
 
 sound, 
 A space the conflagration drown'd ; 
 Till, gathering strength, again it rose. 
 Announced its triumph in its close, 
 Shook wide its light the landscape 
 
 o'er, 
 Then sunk — and Eokeby was no 
 
 more ! 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 
 L 
 
 The summer sun, whose early power 
 Was wont to gild Matilda's bower, 
 And rouse her with his matin ray 
 Her duteous orisons to pay, — 
 That morning sua has three times 
 seen 
 
 The flowers unfold on Eokeby green. 
 But sees no more the slumbers fly 
 From fair Matilda's hazel eye; 
 That morning sun has three times 
 
 broke 
 On Eokeby's glades of elm and oak, 
 But, rising from their silvan screen, 
 Marks no grey turrets glance be- 
 tween. 
 A shapeless mass lie keep and tower. 
 That, hissing to the morning shower. 
 Can but with smouldering vapour 
 
 ^, pay 
 
 The early smile of summer day. 
 The peasant, to his labour bound. 
 Pauses to view the blacken'd mound, 
 Striving, amid the ruin'd space, 
 Each well-remember'd spot to trace. 
 That length of frail and tire-scorch'd 
 
 wall 
 Once screen'd the hospitable haU; 
 When yonder broken arch was whole, 
 'Twas there was dealt the weekly 
 
 dole; 
 And where yon tottering columns 
 
 nod. 
 The chapel sent the hymn to God. — 
 So flits the world's uncertain span ! 
 Nor zeal for God, nor love for man. 
 Gives mortal monuments a date 
 Beyond the power of Time end Fate. 
 The towers must share the builder's 
 
 doom; 
 Euin is theirs, and his a tomb : 
 But better boon benignant Heaven 
 To Faith and Charity has given, 
 And bids the Christian hope sublime 
 Transcend the bounds of Fate and 
 
 Time. 
 
 n. 
 
 Now the third night of summer came. 
 Since that which witness'd Eokeby's 
 
 flame. 
 On Brignall cliffs and Scargill brake 
 The owlet s homilies awake. 
 The bittern scream'd from rush and 
 
 flag. 
 The raven slumber'd on his crag. 
 Forth from his den the otter drew, — 
 Grayling and trout their tyrant knew, 
 As between reed and sedge he peers, 
 
264 
 
 soorrs poetical works. 
 
 With fierce round snout and sharp- 
 ened ears, 
 Or, prowling by the moonbeam cool, 
 Watches the stream or swims the 
 
 pool; — 
 Perch'd on his wonted eyrie high, 
 Sleep seal'd the tercelet's wearied eye, 
 That all the day had watch'd so well 
 The cushat dart across the dell. 
 In dubious beam reflected shone 
 That lol'ty cliff of pale grey stone. 
 Beside whose base the secret cave 
 To rapine lut :>. a refuge gave. 
 The crag's v/ilJ crest of copse and 
 
 yew 
 On Greta's breast dark shadows 
 
 threw; 
 Shadows that met or shunn'd the 
 
 sight. 
 With every change of fitful light; 
 As hope and fear alternate chase 
 Our course through life's uncertain 
 race. 
 
 ni. 
 
 Gliding by crag and copsewood green, 
 A solitary form was seen 
 To trace with stealthy pace the wold. 
 Like fox that seeks the midnight fold. 
 And pauses oft, and cowers dismayed, 
 At every breath that stirs the shade. 
 lie passes now the ivy bush, — 
 The owl has seen him, and is hush; 
 He passes now the dodder'd oak, — 
 Yo heard the startled raven croak; 
 Lower and lower he descends. 
 Bustle the leaves, and brushwood 
 
 bends; 
 The otter hears him tread the shore, 
 And divef5, and is beheld no more; 
 And by the cliff of pale gray stone 
 The midnight wanderer stands alone. 
 Methinks tliat by the moon we trace 
 A well-remember'd form and face ! 
 That strijDling shape, that cheek so 
 
 pale, ' 
 Combine to tell a rueful tale, * 
 Of x^owers misused,of passion's force, 
 of guilt, of grief, and of remorse ! 
 'Tis Edmund's eye, at every sound 
 That flings that guilty glance around ; 
 'Tis Edmund's trembling haste di- 
 
 yides 
 
 The brushwood that the cavern hides; 
 And, when its narrow porch lies bare, 
 'Tis Edmund's form that enters there. 
 
 IV. 
 
 His flint and steel have sparkled 
 
 bright, 
 A lamp hath lent the cavern light. 
 Fearful and quick his eye surveys 
 Each angle of the gloomy maze. 
 Since last he left that stern abode. 
 It seem'd as none its floor had trode; 
 Untouch'd appear'd the various spoil. 
 The purchase of his comrades' toil; 
 Masks and disguises, grim'd with 
 
 mud; 
 Arms broken and defiled with blood, 
 And all the nameless tools that aid 
 Night-felons in their lawless trade, 
 Upon the gloomy walls were hung. 
 Or lay in nooks obscurely flung. 
 Still on the sordid board appear 
 The relics of the noontide cheer; 
 Flagonsand emptied flasks were there, 
 And bench o'erthrown, and shatter'd 
 
 chair; 
 And all around the semblance show'd, 
 As when the final revel glow'd, 
 When the red sun was setting fast, 
 A nd parting pledge Guy Denzil past. 
 "To Kokeby treasure-vaults!" they 
 
 quaff' d, 
 And shouted loud and wildly laugh'd, 
 Pour'd maddening from the rocky 
 
 door. 
 And parted — to return no more ! 
 They found in Eokeby vaults their 
 
 doom, — 
 A bloody death, a burning tomb ! 
 
 There his own peasant dress he spies, 
 
 Dofl'd to assume that quaint disguise; 
 
 And, shuddering, thought upon his 
 glee, 
 
 When prank'd in garb of minstrelsy. 
 
 "O, be the fatal art accurst," 
 
 He cried," that moved my folly first; 
 
 Till, bribed by biindits' base ap- 
 plause, 
 
 I burst through God's and Nature's 
 laws ! 
 
itOKEBT. 
 
 265 
 
 Three summer days are scantly paat 
 Since I have trod this cavern last, 
 A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to 
 
 err — 
 But, O, as yet no murderer ! 
 Even now I list my comrades' cheer, 
 That general laugh is in mine ear. 
 Which raised my pulse and steel'd 
 
 my heart, 
 As I rehearsed my treacherous part — 
 And would that all since then could 
 
 seem 
 The phantom of a fever's dream ! 
 But fatal Memory notes too well 
 The horrors of the dying yell 
 From my despairing mates that broke, 
 \Yhen flash'd the lire and roU'd the 
 
 smoke; 
 When the avengers shouting came. 
 And hemm'd us 'twixt the sword and 
 
 flame! 
 Myfrantic flight, — theliftedbrand,— 
 
 That angel's interposing hand ? 
 
 If, for my life from slaughter freed, 
 I yet coul 1 pay some grateful meed ! 
 Perchance this object of my quest 
 May aid " — he turn'd, nor spoke the 
 
 rest. 
 
 TL 
 
 Due northward from the rugged 
 
 hearth. 
 With paces five he metes the earth, 
 Then toil'd with mattock to explore 
 The entrails of the cabin floor, 
 Nor paused till, deep beneath the 
 
 ground, 
 His search a small steel casket found. 
 Just as he stoop'd to loose its hasp. 
 His shoulder felt a giant grasp ; 
 He started, and look'd up aghast, 
 Then shriek'd ! — 'Twas Bertram held 
 
 him fast. 
 " Fear not ! ' he said; but who could 
 
 hear 
 That deep stern voice, and cease to 
 
 fear. 
 *' Fear not ! — By Heaven, he shakes 
 
 as much 
 As partridge in the falcon's clutch:" — 
 He raised him, and unloosed his 
 
 hold, 
 
 While from the opening casket roU'd 
 A chain and reliquaire of gold. 
 Bertram beheld it with surprise, 
 Gazed on its fashion and device. 
 Then, cheering Edmund as he could. 
 Somewhat he smooth'd his rugged 
 
 mood: 
 For still the youth's half-lifted eye 
 Quiver'd with terror's agony, 
 And sidelong glanced, as to explore, 
 In meditated flight, the door. 
 "Sit," Bertram said, "from danger 
 
 free: 
 Thou canst not, and thou shalt not. 
 
 flee. 
 Cl^ance brings me hither; hill and 
 
 plain 
 I've sought for refuge-place in vain. 
 And tell me now, thou aguish bo}^ 
 What makest thou here ? what means 
 
 this toy? 
 Denzil and thou, I mark'd, were 
 
 ta'en; 
 What lucky chance unbound your 
 
 chain V 
 I deem'd, long since on Baliol's tower, 
 Your heads were warp'd with sun and 
 
 shower. 
 Tell me the whole — and, mark I 
 
 nought e'er 
 Chafes me like falsehood, or like 
 
 fear." 
 Gathering his courage to his aid, 
 But trembling still, the youth obey'd. 
 
 VU. 
 
 *• Denzil and I two nights passed o'er 
 
 In fetters on the dungeon floor. 
 
 A guest the third sad morrow 
 
 brought; 
 Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe 
 
 sought, 
 And eyed my comrade long askance, 
 With fix'd and penetrating glance. 
 * Guy Denzil art thou call'd V'—' The 
 
 same. ' — 
 ' At Court who served with wild 
 
 Buckinghame; 
 Thence banish'd, won a keeper's 
 
 place. 
 So Villiers will'd, in Marwood-chase; 
 That lost— I need not tell thee wLy — 
 
266 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOUKS. 
 
 Thou madest thy wit thy wants sup- 
 ply. 
 Then fought for Rokeby: — Have I 
 
 guess'd 
 My prisoner right?" — 'At thy be- 
 hest.'— 
 He paused a while, and then went on 
 With low and confidential tone; — 
 Me, as I judge, not then he saw, 
 Close nestled in my covich of straw. — 
 'List to me, Guy. Thou linow'st the 
 
 great 
 Have fjequent need of what they 
 
 hate; 
 Hence, in their favour oft we see 
 Unscrui)led, useful men like thee. 
 Were I disposed to bid thee live, 
 Wliat pledge of faith hast thou to 
 give?' 
 
 vni. 
 
 *' The ready Fiend, who never yet 
 Hath failed to sharpen Denzil's wit, 
 Prompted his lie — ' His only child 
 Should rest his pledge.' — The Baron 
 
 smiled, 
 And turn'd to me — *Thou art his 
 
 son?' 
 I bowed — our fetters were undone. 
 And we were led to hear apart 
 A dreadful lesson of his art. 
 Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son, 
 Had fair Matilda's favour won; 
 And long since had their union 
 
 been, 
 But for her father's bigot spleen, 
 Whose brute and blindfold party- 
 rage 
 Would, force per force, her hand en- 
 gage 
 To a base kern of Irish earth, 
 Unknown his lineage and his birth, 
 Save that a dying ruffian bore 
 The infant brat to Bokeby door. 
 Gentle restraint, ho said, would lead 
 Old Bokeby to enlarge his creed; 
 But fair occasion he must find 
 For such restraint well-meant and 
 
 kind. 
 The Knight being rendered to his 
 
 charge 
 But as a prisoner at large. 
 
 IX. 
 
 "He school'd us in a well-forged 
 
 tale, 
 Of scheme the Castle walls to scale, 
 To which was leagued each Cavalier 
 That dwells upon the Tyne and 
 
 Wear; 
 That Bokeby, his parole forgot, 
 Had dealt with us to aid the plot. 
 Such was the charge, which Denzil's 
 
 zeal 
 Of hato to Bokeby and O'Neale 
 Profit'er'd as witness, to make good, 
 Even though the forfeit were their 
 
 blood. 
 I scrupled, until o'er and o'er 
 His prisoners' safety Wycliffe swore; 
 And then — alas ! what needs there 
 
 more? 
 I knew I should not live to say 
 The profTer I refused that day; 
 Ashamed to live, yet loth to die, 
 I soil'd me with their infamy !" — 
 " Poor youth, " said Bertram, *' waver- 
 ing still, 
 TJDfit alike for good or ill ! 
 Cut what fell next?" — "Soon as at 
 
 large 
 Y/as scroll'd and sign'd our fatal 
 
 charge, 
 There never yet, on tragic stage, 
 V/as seen so well a painted rage 
 As Oswald's show'd ! With loud 
 
 alarm 
 He caird his garrison to arm ; 
 JJrom tower to tower, from post to 
 
 post, 
 He hurried as if all were lost; 
 Cod sign'd to dungeon and to chain 
 The good old Knight and all his train; 
 Warn'd each suspected Cavalier, 
 Within his limits, to appear 
 To-morrow, at the hour of noon. 
 In the high church at Egliston." — 
 
 X. 
 
 "Of Egliston !— Even now I pass'd," 
 Said Bertram, "as the night closed 
 
 fast; 
 Torches and cressets gleam 'd around, 
 I heard the saw and hammer sound, 
 And I could mark thev toil'd to raisu 
 
BOKEBT. 
 
 267 
 
 A scaffold, hung with sable baize, 
 Which the grim headsman's scene 
 
 display' d, 
 Block, axe, and sawdust ready laid. 
 Some evil deed will there be done, 
 Unless Matilda wed his son; — 
 She loves him not — 'tis shrewdly 
 
 guess'd 
 That Redmond rules the damsel's 
 
 breast. 
 This is a turn of Oswald's skill; 
 But I may meet, and foil him still ' 
 
 How earnest thou to thy freedom?" — 
 
 "There 
 Lies mystery more dark and rare. 
 In midst of Wycliffe's well-feigned 
 
 rage, 
 A scroll was offer'd by a page, 
 "Who told, a muffled horseman late 
 Had left it at the Castle-gate. 
 He broke the seal — his cheek show'd 
 
 change. 
 Sudden, portentous, wild, andstrange ; 
 The mimic passion of his eye 
 Was turn'd to actual agony; 
 His hand like summer sapling shook. 
 Terror and guilt were in his look. 
 Denzil he judged, in time of need, 
 Fit counsellor for evil deed; 
 And thus apart his counsel broke, 
 While with a ghastly smile he spoke: 
 
 XI. 
 
 *" As in the pageants of the stage. 
 The dead awake in this wild age, 
 Mortham — whom all men deem'd de- 
 creed 
 In his own deadly snare to bleed, 
 Slain by a bravo, whom, o'er sea, 
 He train'd to aid in murdering me, — 
 Mortham has 'scaped ! The coward 
 
 shot 
 The steed, but harm'd the rider not. ' " 
 Here, with an execration fell, 
 Bertram leap'd up, and paced the 
 
 cell:— 
 "Thine own grey head, or bosom 
 
 dark," 
 He mutter'd, "may be surer mark !" 
 Then sat, and sign'd to Edmund, pale 
 With terror, to resume his tale. 
 
 "Wycliffe went on:— 'Mark with 
 
 what flights 
 Of wilder'd reverie he writes: — 
 
 The Letter. 
 
 " ' Euler of Mortham 's destiny ! 
 Though dead, thy victim lives to 
 
 thee. 
 Once had he all that binds to life, 
 A lovely child, a lovelier wife; 
 Wealth, fame, and friendship, were 
 
 his own — 
 Thou gavest the word, and they are 
 
 flown. 
 Mark how he pays thee: — To thy 
 
 hand 
 He yields his honours and his land. 
 One boon premised; — Restore his 
 
 child ! 
 And, from his native land exiled, 
 Mortham no more returns to claim 
 His lands, his honours, or his name; 
 Refuse him this, and from the slain 
 Thou shalt see Mortham rise again.' — 
 
 XIL 
 
 " This billet while the Baron read, 
 His faltering accents show'd his 
 
 dread; 
 He press'd his forehead with his 
 
 palm. 
 Then took a scornful tone and calm ; 
 ' Wild as the winds, as billows wild ! 
 What wot I of his spouse or child ? 
 Hither he brought a joyous dame, 
 Unknown her lineage or her name : 
 Her, in some frantic fit, he slew ; 
 The nurse and child in fear with- 
 drew. 
 Heaven be my witness ! wist I where 
 To find this youth, my kinsman's 
 
 heir, — 
 Unguerdon'd, I would give with joy 
 Tho father's arms to fold his boy. 
 And Mortham's lands and towers re- 
 sign 
 To the just heirs of Mortham*s 
 
 line.'— 
 Thou know'st that scarcely e'en his 
 
 fear 
 Suppresses Denzil's cynic sneer; — 
 ' Then happy is thy vassal'^ part,' 
 
208 
 
 8C0TTS POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 He said, ' to ease his patron's heart ! 
 In thine own jailer's watchful care 
 Lies Mortham's just and rightful 
 
 heir; 
 Thy generous wish is fully won, — 
 Redmond O'Neale is Mortham's 
 
 son.' 
 
 xm. 
 
 "Up starting with a frenzied look, 
 His clenched hand the Baron shook: 
 • Is Hell at work ? or dost thou rave, 
 Or darest thou palter with me, slave ! 
 Perchance thou wot'stnot, Barnard's 
 
 towers 
 Have racks, of strange and ghastly 
 
 powers.' 
 Denzil, who -well his safety knew, 
 Firmly rejoin 'd, ' I tell thee true. 
 Thy racks cotdd give thee but to 
 
 know 
 The proofs, which I, untortured, 
 
 show. — 
 It chanced u^Don a winter night, 
 When early snow made Stanmore 
 
 white, 
 That very night, when first of all 
 Redmond O'Neale saw Rokeby Hall, 
 It was my goodly lot to gain 
 A reliquary and a chain. 
 Twisted and chased of massive gold. 
 — Demand not how the prize I hold ! 
 It was not given, nor lent, nor 
 
 sold. — 
 Gilt tablets to the chain were hung, 
 With letters in the Irish tongue. 
 I hid my spoil, for there was need 
 That I should leave the land with 
 
 speed ; 
 Nor then I deem'd it safe to bear 
 On mine own person gems so rare. 
 Small heed I of the tablets took. 
 But since have spell'd them by the 
 
 book, 
 Y/hen some sojourn in Erin's land 
 Of their wild speech had given com- 
 mand, 
 But darkling was the sense ; the 
 
 phrase 
 And language those of other days, 
 Involved of purpose, as to foil 
 An interloper's prying toil. 
 
 The words, but not the sense, I 
 
 knew. 
 Till fortune gave the guiding clue. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " ' Three days since, was that clue 
 
 reveal'd. 
 In Thorsgill as I lay conceal' d, 
 And heard at full when Rokeby'a 
 
 Maid 
 Her uncle's history display'd ; 
 And now I can interpret well 
 Each syllable the tablets tell. 
 Mark, then : Fair Edith was the joy 
 Of old O'Neale of Clandeboy ; 
 But from her sire and country fled. 
 In secret Mortham's Lord to wed. 
 O'Neale, his first resentment o'er, 
 Despatch'd his son to Greta's shore. 
 Enjoining he should make him 
 
 known 
 (Until his farther will were shown) 
 To Edith, but to her alone. 
 What of their ill-starr'd meeting fell 
 Lord Wycliffe knows, and none so 
 
 well. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " ' O'Neale it was, who, in despair, 
 Robb'd Mortham of his infant heir; 
 He bred him in their nurture wild, 
 And call'd him murder'd Connel's 
 
 child. 
 Soon died the nurse; the Clan be- 
 lieved 
 What from their Chieftain they re- 
 ceived. 
 His purpose was that ne'er again 
 The boy should cross the Irish main; 
 But, like his mountain sires, enjoy 
 The woods and wastes of Clandeboy, 
 Then on the land wild troubles came, 
 And stronger Chieftains urged a 
 
 claim. 
 And wrested from the old man's 
 
 hands 
 His native towers, his father's lands. 
 Unable then, amid the strife. 
 To guard young Redmond's rights or 
 
 life. 
 Late and reluctant he restores 
 The infant to his native shores, 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 269 
 
 With goodly gifts and letters stored, 
 With many a deep conjuring word, 
 To Mortham and to Bokeby's Lord. 
 Nought knew the clod of Irish earth. 
 Who was the guide, of Redmond's 
 
 birth ; 
 But deem'd his Chief's commands 
 
 were laid 
 On both, by both to be obey'd. 
 How he was wounded by the way, 
 I need not, and I list not say.' — 
 
 XVL 
 
 " ' A wondrous tale ! and, grant it 
 
 true, 
 What,' Wycliffe answer'd, 'might I 
 
 do? 
 Heaven knows, as willingly as now 
 I raise the bonnet from my brow, 
 Would I my kinsman's manors fair 
 Bestore to Mortham, or his heir; 
 But Mortham is distraught — O'Neale 
 Has drawn for tyranny his steel, 
 Malignant to our rightful cause, 
 And train'd in Bome's delusive laws. 
 Hark thee apart !' — ^They whisper'd 
 
 long. 
 Till Denzil's voice grew bold and 
 
 strong ; — 
 ' My proofs ! I never will, ' he said, 
 ' Show mortal man where they are 
 
 laid. 
 Nor hope discovery to foreclose, 
 By giving me to feed the crows; 
 For 1 have mates at large, who know 
 Where I am wont such toys to stow. 
 Free me from peril and from band, 
 These tablets are at thy command: 
 Nor were it hard to form some train, 
 To wile old Mortham o'er the main. 
 Then, lunatic's nor papist's hand 
 Should wrest from thine the goodly 
 
 land.'— 
 — 'I like thy wit,' said Wycliflfe, 
 
 ♦well ; 
 But here in hostage shalt thou dwell. 
 Thy son, unless my purpose err, 
 May prove the trustier messenger. 
 A scroll to Mortham shall he bear 
 From me, and fetch these tokens 
 
 rare. 
 
 Gold shalt thou have, and that good 
 
 store, 
 And freedom, his commission o'er; 
 But if his faith should chance to fail. 
 The gibbet frees thee from the jail.' — 
 
 XYH. 
 
 "Mesh'd in the net himself had 
 
 twined, 
 What subterfuge could Danzil find? 
 He told me, with reluctant sigh, 
 That hidden here the tokens lie; 
 Conjured my swift return and aid, 
 By all he scoflTd and disobey'd, 
 And look'd as if the noose were tied, 
 And I the priest who left his side. 
 This scroll from Mortham Wycliflfe 
 
 gave. 
 Whom I must seek by Greta's wave; 
 Or in the hut where chief he hides, 
 Where Thorsgill's forester resides. 
 (Then chanced it, wandering in the 
 
 glade, 
 That he descried our ambuscade.) 
 I was dismiss'd as evening fell, 
 And reach'd but now this rocky 
 
 cell."— 
 "Give Oswald's letter." — Bertram 
 
 read, 
 And tore it fiercely shred by shred : — 
 " All lies and villany ! to blind 
 His noble kinsman's generous mind. 
 And train him on from day to day, 
 Till he can take his life away. — 
 And now, declare thy purpose, youth, 
 Nor dare to answer, save the truth; 
 If aught I mark of Denzil's art, 
 I'll tear the secret from thy heart!" — 
 
 xvin. 
 
 " It needs not. I renounce," he said, 
 " My tutor and his deadly trade. 
 Fix'd was my purpose to declare 
 To Mortham, Bedmond is his heir; 
 To tell him in what risk he stands, 
 And yield these tokens to his hands. 
 Fix'd was my purpose to atone, 
 Far as I may, the evil done ; 
 And fix'd it rests — if I survive 
 This night, and leave this cave alive." 
 ''And Denzdl?"— " Let them ply the 
 rack 
 
270 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Even till his joints find sinews crack ! 
 ]f Oswald tear liim limb from limb, 
 What ruth can Denzil claim from 
 
 him, 
 "Whose thoughtless youth ho lc;l 
 
 astray, 
 And damnM to this unhallowM way ? 
 He school'd mo faith and vows were 
 
 vain; 
 Now let my master reap his [;;ain." — 
 " True," answer'd Bertram, " 'tis his 
 
 meed; 
 There's retribution in the deed. 
 But thou— thou art not for our 
 
 course, 
 Hast fecr, hast pity, has' romorso: 
 And he with ui the galo who braves, 
 Must heavo such cargo to tho wavoj. 
 Or lag with overloaded prore, 
 While barks unburden' d reach tho 
 
 shore." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 IIo paused, and, stretching him at 
 
 length, 
 Secm'd to reposo hia bulky £;trcngth. 
 Communing with his F-ecret mind, 
 As half he sat, and half reclined, 
 One ample hand his forehead press' J, 
 And one was dropp'd across hh 
 
 breast. 
 The shaggy eyebrov/s deeper came 
 Above hia eyes of cwarthy llamc; 
 His lip of ]>rido a v/hilo lorboro 
 Tho hauf^hty curvotlll then ib wore; 
 Tho unaltore 1 ficrccacf:3 of L::3 look 
 A shada cf clarkcn'd sadncns took, — 
 For dark end r-al a pvesajo x^rcssM, 
 Hesistlossly on Dortram's broact, — 
 And when ho cpokn, 1::3 wonted tone, 
 So fierce, abrupt, and brief v/as rrono. 
 Ills voice v/as steady, low, and deep. 
 Like distant waves, when breezes 
 
 deep ; 
 And sorrov/ mix'd with Edmund's 
 
 foar. 
 Its lov/ unbroken depth to hear. 
 
 XX. 
 
 "Edmund, in thy sad talo I find 
 The woo that warp'd my patron's 
 mind : 
 
 'Twould wake the fountains of the 
 
 eye 
 In other men, but mine are dry. 
 Ivlorthara must never see the fool. 
 That sold himself base Wycliffe's 
 
 tool; 
 Yet less from thirst of sordid gain. 
 Than { o avenge supposed disdain. 
 Gay, Tertram rues his fault; — a word, 
 Till now, from Bertram never heard: 
 Say, too, that Mortham's Lord ho 
 
 prays 
 To think but on their former days; 
 On Quariana's beach and rock, 
 3n Ciayo's bursting battle-shock, 
 On Darion's sands and deadly dew. 
 And on tho dart Tlatzeca threw; — 
 Perchance my patron yet may hear 
 More that may grace his comrade's 
 
 bier. 
 My soul hath felt a secret weight, 
 A warning of approaching fate; 
 A priest had said, ' Return, repent !' 
 As well to bid that rock "be rent. 
 Firm as that flint I face mine end; 
 lly heart may burst, but cannot 
 
 bend. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " The dawning of my youth, with 
 
 awe 
 And prophecy, tho Dalesmen saw; 
 For over Iledesdalo it came, 
 As bodeful r.j their beacon-flame. 
 Edmun:!, thy years were scarcely 
 
 mine, 
 V/Ticn, challenging the Clans of 
 
 Tyne, 
 To bring their best my brand to 
 
 prove, 
 O'er Hexham's altar hung my glove ; 
 Eut Tynedalo, nor in tower nor 
 
 town, 
 Held champion meet to take it down. 
 llj noontide, India may declare ; 
 Like her fierce sun, I fired tho air ! 
 Like him, to v/ood and cave bade 
 
 Her nat-ves, from mino angry eye. 
 Panama's maids shall long look pale 
 When Eisingham inspires the talo; 
 Chili's dark matrons long shall tame 
 
ROKEBT. 
 
 271 
 
 Tlie frov/ard child witli Bertram's 
 
 name. 
 And now, my race of terror run, 
 Mine be the eve of trojjic sun ! 
 ♦No pale gradations quench his ray. 
 No twiligiit dews his wrath allay; 
 With disk like battle-target red, 
 He rushes to his burning bed, 
 Dyes the v/ide wave with bloody 
 
 light, 
 Then sinks at once — and all is night. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 •' Now to thy mission, Edmund. Fly, 
 Seek Mortham out, and bid him hie 
 To Richmond, where his troops are 
 
 laid, 
 And lead his force to Eedmond's aid. 
 Say, till he reaches Egliston, 
 A friend will watch to guard his son. 
 Now, fare-thee-well; for night draws 
 
 on, 
 And I would rest me hero alone." 
 Despite his ill dissembled fear, 
 There swam in Edmund s eye a tear; 
 A tribute to the courage high. 
 Which stoop M not in extremity, 
 But strove, irregularly great, 
 To triumph o'er apjDroaching fate I 
 Bertram beheld the dev.'drop start, 
 It almost touch'd his iron heart: — 
 •*I did not think there lived," he 
 
 said, « 
 
 "One, who would tear for Bertram 
 
 shed." 
 He loosen'd then his baldric's hold, 
 A buckle broad of massive gold; — 
 " Of all the spoil that paid his pains, 
 But this with Eisingham remains; 
 And this, dear Edmund, thou shalt 
 
 take. 
 And wear it long for Bertram's sake. 
 Once more— to Mortham speed 
 
 amain; 
 Farewell ! and turn thee not again." 
 
 xxni. 
 
 The night has yielded to the morn, 
 And far the hours of prime are worn. 
 Oswald, who, since the dawn of day, 
 Had cursed his messenger's delay, 
 Impatient question'd now his train, 
 
 ' ' Was Denzil's son return'd again ?" 
 It chanced there answer'd of the 
 
 crew, 
 A menicd, who young Edmund knew: 
 "No son of Denzil this," — he said; 
 "A peasant boy from Winston glade. 
 For song and minstrelsy renown'd, 
 And knavish pranks, the hamlets 
 
 round." — 
 "Not Denzil's son! — from Winston 
 
 vale ! — 
 Then it was false, that specious tale: 
 Or, worse — he hath despatch'd the 
 
 youth 
 To show to Mortham's Lord its truth. 
 Fool that I was !— but 'tis too late: — 
 This is tho very turn of fate ! — 
 The tale, or true or false, relies 
 Oa Donzil's evidence ! — He dies 1 
 IIo ! Provost Marshal ! instantly 
 Lead Denzil to the gallows-tree 1 
 Allow him not a parting word; 
 Short be the shrift, and sure the cord I 
 Then let his gory head appal 
 Marauders from the Castle-wall. 
 Lead forth thy guard, that duty done, 
 With best dispatch to Egliston. — 
 — Basil, tell Wilfrid he must straight 
 Attend me at the Castle-gate." 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Alas !" the old domestic said. 
 And shook his venerable head, 
 "Alas, my lord ! full iil to-day 
 May my young master brook the way I 
 The leech has spoke with grave 
 
 alarm. 
 Of unseen hurt, of secret harm, 
 Of sorrow lurkiug at tho heart. 
 That mars and lets his healing art." — 
 " Tush, tell not mo ! —Romantic boys 
 Pine themselves sick for airy toys, 
 I will find cure for Wilfrid soon; 
 Bid him for Egliston be boune. 
 And quick ! — i hear the dull death- 
 drum 
 Tell Denzil's hour of fate is come." 
 He paused with scornful smile, and 
 
 then 
 Resumed his train of thought agen. 
 " Now comes my fortune's crisis 
 near I 
 
272 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Entreaty boots not — instant fear. 
 Naught else, can bend Matilda's 
 
 pride, 
 Or win her to be Wilfrid's bride. 
 But when she sees the scaffold 
 
 placed, 
 With axe and block and headsman 
 
 graced, 
 And when she deems, that to deny- 
 Dooms Eedmond and her sire to die, 
 She must give way. — Then, were the 
 
 line 
 Of Eokeby once combined with mine, 
 I gain the weather-gage of fate ! 
 If Mortham come, he comes too late, 
 While I, allied thus and prepared, 
 Bid him defiance to his beard. — 
 — If she prove stubborn, shall I dare 
 To drop the axe ! — Soft ! pause we 
 
 there. 
 Mortham still lives — yon youth may 
 
 teU 
 His tale — and Fairfax loves him 
 
 well; — 
 Else, wherefore should I now delay 
 To sweep this Bedmond from my 
 
 way ? 
 But she to piety perforce 
 Must yield — Without there ! sound 
 
 to horse." 
 
 XXV. 
 'Twas bustle in the court below, — 
 ** Mount, and march forward!" — 
 
 Forth they go ; 
 Steeds neigh and trample all around. 
 Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets 
 
 sound. — 
 Just then was sung his parting hymn ; 
 And Denzil tum'd his eyeballs dim, 
 And, scarcely conscious what he sees, 
 Follows the horsemen down the 
 
 Tees; 
 And scarcely conscious what he 
 
 hears, 
 The trumpets tingle in his ears. 
 O'er the long bridge they're sweep- 
 ing now. 
 The van is hid by greenwood bough; 
 But ere the rearward had passed o'er, 
 Guy Denzil heard and saw no more ! 
 One stroke, upon the Castle bell, 
 To Oswald rung his dying knell, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 O, for that pencil, erst profuse 
 Of chivalry's emblazon'd hues, 
 That traced of old, in Woodstock ^ 
 
 bower, 
 The pageant of the Leaf and Flower, 
 And bodied forth the tourney high. 
 Held for the hand of Emily I 
 Then might I paint the tumult loud, 
 That to the crowded abbey flow'd, 
 And pour'd, as with an ocean's sound, 
 Into the church's ample bound ! 
 Then might I show each varying 
 
 mein, 
 Exulting, woeful, or serene; 
 Indifference, with his idiot stare, 
 And Sympathy, with anxious air; 
 Paint the dejected Cavalier, 
 Doubtful, disarm'd, and sad of cheer; 
 And his proud foe, whose formal eye 
 Claim'd conquest now and mastery; 
 And the brute crowd, whose envious 
 
 zeal 
 Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel. 
 And loudest shouts when lowest lie 
 Exalted worth and station high. 
 Yet what may such a wish avail ? 
 'Tis mine to tell an onward tale. 
 Hurrying, as best I can, along, 
 The hearers and the hasty song; — 
 Like traveller when approaching 
 
 home, 
 Who sees the shades of evening come, 
 And must not now his course delay, 
 Or choose the fair, but winding way ; 
 Nay, scarcely may his pace suspend, 
 Where o'er his head the wildings 
 
 bend. 
 To bless the breeze that cools his 
 
 brow. 
 Or snatch a blossom from the bough. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 The reverend pile lay wild and waste. 
 Profaned, dishonour'd, and defaced. 
 Through storied lattices no more 
 In sotten'd light the sunbeams pour, 
 Gilding the Gothic sculpture rich 
 Of shrine, and monument, and niche. 
 The Civil fury of the time 
 Made sport of sacrilegious crime; 
 For dark Fanaticism rent 
 
ROKEBT. 
 
 273 
 
 Altar, and Bcreen, and ornament, 
 And peasant hands the tombs o'er- 
 
 threw 
 Of Bowes, of Kokeby, and Fitz-Hugh. 
 And now was seen, unwonted sight. 
 In holy walls a scaffold dight; 
 Where once the priest, of grace di- 
 
 Tine 
 Dealt to his flock the mystic sign. 
 There stood the block displayed, and 
 
 there 
 The headsman grim his hatchet bare, 
 And for the word of Plope and Faith, 
 Resounded loud a doom of death. 
 Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was 
 
 heard, 
 And echo'd thrice the herald's word. 
 Dooming, for breech of martial laws, 
 And treason to the Commons' cause, 
 The Knight of E,okeby and O'Neale 
 To stoop their heads to block and 
 
 steel. 
 The trumpets flourish'd high and 
 
 shrill. 
 Then was a silence dead and still; 
 And silent prayers to heaven were 
 
 cast. 
 And stifled sobs were bursting fast, 
 Till from the crowd begun to rise 
 Murmurs of sorrow or surprise, 
 And from the distant aisles there 
 
 came 
 Deep - mutter'd threats, with Wy- 
 
 cliffe's name. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 But Oswald, guarded by his band, 
 Powerful in evil, waved his hand, 
 And bade Sedition's voice be dead. 
 On peril of the murmurer's head. 
 Then first his glance sought Roke- 
 
 by's Knight; 
 Who gazed on the tremendous sight. 
 As calm as if he came a guest 
 To kindred Baron's feudal feast. 
 As calm as if that trumpet-call 
 Were summons to the banner'dhall; 
 Firm in his loyalty he stood, 
 And prompt to seal it with his 
 
 blood. 
 With downcast look drew Oswald 
 
 nigh,— 
 
 He durst not cope with Rokeby's 
 
 eye 
 
 I 
 
 And said, with low and faltering 
 
 breath, 
 " Thou know'st the terms of life and 
 
 death." 
 The Knight then turn'd, and sternly 
 
 smiled; 
 '*The maiden is mine only child, 
 Yet shall my blessing leave her head. 
 If with a traitor's son she wed." 
 Then Redmond spoke : ' ' the life of 
 
 one 
 Might thy malignity atone. 
 On me be flung a double guilt ! 
 Spare Rokeby's blood, let mine be 
 
 spilt !" 
 Wycliffe had listen'd to his suit, 
 But dread pre vail'd, and he was mute. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And now he pours his choice of fear 
 In secret on Slatilda's ear; 
 "An union form'd with me and mine, 
 Ensures the faith of Rokeby's line. 
 Consent, and all this dread array, 
 Like morning dream, shall pass away; 
 Refuse, and, by my duty press' d, 
 I give the word— thou know'st the 
 
 rest." 
 Matilda, still and motionless, 
 With terror heard the dread address, 
 Pale as the sheeted maid who dies 
 To hopeless love a sacrifice; 
 Then wrung her hands in agony, 
 And round her cast bewilder'd eye. 
 Now on the scaffold glanced, and 
 
 now 
 On Wycliffe's unrelenting brow. 
 She veil'd her face, and, with a voice 
 Scarce audible, — " I make my choice ! 
 Spare but their lives! — for aught 
 
 beside, 
 Let Wilfrid's doom my fate decide. 
 He once was generous !" — As she 
 
 spoke. 
 Dark Wycliffe's joy in triumph 
 
 broke : — 
 '• Wilfrid, where loiter'd ye so late ? 
 Why upon Basil rest thy weight ? — 
 Art spell -bound by enchanter's 
 
 wand ? — 
 
274 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Kneel, kneel, and take her yielded 
 
 hand; 
 Thank her with raptures, simple boy ! 
 Should tears and trembling speak t^jy 
 
 joy?''- 
 '* O hush, my sire I To prayer and 
 
 tear 
 Of mine thou hast refused thine ear; 
 But now the awful hour draws on, 
 When truth must speak in loftier 
 
 tone." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 He took Matilda's hand: " Dear maid, 
 Couldst thou so injure me," he said, 
 "Of thy poor friend so basely deem. 
 As blend with him this barbarous 
 
 scheme ? 
 Alas ! my efforts made in vain, 
 Might well have saved this added 
 
 pain. 
 But now, bear witness earth and 
 
 heaven, 
 That ne'er was hope to mortal given, 
 So twisted with the strings of life. 
 As this— to call Matilda wife ! 
 I bid it now for ever part. 
 And with the effort bursts my heart !" 
 His feeble frame was worn so low, 
 With wounds, with watching, and 
 
 with woo. 
 That nature could no more sustain 
 The agony of mental pain. 
 He kneel'd — his lip her hand had 
 
 press'd, — 
 Just then he felt the stern arrest. 
 Lower and lower sunk his head, — 
 They raised him, — but the life was 
 
 fled ! 
 Then, first alarm'd, his sire and 
 
 train 
 Tried every aid, but tried in vain. 
 The soul, too soft its ills to baar, 
 Had left our mortal hemisphere, 
 And sought in better world the meed. 
 To blameless life by Heaven decreed. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The wretched sire beheld, aghast. 
 With Wilfrid all his projects past, 
 All turn'd and centred on his son, 
 On Wilfrid all — and he was gone. 
 ** And I am childless now," he said, 
 
 * Childless, through that relentless 
 
 maid I 
 A lifetime's arts, in vain essay'd. 
 Are bursting on their artist's head ! 
 Here lies my Wilfrid dead — and 
 
 there 
 Comes hated Mortham for his heir. 
 Eager to knit in happy band 
 With Kokeby's heiress Eedmond's 
 
 hand. 
 And shall their triumph soar o'er all 
 The schemes deep-laid to work their 
 
 fall? 
 No ! — deeds, which prudence might 
 
 not dare, 
 Appal not vengeance and despair. 
 The murd'ress weeps upon his bier — 
 I'll change to real that feigned tear ! 
 They all shall share destruction's 
 
 shock; — 
 Ho ! lead the captives to the block !" — 
 But ill his Provost could divine 
 His feelings, and forbore the sign. 
 " Slave ! to the block ! — or I, or they, 
 Shall face the judgment-seat this 
 
 day !" 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 The outmost crowd have heard a 
 
 sound. 
 Like horse's hoof on harden'd ground: 
 Nearer it came, and yet more near, — 
 The very death's-men paused to hear. 
 'Tis in the churchyard now — the 
 
 tread 
 Hath waked the dwelling of the dead ! 
 Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone, 
 Eeturn the tramp in varied tone. 
 All eyes upon the gateway hung, 
 When through the Gothic arch there 
 
 sprung 
 A horseman arm'd, at headlong 
 
 speed — 
 Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. 
 Fire from the flinty floor was spum'd. 
 The vaults unwonted clang re- 
 
 tum'd ! — 
 One instant's glance around he threw. 
 From saddlebow his pistol diew. 
 Grimly determined was his look ! 
 His charger with his spurs he strook — 
 All scatter'd backward as he came, 
 
ROKEBT. 
 
 275 
 
 For all knew Bertram Kisingham ! 
 Three bounds that noble courser 
 
 gave; 
 The first had reach'd the central nave, 
 Tho second clear'd the chancel wide, 
 The third — he was at WyclifEe's side. 
 Full levell'd at the Baron's head, 
 Kung the report— the bullet sped — 
 And to his long account, and last, 
 Without a groan dark Oswald passed ! 
 All was i-:o quick that it might seem 
 A flash of lightning, or a dream. 
 
 xxxin. 
 
 While yet the smoke the deed con- 
 ceals, 
 Bertram his ready charger wheels ; 
 But flounder'd on the pavement-floor 
 The steed, and down the rider bore. 
 And, bursting in the headlong sway, 
 The faithless saddle-girths gave way. 
 'Twas while he toil'd Lim to be freed, 
 And with the rein to raise the s^eed, 
 That from amazement's iron trance 
 All WyclifEe's soldiers waked at once. 
 Sword, halbert, musket-butt, their 
 
 blows 
 Hail'd upon Bertram as he rose ; 
 A score of pikes, with each a wound. 
 Bore down and pinn'd him to the 
 
 ground; 
 But still his struggling force he rears, 
 'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing 
 
 spears ; 
 Thrice from assailants shook him free, 
 Once gain'd his feet, and twice his 
 
 knee. 
 By tenfold odds oppress'd at length. 
 Despite his struggles and his strength, 
 He took a hundred mortal wounds, 
 As mute as fox 'mongst mangling 
 
 hounds; 
 And when he died, his parting groan 
 Had more of laughter than of moan ! 
 —They gazed, as when a lion dies, 
 And hunters scarcely trust their eyes, 
 But bend their weapons on the slain. 
 Lest the grim king should rouse again ! 
 Then blow and insult some renew'd. 
 And from the trunk, the head had 
 
 hew'd, 
 
 But Basil's voice the deed forbade; 
 A mantle o'er the corse ho laid: — 
 " Fell as he was in act and mind. 
 He left no bolder heart behind: 
 Then give him, for a soldier's meet, 
 A soldier's cloak for winding sheet." 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 No more of death and dying pang, 
 No more of trump and bugle clang, 
 Though through the sounding woods 
 
 there come 
 Banner and bugle, trump and drum. § 
 Arm'd with such powers as well had 
 
 freed 
 Young Redmond at his utmost need. 
 And back'd with such a band of horse, 
 As might loss ample powers enforce; 
 Possess'd of every proof and sign 
 That gave an heir to Mortham's line, 
 And yielded to a father's arms 
 An image of his Edith's charms, — 
 Mortham is come, to hear and see 
 Of this strange morn the history. 
 What saw he? — not the church's 
 
 floor, 
 Cumber'd with dead and stain'd with 
 
 gore; 
 What heard he ? — not the clamorous 
 
 crowd, 
 That shout their gratulations loud: 
 Redmond he saw and heard alone, 
 Clasp'd him, and sobb'd, "My son I 
 
 my son !" — 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 This chanced upon a summer mom, 
 When yellow waved the heavy corn : 
 But when brown August o'er the land 
 Call'd forth the reaper's busy band, 
 A gladsome sight the silvan road 
 From Egiiston to IMortham show'd. 
 A while the hardy rustic leaves 
 The task to bind and pile the sheaves, 
 And maids their sickles fling aside, 
 To gaze on bridegroom and on bride, 
 And childhood's wondering group 
 
 draws near, ^ 
 
 And from the gleaner's hands the ear 
 Drops, while she folds them for a 
 
 prayer. 
 
276 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And blessing on the lovely pair. 
 'Twas then the Maid of Rokeby gave 
 Her plighted troth to Redmond brave; 
 And Teesdale can remember j^et 
 How Fate to Virtue paid her debt, 
 And, for their troubles, bade them 
 prove 
 
 A lengthen'd life of peace and love. 
 
 Time and tide had thus their sway, 
 Yielding, like an April day, 
 Smiling noon for sullen morrow, 
 Years of joy for hours of sorrow I 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 I. 
 
 Come, Lucy ! while 'tis morning hour, 
 The woodland brook we needs must 
 pass; 
 So, ere the sun assume his power, 
 We shelter in our poplar bower, 
 Where dew lies long upon the flower, 
 Though vanish'd from the velvet 
 grass. 
 Curbing the stream, this stony ridge 
 May serve us for a silvan bridge; 
 For here compell'd to disunite, 
 Round petty isles the runnels 
 glide. 
 And chafing off their puny spite. 
 The shallow murmurers waste their 
 might, 
 Yielding to footstep free and light 
 A dry-shod pass from side to 
 side. 
 
 n. 
 
 Nay, why this hesitating pause ? 
 And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws, 
 Why sidelong eye the streamlet's 
 brim? 
 Titania's foot without a slip. 
 Like thine, though timid, light, and 
 slim, 
 From stone to stone might safely 
 
 trip. 
 Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to 
 dip 
 That binds her slipper's silken rim. 
 Or trust thy lover's strength : nor fear 
 That this same stalwart arm of 
 mine. 
 
 Which could yon oak's prone trunk 
 
 uprear. 
 Shall shrink beneath the burden dear 
 Of form so slender, light, and 
 fine — 
 So, — now, the danger dared at last, 
 Look back, and smile at perils past ! 
 
 III. 
 And now we reach the favourite 
 glade, 
 Paled in by copsewood, cliff, and 
 stone, 
 Where, never harsher sounds invade, 
 To break affection's whispering 
 tone. 
 Than the deep breeze that wav s the 
 shade. 
 Than the small brooklet's feeble 
 moan. 
 Come ! rest thee on thy wonted seat; 
 Moss'd is the stone, the turf is 
 green, 
 A place where lovers best may meet, 
 Who would that not their love be 
 seen. 
 The boughs, that dim the summer 
 
 sky. 
 Shall hide us from each lurking spy, 
 That fain would spread the invidi- 
 ous tale, 
 How Lucy of the lofty eye, 
 Noble in birth, in fortunes high, 
 She for whom lords and barons sigb, 
 Meets her poor Arthur in the dale. 
 IV. 
 How deep that blush ! — ^how deep 
 
 that sigh ! 
 And why does Lucy shun mine eye? 
 
THE BEWAL OF TRIERMAIK 
 
 277 
 
 Is it because that crimson draws 
 Its colour from some secret cause, 
 Some hidden movement of the breast, 
 She would not that her Arthur 
 
 guess'd ! 
 O ! quicker f u* is lover's ken 
 Than the dull glance of common men, 
 And, by strange sympathy, can spell 
 The thoughts the loved one will not 
 
 tell! 
 And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met 
 The hues of pleasure and regret; 
 Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, 
 And shared with Love the crim- 
 son glow; 
 Well pleased that thou art Arthur's 
 choice, 
 Tet shamed thine own is placed 
 so low: 
 Thou turn'st thy self-confessing 
 cheek,. 
 As if to meet the breeze's cooling ; 
 Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak, 
 For Love, too, has his hours of 
 schooling. 
 
 V. 
 Too oft my anxious eye has spied 
 That secret grief thou fain wouldst 
 
 hide. 
 The passing pang of humbled pride; 
 Too oft, when through the splen- 
 did hall, 
 The load-star of each heart and 
 eye. 
 My fair one leads the glittering ball, 
 "Will her stol'n glance on Arthur fall, 
 With such a blush and such a 
 sigh! 
 Thou would'st not yield, for wealth 
 or rank, 
 The heart thy worth and beauty 
 won, 
 Nor leave me on this mossy bank, 
 
 To meet a rival on a throne : 
 Why, then, should vain repinings 
 
 rise. 
 That to thy lover fate denies 
 A nobler name, a wide domain, 
 A Baron's birth, a menial train, 
 Since Heaven assign'd him, for 
 
 his part, 
 A lyre, a falchion, and a heart ? 
 
 VL 
 
 My sword— its master must be 
 dumb; 
 But, when a soldier names my 
 name. 
 Approach, my Lucy! fearless come, 
 Nor dread to hear of Arthur's 
 shame. 
 My heart— 'mid all yon courtly 
 crew, 
 Of lordly rank and lofty line. 
 Is there to love and honour true, 
 That boasts a pulse so warm as 
 mine ? 
 They praised thy diamonds' lustre 
 rare — 
 Match'd with thine eyes, I thought 
 it faded ; 
 They praised the pearls that bound 
 thy hair — 
 I only saw the locks they braided; 
 They talk'd of wealthy dower and 
 land, 
 And titles ofhigh birth the token — 
 I thought of Lucy's heart and hand, 
 Nor knew the sense of what was 
 spoken. 
 And yet, if rank'd in Fortune's roll, 
 I might have learn'd their choice 
 unwise, 
 Who rate the dower above the soul, 
 And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes. 
 
 vn. 
 
 My lyre— it is an idle toy, 
 
 That borrows accents not ius own, 
 Like warbler of Colombian sky, 
 
 That sings but in a mimic tone.* 
 Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well. 
 Nor boasts it aught of Border spell; 
 
 Its strings no feudal slogan pour, 
 
 Its heroes draw no broad claymore; 
 
 No shouting clans applauses raise, 
 
 Because it sung their lather's praise ; 
 
 On Scottish moor, or English down. 
 
 It ne'er was graced by fair renown ; 
 
 Nor won, — best meed to minstrel 
 true, — 
 
 One favouring smile from fair Buc- 
 
 CLEUCH ! 
 
 * The Mockiujj Bird. 
 
S7g 
 
 SCOTTfl PCjJJTICAL WOJRK^. 
 
 By one poor streamlet sounds its 
 
 tone, 
 And heard by one dear maid alone. 
 
 vm. 
 
 But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall 
 
 tell 
 Of errant knight, and damozelle ; 
 Of the dread knot a Wizard tied, 
 In punishment of maiden's pride, j 
 In notes of marvel and of fear, j 
 
 That best may charm romantic ear. 
 For Lucy loves,— likes Colu:ns, ill- 
 starred name ! 
 Whose lay's requital was that tardy 
 
 fame. 
 Who bound no laurel round his living 
 
 head, 
 Should hang it o'er his monument 
 
 when dead, — 
 For Lucy loves to tread enchanted 
 
 strand. 
 And thread, like him, the maze of 
 
 fairy land; 
 Of golden battlements to view the 
 
 gleam, 
 And slumber soft by some Elysian 
 
 stream ; 
 Such lay she loves, — and, such my 
 
 Lucy's choice. 
 What other song can claim her Poet's 
 voice ? 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 I. 
 
 Wheee is the Maiden of mortal strain, 
 That may match with the Baron of 
 
 Triermain? 
 She muht be lovely, and constant, 
 
 and kind. 
 Holy and pure, and humble of mind, 
 Blithe of cheer, and gentle of mood, 
 Courteous, and generous, and noble 
 
 of blood — 
 Lovely as the sun's first ray. 
 When it breaks the clouds of an 
 
 April day; 
 Constant and true as the widow' d 
 
 dove, 
 Kind as a minstrel that sings of love; 
 Pure as the fountain in rocky caye, 
 
 Where never sunbeam kiss'd the 
 
 wave; 
 Humble as maiden that loves in vain, 
 Holy as hermit's vesper strain; 
 Gentle as breeze that but whispers 
 
 and dies. 
 Yet blithe as the light leaves that 
 
 dance in its sighs; 
 Courteous as monarch the morn he 
 
 is crown'd, 
 Generous as spring-dews that bless 
 
 the glad ground; 
 Noble her blood as the currents that 
 
 met 
 In the veins of the noblest Plantage- 
 
 net — 
 Such must her form be, her mood, 
 
 and her strain, 
 That shall match with Sir Roland of 
 
 Triermain. 
 
 n. . 
 
 Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him 
 
 to sleep. 
 His blood it was f ever'd, his breathing 
 
 was deep. 
 He had been pricking against the 
 
 Scot, 
 The foray was long, and the skir- 
 mish hot; 
 His dinted helm and his buckler's 
 
 plight 
 Bore token of a stubborn fight. 
 
 All in the castle must hold them 
 still, 
 Harpers must lull him to his rest, 
 With the slow soft tunes he loves the 
 
 best, 
 Till sleep sink down upon his breast, 
 
 Like the dew on a summer hill. 
 
 HI. 
 
 It was the dawn of an autumn day; 
 
 The sun was struggling with frost- 
 fog grey. 
 
 That like a silvery cape was spread 
 
 Round Skiddaw's dim and distant 
 head, 
 
 And faintly gleam 'd each painted 
 pane 
 
 Of the lordly halls of Triermain, 
 When that Baron bold awoke. 
 
TKE BBIDAL OF TEIETtMAIK. 
 
 279 
 
 Starting he woke, and loudly did call, 
 Bousing his menials in bower and 
 
 hall, 
 
 While hastily he spoke. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ■' Hearken, my minstrels ! "Which of 
 
 ye all 
 Touch'd his harp with that dying 
 fall, 
 So sweet, so soft, so faint, 
 It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call 
 
 To an expiring saint V 
 And hearken, my merry-men ! What 
 time or where 
 Did she pass, that maid with her 
 heavenly brow, 
 With her look so sweet and her eyes 
 
 so fair. 
 And her graceful step and her angel 
 
 air, 
 And the eagle plume in her dark- 
 brown hair. 
 That pass'd from my bower e'en 
 now?" 
 
 Answer'd him Hichard de Bretville; 
 
 he 
 Was chief of the Baron's minstrel- 
 sy,— 
 " Silent, noble chieftain, we 
 
 Have sat since midnight close, 
 When such lulling sounds as the 
 
 brooklet sings, 
 Murmur'd from our melting strings. 
 And hush'd you to repose. 
 Had a harp-note sounded here. 
 It had caught my watchful ear, 
 Although it fell as faint and shy 
 As bashful maiden's half-form 'd 
 sigh, 
 When she thinks her lover near. " — 
 Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall, 
 He kept guard m the outer hall, — 
 "Since at eve our watch took post. 
 Not a foot has thy portal cross'd ; 
 Else had I heard the steps, 
 though low 
 And light they fell, as when earth 
 receives, 
 
 In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves, 
 That drop when no winds 
 blow."— 
 
 VI. 
 
 "Then come thou hither, Henry, 
 
 my page, 
 Whom I saved from the sack of Her- 
 mitage, 
 When that dark castle, tower, and 
 
 spire 
 Rose to the skies a pile of fire. 
 
 And redden'd all the Nine-stane 
 Hill, 
 And the shrieks of death that wildly 
 
 broke 
 Through devouring flame and smoth- 
 ering smoke, 
 Made the warrior's heart-blood 
 chill. 
 The trustiest thou of all my train, 
 My fleetest courser thou must rein, 
 
 And ride to Lyulph's tower, 
 And from the Bafon of Triermain 
 Greet well that sage of power. 
 He is sprung from Druid sires, 
 And British bards that tuned their 
 
 lyres 
 To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise, 
 And his who sleeps at Dunmail- 
 
 raise. * 
 Gifted like his gifted race, 
 He the characters can trace, 
 Graven deep in elder time 
 Upon Helveilyn's cliifs sublime; 
 Sign and sigil well doth he know 
 And can bode of weal and woe, 
 Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars, 
 From mystic dreams and course of 
 
 stars. 
 He shall tell if middle earth 
 To that enchanting shape gave birth, 
 Or if 'twas but an airy thing. 
 Such as fantastic slumbers bring, 
 Framed from the rainbow's varying 
 
 dyes, 
 Or fading tints of western skies. 
 For, by the Blessed Eood I swear, 
 
 * Dunmailraise is one of tbe prand passes 
 from Cumberland into Westmoreland. There 
 iii a cairn cm it said to bo th ; mouumeut of 
 Dunmail, the last Kmg of Cumberland. 
 
280 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 If that fair form breathe vital air, 
 No other maiden by my side 
 '' Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride !" 
 
 vn. 
 
 The faithful Page he motmts his 
 
 steed, 
 And soon he cross'd green Irthing's 
 
 mead, 
 Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant 
 
 plain, 
 And Eden barr'd his course in vain. 
 He pass'd red Penrith's Table 
 
 Bound, 
 For feats of chivalry renown'd, 
 Left Mayburgh's mound and stones 
 
 of power, 
 By Druids raised in magic hour. 
 And traced the Eamont's winding 
 
 ^^^ay, 
 Till Ulfo's* lake beneath him lay. 
 
 vni. 
 
 Onward he rode, the pathway still 
 Winding betwixt the lake and hill; 
 Till, on the fragment of a rock, 
 Struck from its base by lightning 
 
 shock, 
 
 He saw the hoary Sago : 
 The silver moss and lichen twined, 
 With fern and deer-hair check'd and 
 lined, 
 
 A cushion fit for age ; 
 And o'er him shook the aspin-tree, ^ 
 A restless rustling canopy. 
 Then sprung young Henry from his 
 selle, 
 
 And greeted Lyulph grave, 
 And then his master's tale did tell. 
 
 And then for counsel crave. 
 The Man of Years mused long and 
 
 deep, 
 Of time's lost treasures taking keep, 
 And then, as rousing from a sleep, 
 
 His solemn answer gave. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " That maid is bom of middle earth, 
 
 And may of man be won, 
 Though there have glided since her 
 birth 
 
 * TJlswater. 
 
 Five hundred years and one. 
 But Where's the Knight in all the 
 
 north, 
 That dare the adventure follow forth, 
 So perilous to knightly worth, 
 In the valley of St. John ? 
 Listen, youth, to v/hat I tell, 
 And bind it on thy memory well ; 
 Nor muse that I commence the rhyme 
 Far distant 'mid the wrecks of time. 
 The mystic tale, by bard and sage. 
 Is handed down from Merlin's age. 
 X. 
 Zyulph's Tale. 
 
 '* KrNQ Abthue has ridden from mer- 
 ry Carlisle 
 
 When Pentecost was o'er: 
 He journey d like errant-knight the 
 
 while. 
 And sweetly the summer sun did 
 smile 
 
 On mountain, moss, and moor. 
 Above his solitary track 
 Eose Glaramara's ridgy back. 
 Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun 
 Cast umber'd radiance red and dun, 
 Though never sunbeam could discern 
 
 The surface of that sable tarn. 
 In whose black mirror you may spy 
 The stars, while noontide lights the 
 
 The gallant King he skirted still 
 The margin of that mighty hill ; 
 Eock upon rocks incumbent hung, 
 And torrents, down the gullies flung, 
 Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on, 
 Eecoiling now from crag and stone, 
 Now diving deep from human ken, 
 And raving down its darksome glen. 
 The Monarch judged this desert 
 
 wild, 
 With such romantic ruin piled, 
 Was theatre by Nature's hand 
 For feat of high achievement plann'd. 
 
 XL 
 *' rather he chose, that Monarch 
 
 bold. 
 On vent'rous quest to ride. 
 In plate and mail, by wood and wold. 
 Than, with ermine trapp'd and cloth 
 
 of gold, 
 
THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 281 
 
 In princely bower to bide ; 
 The bursting crash of a foeman's 
 spear 
 As it shiver" d against his mail, 
 Was merrier music to his ear 
 
 Than courtier's whisper'd tale: 
 And the clash of Caliburn* more dear, 
 When on the hostile casque it rung. 
 Than all the lays 
 To their monarch's praise 
 That the harpers of Reged sung. 
 He loved better to rest by wood or 
 
 river, 
 Than in bower of his bride, Dame 
 
 Guenever, 
 For he left that lady, so lovely of 
 
 cheer. 
 To follow adventures of danger and 
 
 fear; 
 And the frank-hearted Monarch full 
 
 little did wot, 
 That she smiled, in bis absence, on 
 brave Lancelot. 
 
 xn. 
 
 *'He rode, till over down and dell 
 The shade more broad anddeeperfell; 
 And though around the mountain's 
 
 head 
 Flow'd streams of purple, and gold, 
 
 and red, 
 Dark at the base, unblest by beam, 
 Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd 
 
 the stream. 
 With toil the King his way pursued 
 BylonelyThrelkeld's waste and wood. 
 Till on his course obliquely shone 
 The narrow valley of Saint John, 
 Down sloping to the western sky. 
 Where lingering sunbeams love to lie. 
 Bight glad to feel those beams again, 
 The King drew up his charger's rein; 
 With gauntlet raised he screen'd his 
 
 sight. 
 As dazzled with the level light, 
 And, from beneath his glove of mail, 
 Scnnn'd at his ease the lovely vale, 
 "N^Tiile 'gainst the sun his armour 
 
 bri.':;ht 
 Gleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light. 
 
 * King Arthur's SAVord. callud by Tenny- 
 Bon Excalibur. 
 
 xin. 
 
 " Paled iu by many a lofty hill, 
 The narrow dale lay smooth and still. 
 And, down its verdant bosom led, 
 A winding brooklet found its bed. 
 But, midmost of the vale, a mound 
 Arose with airy turrets crown'd. 
 Buttress, and rampire's circling 
 bound, 
 And mighty keep and tower; 
 Seem'd some primeval giant's hand, 
 The castle's massive walls had 
 
 plann'd, 
 A ponderous bulwark to withstand 
 
 Ambitious Nimrod's power. 
 Above the moated entrance slung, 
 The balanced drawbridge trembling 
 
 hung, 
 As jealous of a foe; 
 Wicket of oak, as iron hard. 
 With iron studded, clench'd, and 
 
 barr'd, 
 And prong'd portcullis, join'd to 
 
 guard 
 The gloomy pass below. 
 Cut the grey walls no banners 
 
 crown'd, 
 Upon the watch-tower's airy round 
 Ho warder stood his horn to sound, 
 No guard beside the bridge was 
 
 found, 
 And where the Gothic gateway 
 
 frown'd, 
 Glanced neither bill nor bow. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Beneath the castle's gloomy pride 
 In ample round did Arthur ride 
 Three times ; nor living thing he 
 
 spied. 
 Nor heard a living sound, 
 Save that, awakening from her dream. 
 The owlet now began to scream, 
 In concert with tlie rushing stream. 
 That wash'd the battled mound. 
 He lighted from his goodly steed, 
 And he left him to graze on bank and 
 
 mead; 
 And slowly he climb'd the nan-ow 
 
 way, 
 That reach'd the entrance grim and 
 
 grey, 
 
282 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And he stood the outward arch be- 
 low, 
 And his bugle-horn prepared to blow, 
 
 In summons blithe and bold, 
 Deeming to rouse from iron sleep 
 The guardian of this dismal Keep, 
 
 Which well he guess 'd the hold 
 Of wizard stern, or goblin grim, 
 Or pagan of gigantic limb, 
 
 The tyrant of the wold. 
 
 XV. 
 
 "The ivory bugle's golden tip 
 Twice touch'd the monarch's manly 
 
 lip, 
 And twice his hand withdrew. 
 — Think not but Arthur's heart was 
 
 good! 
 His shield was cross'd by the blessed 
 
 rood, 
 Had a pagan host before him stood, 
 He had charged them through 
 
 and through; 
 Yet the silence of that ancient place 
 Sunk on his heart, and he paused a 
 
 pace 
 Ere yet his horn he blew. 
 But, instant as its 'larum rung, 
 The castle gate was open flung, 
 Portcullis rose with crashing groan 
 Full harshly up its groove of stone; 
 The balance-beams obey'd the blast, 
 And down the trembling drawbridge 
 
 cast 
 The vaulted arch before him lay, 
 "With nought to bar the gloomy way, 
 And onward Arthur paced, with hand 
 On Caliburn's resistless brand. 
 
 XYI. 
 
 *'A hundred torches, flashing bright, 
 Dispell'd at once the gloomy night 
 
 That lour'd along the walls, 
 And show'd the King's astonish' d 
 sight 
 
 The inmates of the halls. 
 Nor wizard stern, nor goblin grim, 
 Nor giant huge of form and liiab. 
 
 Nor heathen knight, was there; 
 But the cressets, which odoura flung 
 aloft, 
 
 Show'd by their yellow light and soft, 
 
 A band of damsels fair.- 
 Onward they came, like summer 
 wave 
 
 That dances to the shore; 
 An hundred voices welcome gave. 
 
 And welcome o'er and o'er ! 
 An hundred lovely hands assail 
 The bucklers of the monarch's mail, 
 And busy labour' d to unhasp 
 Rivet of steel and iron clasp. 
 One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair, 
 And one flung odours on his hair; 
 His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd 
 
 down, 
 One wreathed them with a myrtle 
 
 crown. 
 A bride upon her wedding-day, 
 Was tended ne'er by troop so gay. ' 
 
 xvn. 
 
 "Loud laugh'd they all, — ^the King, 
 
 in vain, 
 With questions task'd the giddy train ; 
 Let him entreat, or crave, or call, 
 'Twas one reply — loud laugh'd thry 
 
 all. 
 Then o'er him mimic chains they 
 
 fling, 
 Framed of the fairest flowers of 
 
 spring. 
 While some their gentle force unite. 
 Onward to drag the wondering 
 
 knight, 
 Some, bolder, urge his pace with 
 
 blows. 
 Dealt with the lily or the rose. 
 Behind him were in triumph borne 
 The warlike arms he late had won. 
 Four of the train combined to rear 
 The terrors of Tintadgel's spear; 
 Two, laughing at their lack of 
 
 strength, 
 Dragg'dCaliburn in cumbrous length; 
 One, while she aped a martial stride. 
 Placed on her brows the helmet's 
 
 pride ; 
 Then scrcam'd, 'twixt laughter and 
 
 surprise, 
 To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes. 
 With rebel-shout, and triumph-song, 
 Thus gaily march'd the giddy thronr;. 
 
THE BRWAL OF TRIEJRMAIK. 
 
 283 
 
 xvni. 
 
 " Througli many a gallery and hall 
 They led, I ween, their royal thrall; 
 At length, beneath a fair arcade 
 Their march and song at once they 
 
 staid. 
 The eldest maiden of the band, 
 
 (The lovely maid was scarce 
 eighteen,) 
 Raised, with imposing air her hand. 
 And reverent silence did command, 
 
 On entrance of their Queen, 
 And they were mute. — But as a glance 
 They steal on Arthur's countenance 
 
 Bewilder'd with surprise, 
 Their smother'd mirth again 'gan 
 
 speak, 
 In archly dimpled chin and cheek, 
 
 And laughter-lighted eyes. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " The attributes of those high days 
 Now only live in minstrel-lays ; 
 For Nature, now exhausted, still 
 Was then profuse of good and ill. 
 Strength was gigantic, valour high, 
 And wisdom soar'd beyond the sky, 
 And beauty had such matchless 
 
 beam 
 As lights not now a lover's dream. 
 Yet e'en in that romantic age, 
 
 Ne'er were such charms by mor- 
 tal seen, 
 As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage, 
 When forth on that enchanted stage, 
 With glittering train of maid and 
 page, 
 
 Advanced the castle's Queen ! 
 While up the hall she slowly pass'd, 
 Her dark eye on the King she cast, 
 
 That flash'd expression strong; 
 The longer dwelt that lingering look. 
 Her cheek the livelier colour took, 
 And scarce the shame-faced King 
 could brook 
 
 The gaze that lasted long. 
 A sage who had that look espied, 
 Where kindling passion strove with 
 
 pride, 
 Had whisper'd, ' Prince, beware ! 
 From the chafed tiger rend the prey, 
 Rush on the lion when at bay 
 
 Bar the fell dragon's blighted way. 
 But shun that lovely snare !' — 
 XX. 
 ' ' At once that inward strife sup- 
 
 press'd. 
 The dame approach'd her warlike 
 
 guest, 
 With greeting in that fair degree, 
 Where female pride and courtesy 
 Are blended with such passing art 
 As awes at once and charms the heart. 
 A courtly welcome first she gave, 
 Then of his goodness 'gan to crave 
 
 Construction fair and true 
 Of her light maidens' idle mirth. 
 Who drew from lonely glens their 
 
 birth, 
 Nor knew to pay to stranger worth 
 
 And dignity their due ; 
 And then she pray'd that he would 
 
 rest 
 That night her castle's honour'd guest. 
 The Monarch meekly thanks ex- 
 
 press'd ; 
 The banquet rose at her behest, 
 With lay and tale, and laugh and jest, 
 Apace the evening flew. 
 XXI. 
 
 " The Lady sate the Monarch by, 
 Now in her turn abash'd and shy. 
 And with indifierence seem'd to hear 
 The toys he whispered in her ear. 
 Her bearing modest was and fair. 
 Yet shadows of constraint were there, 
 That show'd an over-cautious care 
 
 Some inward thought to hide; 
 Oft did she pause in full reply, 
 And oft cast down her large dark eye, 
 Oft check' d the soft voluptuous sigh. 
 
 That heaved her bosom's pride. 
 Slight symptoms these, but shepherds 
 
 know 
 How hot the midday sun shall glow, 
 
 From the mist of morning sky; 
 And so the wily Monarch guess'd. 
 That this assumed restraint express'd 
 More ardent passions in the breast, 
 
 Than ventured to the eye. 
 Closer he press'd, while beakers rang, 
 While maidens laughed and min- 
 strels sang, 
 
284 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOUKS. 
 
 Still closer to her ear- 
 Tut why pursue the common talc" 
 Or wherefore show how knights pre- 
 vail 
 When ladies dare to hear ? 
 Or wherefore trace from what slight 
 
 cause 
 Its source one tyrant passion draws, 
 
 Till, mastering all within. 
 Where lives the man that has not 
 
 tried, 
 How mirth can into folly glide 
 And folly into sin?" 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 LyulpKs Tale, continued. 
 " Anotheb day, another day, 
 And yet another glides away ! 
 The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane, 
 Maraud on Britain's shores again. 
 Arthur, of Christendom the flower, 
 Lies loitering in a lady's bower ; 
 The horn, that foemen wont to fear, 
 Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian 
 
 deer. 
 And Caliburn, the British pride, 
 Hangs useless by a lover's side. 
 
 II. 
 
 *« Another day, another day, 
 And yet another, glides away ! 
 Heroic plans in i^leasure drown'd, 
 He thinks not of the Table Bound ; 
 In lawless love dissolved his life, 
 He thinks not of his beauteous wife: 
 Better he loves to snatch a flower 
 From bosom of his paramour. 
 Than from a Saxon knight to wrest 
 The honours of his heathen crest ! 
 Better to wreathe, 'mid tresses brown. 
 The heron's plume her hawk struck 
 
 down. 
 Than o'er the altar gives to flow 
 The banners of a Paynim foe. 
 Thus, week by week.and day by day, 
 His life inglorious glides away : 
 But she, that soothes his dream, with 
 
 fear 
 Beholds his hour of waking near ! 
 
 in. 
 
 ' Much force have mortal charms to 
 
 stay 
 Our peace in Virtue's toilsome way; 
 But Guendolen's might far outshine 
 Each maid of merely mortal line. 
 Her mother was of human birth, 
 Her sire a Genie of the earth. 
 In days of old deem'd to preside 
 O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride, 
 By youths and virgins worshipp'd 
 
 long, 
 With festive dance and choral song, 
 Till, when the cross to Britain came. 
 On heathen altars died the flame. 
 Now, deep in Wastdalo solitude, 
 The downfall of his rights he rued, 
 And, born of his resentment heir. 
 He train 'd to guile that lady fair, 
 To sink in slothful sin and shame 
 The champions of the Christian name. 
 Well skill'd to keep vain thoughts 
 
 alive. 
 And all to promise, nought to give, — • 
 The timid youth had hope in store. 
 The bold and pressing gain'd no 
 
 more. 
 As wilder'd children leave their home 
 After the rainbow's arch to roam, 
 Her lovers barter'd fair esteem. 
 Faith, fame, and honour, for a dream. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Her sire's soft arts the soul to tame 
 She practised thus — till Arthur came; 
 Then, frail humanity had part, 
 And all the mother claim'd her heart. 
 Forgot each rule her father gave. 
 Sunk from a princess to a slave, 
 Too late must Guendolen deplore. 
 He, that has all, can hope no more ! 
 Now must she see her lover strain, 
 At every turn her feeble chain ; 
 Watch, to new-bind each knot, and 
 
 shrink 
 To view each fast-decaying link. 
 Art she invokes to Nature's aid, 
 Her vest to zone, her locks to braid; 
 Each varied pleasure heard her call, 
 The feast, the tourney, and the ball : 
 Her storied lore she next applies, 
 Taxing her mind to aid her eyes ; 
 
THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 285 
 
 Now more than mortal wise, and 
 then 
 
 In female softness sunk again : 
 
 Now, raptured, with each wish com- 
 
 , plying, 
 
 With feign'd reluctance now deny- 
 ing; 
 
 Each charm she varied, to retain 
 
 A varying heart — and all in vain ! 
 
 "Thus in the garden's narrow 
 
 bound, 
 Flank'd by some castle's Gothic 
 
 round, 
 Fain would the artist's skill provide. 
 The limits of his realms to hide. 
 The wal2:3 in labyrinths he twines. 
 Shade after shade with skill com- 
 bines, 
 "With many a varied flowery knot, 
 And copse, and arbour, decks the 
 
 spot. 
 Tempting the hasty foot to stay, 
 
 And linger on the lovely way 
 
 Vain art ! vain hope ! 'tis fruitless 
 
 all! 
 At length we reach the bounding 
 
 wall. 
 And, sick of flower and trim-dress'd 
 
 tree. 
 Long for rough glades and forest 
 
 free. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "Three summer months had scantly 
 
 flown. 
 When Arthur, in embarrass'd tone. 
 Spoke of his liegemen and his throne ; 
 Said, all too long had been his stay. 
 And duties, which a Monarch sway. 
 Duties, unknown to humbler men. 
 Must tear her knight from Guendo- 
 
 len. — 
 She listen'd silently the while, 
 Her mood express'd in bitter smile; 
 Beneath her eye must Arthur quail, 
 And olt resume the unfinish'd tale. 
 Confessing, by his downcast eye, 
 The wrong he sought to' justify. 
 He ceased. A moment mute she 
 
 gazed, 
 
 And then her looks to heaven she 
 
 raised; 
 One palm her temples veiled, to hide 
 The tear that sprung in spite of 
 
 pride ! 
 The other for an instant press'd 
 The foldings of her silken vest ! 
 
 vn. 
 
 "At her reproachful sign and look, 
 The hint the Monarch's conscience 
 
 took. 
 Eager he spoke— * No, lady, no ! 
 Deem not of British Arthur so. 
 Nor think he can deserter prove 
 To the dear pledge of mutual love. 
 I swear by sceptre and by sword, 
 As belted knight, and Britain's lord, 
 That if a boy shall claim my care. 
 That boy is born a kingdom's heir ; 
 But, if a maiden Fate allows, 
 To choose that maid a fitting spouse, 
 A summer-day in lists shall strive 
 My knights,— the bravests knights 
 
 alive, — 
 And he, the best and bravest tried, 
 Shall Arthur's daughter claim for 
 
 bride.' — 
 He spoke, with voice resolved and 
 
 high— 
 The lady deign'd him not reply. 
 
 vni. 
 
 "At dawn of morn, ere on the brake 
 His matins did a warbler make, 
 Or stirr'd his wing to brush away 
 A single dew-drop from the spray, 
 Ere yet a siinbeam through the mist. 
 The castle-battlements had kiss'd, 
 The gates revolve, the drawbridge 
 
 falls, 
 And Arthur sallies from the walls. 
 Doff'd his soft garb of Persia's loom, 
 And steel from spur to helmet- 
 plume. 
 His Lybian steed full proudly trode, 
 And joyful neigh'd beneath his load. 
 The Monarch gave a passing sigh 
 To penitence and pleasures by, 
 When, lo ! to his astonish'd ken 
 Appear' d the form of Guendolen. 
 
286 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ** Beyond the outmost wall she stood, 
 Attired like huntress of the wood; 
 Sandall'd her feet, her ankles bare, 
 And eagle-plumage deck'd her hair; 
 Firm was her look, her bearing bold, 
 And in her hand a cup of gold. 
 'Thou goest,' she said, 'and ne'er 
 
 again 
 Must we two meet, in joy or pain. 
 Full fain would I this hour delay, 
 Though weak the wish — yet, wilt thou 
 
 stay? 
 — No! thou look'st forward. Still 
 
 attend, — 
 Part we like lover and like friend.' 
 She raised the cup — 'Not this the 
 
 juice 
 The sluggish vines of earth produce; 
 Pledge we, at parting, in the draught 
 Which Genii love!'— she said, and 
 
 quafE'd; 
 And strange unwonted lustres fly 
 From her flush'd cheek and sparkling 
 
 eye. 
 
 X. 
 
 "The courteous Monarch bent him 
 
 low. 
 And, stooping down from saddlebow. 
 Lifted the cup, in act to drink. 
 A drop escaped the goblet's brink — 
 Intense as liquid fire from hell, 
 Upon the charger's neck it fell. 
 Screaming with agony and fright, 
 He bolted twenty feet upright— 
 — The peasant still can show the dint, 
 Where his hoofs lighted on the flint. — 
 From Arthur's hand the goblet flew. 
 Scattering a shower of fiery dew, 
 That burn'd and blighted where it 
 
 fell! 
 The frantic steed rush'd up the dell, 
 As whistles from the bow the reed; 
 Nor bit nor rein could check his 
 
 speed. 
 Until he gain'd the hill; 
 Then breath and sinew fail'd apace, 
 And, reeling from the desperate race, 
 
 He stood, exhausted, still. 
 The Monarch, breathless and amazed, 
 Back on the fatal castle gazed 
 
 Nor tower nor donjon could he spy, 
 Darkening against the morning sky; 
 But, on the spot where once they 
 
 frown'd, 
 The lonely streamlet brawl'd around 
 A tufted knoll, where dimly shone 
 Fragments of rocks and rifted stone. 
 Musing on this strange hap the while, 
 The King wends back to fair Carlisle: 
 And cares, that cumber royal sway, 
 Wore memory of the past away. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Full fifteen years, and more, were 
 
 sped, 
 Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's 
 
 head. 
 Twelve bloody fields, with glory 
 
 fought, 
 The Saxon, to subjection brought: 
 Bython, the mighty giant, slain 
 By his good brand, relieved Bretagne: 
 The Pictish Gillamore in fight, 
 AndBoman Lucius own'd his might; 
 And wide were through the world 
 
 renown'd 
 The glories of his Table Bound. 
 Each knight who sought adventurous 
 
 fame, 
 To the bold court of Britain came, 
 And all who suffered causeless wrong. 
 From tyrant proud, or faitour strong, 
 Sought Arthur's presence to com- 
 plain. 
 Nor there for aid implored in vain. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ' ' For this the King with pomp and 
 
 pride, 
 Held solemn court at Whitsuntide, 
 
 And summon'd Prince and Peer, 
 All who owed homage for their land. 
 Or who craved knighthood from his 
 
 hand, 
 Or who had succour to demand, 
 
 To come from far and near. 
 At such high tide, were glee and 
 
 game 
 Mingled with feats of martial fame, 
 For many a stranger champion came. 
 
 In lists to break a spear; 
 And not a knight of Arthur's host, 
 
TEE BRIDAL OF TBIERMAIN. 
 
 287 
 
 Save that he trode some foreign coast, 
 But at this feast of Pentecost 
 
 Before him must appear. 
 Ah, Minstrels! when the Table Bound 
 Arose, with all its warriors crown'd. 
 There was a theme for bards to 
 
 sound 
 
 In triumph to their string ! 
 Five hundred years are past and 
 
 gone, 
 But time shall draw his dying groan, 
 Ere he behold the British throne 
 
 Begirt with such a ring ! 
 
 xni. 
 
 " The heralds named the appointed 
 
 spot, 
 As Caerleon or Camelot, 
 
 Or Carlisle fair and free. 
 At Penrith, now, the feast was set, 
 And in fair Eamont's vale were met 
 
 The flower of Chivalry. 
 There Galaad sate with manly grace. 
 Yet maiden meekness in his face; 
 There Morolt of the iron mace, 
 
 And love-lorn Tristrem there: 
 And Dinadam with lively glance, 
 And Lanval with the fairy lance, 
 And Mordred with his look askance, 
 
 Brunor and Bevidere. 
 Why should I tell of numbers more ? 
 Sir Cay, Sir Bannier, and Sir Bore, 
 
 Sir Carodac the keen, 
 The gentle Gawain's courteous lore, 
 Hector de Mares and Pellinore, 
 And Lancelot, that ever more 
 
 Look'd stol'n-wise on the Queen. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ''When wine and mirth did most 
 
 abound, 
 And harpers play'd their blithest 
 
 round, 
 A shrilly trumpet shook the ground, 
 
 And marshals clear'd the ring; 
 A maiden, on a palfrey white, 
 Heading a band of damsels bright, 
 Paced through the circle, to alight 
 
 And kneel before the King. 
 Arthur, with strong emotion, saw 
 Her graceful boldness check'd by 
 
 awe, 
 
 Her dress, like huntress of the wold. 
 Her bow and baldric trapp'd with 
 
 gold, 
 Her sandall'd feet, her ankles bare, 
 And the eagle-plume that deck'd her 
 
 hair. 
 Graceful her veil she backward 
 
 flung 
 
 The King, as from his seat he sprung, 
 
 Almost cried, • Guendolen !' 
 But 'twas a face more frank and wild. 
 Betwixt the woman and the child, 
 Where less of magic beauty smiled 
 
 Than of the race of men; 
 And in the forehead's haughty 
 
 grace, 
 The lines of Britain^s royal race, 
 
 Pendragon's you might ken. 
 
 XV. 
 
 '* Faltering, yet gracefully, she said — 
 ' Great Prince ! behold an orphan 
 
 maid. 
 In her departed mother's name, 
 A father's vow'd protection claim ! 
 The vow was sworn in desert lone, 
 In the deep valley of St. John.' 
 At once the King the suppliant 
 
 raised. 
 And kiss'd her brow, her beauty 
 
 praised ; 
 His vow, he said, should well be 
 
 kept. 
 Ere in the sea the sun was dipp'd, — 
 Then, conscious, glanced upon his 
 
 queen; 
 But she, unruffled at the scene 
 Of human frailty, construed mild, 
 Look'd upon Lancelot and smiled, 
 XVI. 
 
 '* * Up I up ! each knight of gallant 
 crest 
 
 Take buckler, spear, and brand ! 
 He that to-day shaU bear him best. 
 
 Shall win my Gyneth's hand. 
 And Arthur's daughter, when a bride, 
 
 Shall bring a noble dower; 
 Both fair Strath-Clyde and Keged 
 wide. 
 And Carlisle to\\Ti and tower. 
 Then might you hear each valiant 
 knight, 
 
238 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 To page and squire that cried, 
 'Bring my armour bright, and my 
 
 courser wight ! 
 'Tis not each day that a warrior's 
 might 
 May win a roya\ bride. ' 
 Then cloaks and caps of maintenance 
 
 In haste aside they fling; 
 The helmets glance, and gleams the 
 lance, 
 And the steel-weaved hauberks 
 ring. 
 Small care had they of their peaceful 
 array, 
 They might gather it that wolde ; 
 For brake and bramble glitter'd gay, 
 "With pearls and cloth of gold. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 ^* Within trumpet sound of the Table 
 Bound 
 Were fifty champions free, 
 And they all arise to fight that 
 prize, — 
 They all arisa but three. 
 Nor love's fond troth, nor we^ock's 
 oath. 
 One gallant could withhold, 
 For priests will allow of a broken 
 vow, 
 For penance or for gold. 
 But sigh and glance from ladies 
 bright 
 Among the troop were thrown. 
 To plead their right, and true-love 
 plight, 
 And 'plain of honour flown. 
 The knights they busied them so 
 fast. 
 With iDuckling spur and belt. 
 That sigh and look, by ladies cast, 
 
 Were neither seen nor felt. 
 From pleading, or upbraiding glance, 
 
 Each gallant turns aside, 
 And only thought, 'If speeds my 
 lance, 
 A queen becomes my bride ! 
 She has fair Strath-Clyde, and Eeged 
 wide, 
 And Carlisle tower and town ; 
 She is the loveliest maid, beside, 
 That ever heir'd a crown . ' 
 
 So in haste their coursers they be- 
 stride, 
 And strike their visors down. 
 
 xvni. 
 
 "The champions, arm'd in martial 
 sort. 
 
 Have throng'd into the list. 
 And but three knights of Arthur*s 
 court 
 
 Are from the tourney miss'd. 
 And still these lovers' fame survives 
 
 For faith so constant shown, — 
 There were two who loved their 
 neighbour's wives. 
 
 And one who loved his own. 
 The first was Lancelot de Lac, 
 
 The second Tristrem bold. 
 The third was valiant Carodac, 
 
 Who won the cup of gold. 
 What time, of all King Arthur's 
 crew, 
 
 (Thereof came jeer and laugh,) 
 He, as the mate of lady true, 
 
 Alone the cup could quaff. 
 Though envy's tongue would fain 
 surmise, 
 
 That but for very shame. 
 Sir Carodac, to fight that prize, 
 
 Had given both cup and dame; 
 Yet, since but one of that fair court 
 
 Was true to wedlock's shrine, 
 Brand him who will with base re- 
 port, — 
 
 He shall be free from mine. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ** Now caracoled the steeds in air, 
 Now plumes and pennons wanton'd 
 
 fair, 
 As all around the lists so wide 
 In panoply the champions ride. 
 King Arthur saw with startled eye, 
 The flower of chivalry march by. 
 The bulwark of the Christian creed. 
 The kingdom's shield in hour of 
 
 need. 
 Too late he thought him of the woe 
 Might from their civil conflict flow; 
 For well he knew they would not 
 
 part 
 Till col^ was many a gallant heart. 
 
THE BRIDAL OF TRIEEMAIN. 
 
 '^ 
 
 His hasty vow he 'gan to rue. 
 And Gyneth then apart he drew; 
 To her his leading-staff resign'd, 
 But added caution grave and kind. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " 'Thou seest, my child, as promise- 
 bound, 
 I bid the trump for tourney sound. 
 Take thou my warder as the queen 
 And umpire of the martial scene; 
 But mark thou this : — as Beauty 
 
 brigh^t 
 Is polar star to valiant knight, 
 As Lt her word his sword he draws, 
 His fairest guerdon her applause, 
 So gentle maid should never ask 
 Of knighthood vain and dangerous 
 
 task; 
 And Beauty's eyes should ever be 
 Like the twin stars that soothe the 
 
 sea. 
 And Beauty's breath shall whisper 
 
 peace, 
 And bid the storm of battle cease. 
 I tell thee this, lest all too far, 
 These knights urge tourney into war. 
 Blithe at the trumpet let them go, 
 And fairly counter blow for blow ; — 
 ITo striplings these, who succour 
 
 need 
 For a razed helm or falling steed. 
 But, Gyneth, when the strife grows 
 
 warm, 
 And threatens death or deadly harm, 
 Thy sire entreats, thy king com- 
 mands, 
 Thou di-op the warder from thy 
 
 hands. 
 Trust thou thy father with thy fate, 
 Doubt not he choose thee fitting mate ; 
 Nor be it said, through Gyneth's 
 
 pride 
 A rose of Arthur's chaplet died.' — 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " A proud and discontented glow 
 O'ershadow'd Gyneth's brow of snow; 
 She 2:)ut the warder by: — 
 
 * Reserve thy boon, my liege,' she 
 
 said, 
 
 * Thus chaffer'd down and limited. 
 
 Debased and narrow'd for a maid 
 
 Of less. degree than I. 
 No petty chief but holds his heir 
 At a more honour'd price and rare 
 Than Britain's King holds me ! 
 Although the sun-burn'd maid, for 
 
 dower. 
 Has but her father's rugged tower, 
 
 His barren hill and lee.' — 
 King Arthur swore, ' By crown and 
 
 sword, 
 As belted knight and Britain's lord, 
 That a whole summer's day should 
 
 strive 
 His knights, the bravest knights 
 
 alive !' 
 • Recall thine oath ! and to her glen 
 Poor Gyneth can return agen ! 
 Not on thy daughter will the stain, 
 That soils thy swor J and crown re- 
 main. 
 But think not she will e'er bo bride 
 Save to the bravest, proved and tried; 
 Pen dragon's daughter will not fear 
 For clashing sword or splinter'd 
 
 spear, 
 Nor shrink though blood should 
 
 flow; 
 And all too well Ead Guendolen 
 Hath taught the faithlessness of men. 
 That child of hers should pity, when 
 Their meed they undergo.' — 
 
 XXII. 
 
 "He frown'd and sigh'd, the Mon- 
 arch bold: — 
 ' I give— what I may iiot withhold; 
 For, not for danger, dread, or death, 
 Must British Arthur break his faith. 
 Too late I mark, thy mother's art 
 Hath taught thee this relentless part. 
 I blame her not, for she had wrong, 
 But not to these my faults belong. 
 Use, then, the warder as thou wilt; 
 But trust me, that, if life be spilt, 
 In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace, 
 Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place. 
 Vvith that he turn'd his head aside. 
 Nor brook'd to gaze upon her pride, 
 As, with the truncheon raised, she 
 
 sate 
 The arbitress of mortal fate: 
 
290 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks dis- 
 posed, 
 How the bold chiampions stood op- 
 posed, 
 For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell 
 Upon his ear liko passing bell ! 
 Then first from sight of martial fray 
 Did Britain's hero turn away. 
 
 xxni. 
 
 "But Gyneth heard the clangour 
 
 high, 
 As hears the hawk the partridge cry. 
 Oh, blame her not ! the blood was 
 
 hers. 
 That at the trumpet's summons 
 
 stirs ! — 
 And e'en the gentlest female eye 
 Might the brave strife of chivalry 
 
 A while untroubled view; 
 So well accomplish'd was each knight. 
 To strike and to defend in fight. 
 Their meeting was a goodly sight, 
 
 While plate and mail held true. 
 The lists with painted plumes were 
 
 strewn, 
 Upon the wind at random thrown, 
 Bub helm and breastplate bloodless 
 
 shone, 
 It seem'd their f eather'd crests alone 
 
 Should this encounter rue. 
 And ever, as the combat grows. 
 The trumpet's cheery voice arose, 
 Like lark's shrill song the flourish 
 
 flows. 
 Heard while the gale of April blows 
 The merry greenwood through. 
 
 xxrv. 
 
 "But soon to earnest grew their 
 game, 
 
 The spears drew blood, the swords 
 struck flame, 
 
 And, horse and man, to ground there 
 came 
 Knights, who shall rise no more ! 
 
 Gone was the pride the war that 
 graced, 
 
 Gay shields were cleft, and crests de- 
 faced, 
 
 And steel coats riven, and helms un- 
 braced, 
 
 And pennons stream'd with gore. 
 Gone, too, were fence and fair array, 
 And desperate strength made deadly 
 
 way 
 At random through the bloody fray. 
 And blows were dealt with headlong 
 
 sway, 
 Unheeding where they fell; 
 And now the trumpet's clamours 
 
 seem 
 Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing 
 
 scream, 
 Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing 
 
 stream, 
 The sinking seaman's knell I 
 
 XXV. 
 
 '^Seem'd in this dismal hour, that 
 
 Fate 
 "Would Camlan's ruin antedate. 
 
 And spare dark Mordred's crime; 
 Already gasping on the ground 
 Lie twenty of the Table Bound, 
 
 Of chivalry the prime. 
 Arthur, in anguish, tore away 
 From head and beard his tresses 
 
 grey, 
 And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay, 
 And quaked with ruth and fear ; 
 But still she deem'd her mother's 
 
 shade 
 Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade 
 The sign that had the slaughter staid. 
 
 And chid the rising tear. 
 Then Brunor, Taulas, ivlador, fell, 
 Helias the White, and Lionel, 
 
 And many a champion more; 
 Bochemont and Dinadam are down. 
 And Ferrand of the Forest Brown 
 
 Lies gasping in his gore. 
 Vanoc, by mighty Morolt press'd 
 Even to the confines of the list, 
 Young Vanoc of the beardless face, 
 (Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's 
 
 race,) 
 O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool 
 
 bled, 
 His heart's-blood dyed her sandals 
 
 red. 
 But then the sky was overcast. 
 Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's 
 
 blast, 
 
mS BRIDAL OF TRIEBMAIN. 
 
 291 
 
 And, rent by Budden throes, 
 Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking 
 
 earth, 
 And from the gxilf, — tremendous 
 birth !— 
 The form of Merlin rose. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 "Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyed 
 The dreary lists with slaughter dyed, 
 
 And sternly raised his hand: — 
 'Madmen,' he said, 'your strife for- 
 bear. 
 And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear 
 The doom thy fates demand ! 
 Long shall close in stony sleep 
 Eyes for ruth that would not weep ; 
 Iron lethargy shall seal 
 Heart that pity scorn 'd to feel. 
 Yet, because thy mother's art 
 Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart, 
 icad for love of Arthur's race. 
 Punishment is blent with grace, 
 Thou shalt bear thy penance lone 
 In the Valley of St. John, 
 And this weird* shall overtake thee ; 
 Sleep, until a knight shall wake 
 
 thee. 
 For feats of arms as far renown'd 
 As warrior of the Table Round. 
 Long endurance of thy slumber 
 Well may teach the world to num- 
 ber 
 All their woes from Gyneth's pride. 
 When the Red Cross champions 
 died.' 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eye 
 Slumber's load begins to lie; 
 Fear and anger vainly strive 
 Still to keep its light alive. 
 Twice, with effort and with pause, 
 O'ei* her brow her hand she draws; 
 Twice her strength in vain she tries, 
 From the fatal chair to rise, 
 Merlin's magic doom is spoken, 
 Vanoc's death must now be wroken. 
 Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall, 
 Curtaining each azure ball. 
 Slowly as on summer eves 
 
 Violets fold their dusky leaves. 
 The weighty baton of command 
 Now bears down her sinking hand. 
 On her shoulder droops her head; 
 Net of pearl and golden thread, 
 Bursting, gave her locks to flow 
 O'er her arm and breast of snow. 
 And so lovely seem'd she there. 
 Spell-bound in her ivory chair. 
 That her angry sire, repenting, 
 Craved stern Merlin for relenting, 
 And the champions, for her sake. 
 Would again the contest wake; 
 Till, in necromantic night, 
 Gyneth vanish'd from their sight. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 " Still she bears her weird alone, 
 
 In the Valley of St. John; 
 
 And her semblance oft will seem. 
 
 Mingling in a champion's dream. 
 
 Of her weary lot to 'plain. 
 
 And crave his aid to burst her chain. 
 
 While her wondrous tale was new. 
 
 Warriors to her rescue drew. 
 
 East and west, and south and north» 
 
 From the Lifify, Thames, and Forth. 
 
 Most have sought in vain the glen, 
 
 Tower nor castle could they ken; 
 
 Nor at every time or tide, 
 
 Nor by every eye, descried. 
 
 Fast and vigil must be borne, 
 
 Many a night in watching worn, 
 
 Ere an eye of mortal powers 
 
 Can discern those magic towers. 
 
 Of the persevering few, 
 
 Some from hopeless task withdrew. 
 
 When they read the dismal threat 
 
 Graved upon the gloomy gate. 
 
 Few have braved the yawning door, 
 
 And those few return'd no more. 
 
 In the lapse of time forgot, 
 
 Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot; 
 
 Sound her sleep as in the tomb, 
 
 Till waken'd by the trump of doom." 
 
 END or IiTUIJ»H's TAIiE. 
 
 ♦Doom. 
 
 Here pause my tale; for all too soon. 
 My Lucy, comes the hour of noon. 
 Already from thy lofty dome 
 Its courtly inmates 'gin to roam, 
 
292 
 
 SCOTT'S TOETICAL WORKS. 
 
 And eacli, to kill the goodly day 
 That God has granted them, his way 
 Of lazy sauntering has sought; 
 
 Lordiings and witlings not a few, 
 Incapable of doing aught, 
 Yet ill at ease with nought to do. 
 Here is no longer place for me; 
 For, Lucy, thou wouldst blush to see 
 Some phantom fashionably thin, 
 With limb of lath and kerchief'd 
 
 chin, 
 And lounging gape, or sneering 
 grin, 
 Steal sudden on our privacy. 
 And how should I, so humbly born. 
 Endure t-io graceful spectre's scorn ? 
 Faith ! ill, I fear, while conjuring 
 
 wand 
 Of English oak is hard at hand. 
 
 n. 
 
 Or grant the hour be all too soon 
 For Hessian boot and pantaloon, 
 And grant the lounger seldom strays 
 Beyond the smooth and gravell'd 
 
 maze. 
 Laud we the gods, that Fashion's 
 
 train 
 Holds hearts of more adventurous 
 
 strain. 
 Artists are hers, who scorn to trace 
 Their rules from Nature's boundless 
 
 grace. 
 But their right paramount assert 
 To limit her by pedant art. 
 Damning whate'cr of vast and fair 
 Exceeds a canvass three feet square. 
 This thicket, for their gumption fit, 
 May furnish such a happy hit. 
 Bards, too, are hers, wont to recite 
 Their own sweet lays by waxen light, 
 Half in the salvers tingle drown'd, 
 While the chasse-cqfe glides around; 
 And such may hither secret stray, 
 To labour an extempore: 
 Or sportsman, with his boisterous 
 
 hollo 
 May here his wiser spaniel follow, 
 Or stage-struck Juliet may presume 
 To choose this bower for tiring-room; 
 And wo alike must shun regard, 
 
 From painter, player, sportsman, 
 
 bard. 
 Lasects that skim in Fashion's sky. 
 Wasp, blue-bottle, or butterfly, 
 Lucy, have all alarms for us. 
 For all can hum and all can buzz. 
 
 in. 
 
 But oh, my Lucy, say how long 
 
 We still must dread this trifling 
 
 throng, 
 And stoop to hide, with coward art, 
 The genuine feelings of the heart ! 
 ITo parents thine whose just com- 
 mand 
 Should rule their child's obedient 
 
 hand; 
 Thy guardians, with contending voice, 
 Press each his individual choice. 
 And which is Lucy's? — Can it be 
 That puny fop, trimm'd cap-a-pee, 
 Yv^ho loves in the saloon to show 
 The arms taat never knew a foe; 
 Y/hose sabre trails along the ground, 
 Whose legs in shapeless boots are 
 
 drown'd; 
 A new Achilles, sure, — the steel 
 ried from his breast to fence his heel; 
 One, for the simple manly grace 
 That wont to deck our martial race, 
 Who comes in foreign trashery 
 Of tinkling chain and spur, 
 ' A walking haberdashery, 
 
 Of feathers, lace, and fur: 
 In Eowley's antiquated phrase, 
 Horse-milliner of modern days ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Or is it he, the wordy youth, 
 
 So early train'd for statesman's 
 part. 
 Who talks of honour, faith, and 
 truth, 
 As themes that he has got by 
 heart; 
 Whose ethics Chesterfield can teach. 
 Whose logic is from Single-speech; 
 Who scorns the meanest thought to 
 
 vent. 
 Save in the phrase of Parliament; 
 Who, in a tale of cat and mouse, 
 Calls, "order," and "divides the 
 house," 
 
THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 293 
 
 "Who " craves permission to reply," 
 Whose "noble friend is in his eye;" 
 Whose loving tender some have 
 
 reckon'd 
 A motion, you should gladly second ? 
 
 V. 
 
 What, neither ? Can there be a third, 
 To such resistless swains preferred ? — 
 O why, my Lucy, turn aside, 
 With that quick glance of injured 
 
 pride? 
 Forgive me, love, I cannot bear 
 That alter'd and resentful air. 
 Were all the wealth of Kussel mine, 
 And all the rank of Howard's line, 
 All would I give for leave to dry 
 That dewdrop trembling in thine eye. 
 Think not I fear such fops can while 
 From Lucy more than careless smile; 
 But yet if wealth and high degree 
 Give gilded counters currency. 
 Must I not fear, when rank and birth 
 Stamp the pure ore of genuine worth ? 
 Nobles there are, whose martial fires 
 Eival the fame that raised their sires, 
 And patriots, skill'd through storms 
 
 of fate 
 To guide and guard the reeling state. 
 Such, such there are — if such should 
 
 come, 
 Arthur must tremble and be dumb. 
 Self-exiled seek some distant shore. 
 And mourn till life and grief are o'er. 
 
 VI. 
 
 What sight, what signal of alarm, 
 That Lucy clings to Arthur's arm? 
 Or is it, that the rugged way 
 Makes Beauty lean on lover's stay ? 
 Oh, no ! for om the vale and brake. 
 Nor sight nor sounds of danger wake. 
 And this trim sward of velvet green, 
 Were carpet for the Fairy Queen. 
 That pressure slight was but to tell, 
 That Lucy loves her Arthur well. 
 And fain would banish from his mind 
 Suspicious fear and doubt unkind. 
 
 vn. 
 
 But wouldst thou bid the demons fly 
 Like mist before the dawning sky, 
 There is but one resistless snell — 
 
 Say, wilt thou guess, or must I tell ? 
 'Twere hard to name, in minstrel 
 
 phrase, 
 A landaulet and four blood-bays, 
 But bards agree this wizard band 
 Can but be bound in Northern land. 
 'Tis there — nay, draw not back thy 
 
 hand ! — 
 'Tis there this slender finger round 
 Must golden amulet be bound, 
 Which, bless'd with many a holy 
 
 prayer. 
 Can change to rapture lovers' care, 
 And doubt and jealousy shall die, 
 And fears give place to ecstasy. 
 
 vm. 
 
 Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long 
 Has been thy lover's tale and song. 
 O, why so silent, love, I pray ? 
 Have not I spoke the livelong day? 
 And will not Lucy deign to say 
 
 One word her friend to bless ? 
 I ask but one — a simple sound, 
 Within three little letters bound, 
 
 O, let the word be YES 1 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 INTKODUCTION. 
 I. 
 
 Long loved, long woo'd, and lately 
 
 won, 
 My life's best hope, and now mine 
 
 own ! 
 Doth not this rude and Alpine glen 
 Recall our favourite haunts agen ? 
 A wild resemblance we can trace. 
 Though reft of every softer grace. 
 As the rough warrior's brow may 
 
 bear 
 A likeness to a sister fair. 
 Full well advised our Highland host. 
 That this wild pass on foot be 
 
 cross'd, 
 While round Ben-Cruach's mighty 
 
 base 
 Wheel the slow steeds and lingering 
 
 chaise. 
 The keen old carle, with Scottish 
 
 pride. 
 He praised his glen and mountains 
 
 wide; 
 
294 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 An eye he bears for nature's face, 
 Ay, and for woman's lovely grace. 
 Even in such mean degree we find 
 The subtle Scot's observing mind ; 
 For, nor the chariot nor the train 
 Could gape of vulgar wonder gain, 
 But when old Allan would expound 
 Of Beal-na-paish* the Celtic sound, 
 His bonnet doff'd, and bow, applied 
 His legend to my bonny bride; 
 While Lucy blush'd beneath his eye, 
 Courteous and cautious, shrewd and 
 sly. 
 
 Enough of him. — Now, ere we lose, 
 Plunged in the vale, the distant 
 
 views. 
 Turn thee, my love ! look back once 
 
 more 
 To the blue lake's retiring shore. 
 On its smooth breast the shadows 
 
 seem 
 Like objects in a morning dream. 
 What time the slumberer is aware 
 He sleeps, and all the vision's air : 
 Even so, on yonder liquid lawn, 
 In hues of bright reflection drawn, 
 Distinct the shaggy mountains lie. 
 Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky; 
 The summer-clouds so plain we note, 
 That we might count each dappled 
 
 spot : 
 We gaze and we admire, yet know 
 The scene is all delusive show. 
 Such dreams' of bliss would Arthur 
 
 draw. 
 When first his Lucy's form he saw; 
 Yet sigh'd and sicken'd as he drew, 
 Despairing they could e'er prove 
 
 true ! 
 
 ni. 
 
 But, Lucy, turn thee now, to view 
 Up the fair glen, our destin'd 
 way : 
 The fairy path that we pursue, 
 Distinguish'd but by greener hue. 
 Winds round the purple brae. 
 While Alpine flowers of varied dye 
 For carpet serve, or tapestry. 
 
 * JBeal-na-paish, in English, the Vale of the 
 Bridal. 
 
 See how the little runnels leap, 
 
 In threads of silver, down the steep, 
 
 To swell the brooklet's moan ! 
 Seems that the Highland Naiad 
 
 grieves, 
 Fantastic while her crown she 
 
 weaves, 
 Of rowan, birch, and alder-leaves, 
 
 So lovely, and so lone. 
 There's no illusion there; these flow- 
 ers. 
 That wailing brook, these lovely bow- 
 ers, 
 
 Are, Lucy, all our own; 
 And, since thine Arthur call'd thee 
 
 wife, 
 Such seems the prospect of his life, 
 A lovely path, on-winding still. 
 By gurgling brook and sloping hill. 
 'Tis true, that mortals cannot tell 
 What waits them in the distant dell; 
 But be it hap, or be it harm, 
 We tread the pathway arm in arm. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And now, my Lucy, wot'st thou why 
 I could thy bidding twice deny, 
 When twice you pray'd I would again 
 Resume the legendary strain 
 Of the bold knight of Triermain ? 
 At length yon peevish vow you swore, 
 That you would sue to me no more, 
 Until the minstrel fit drew near. 
 And made me prize a listening ear. 
 But, loveliest, when thou first didst 
 
 pray 
 Continuance of the knightly lay, 
 Was it not on the happy day 
 
 That made thy hand mine own? 
 When, dizzied with mine ecstasy, 
 Nought past, or present, or to be, 
 Could I or think on, hear, or see. 
 
 Save, Lucy, thee alone! 
 A giddy draught my rapture was, 
 As ever chemist's magic gas. 
 
 V. 
 
 Again the summons I denied 
 
 In yon fair capital of Clyde : 
 
 My Harp — or let me rather choose 
 
 The good old classic form— my Muse, 
 
 (For Harp's an over-scutched phrase, 
 
THE BRIDAL OF TRJERMAIK 
 
 295 
 
 Worn out by bards of modern days, ) 
 My Muse, then— seldom will she wake. 
 Save by dim wood and silent lake; 
 She is the wild and rustic Maid, 
 Whose foot unsandall'd loves to tread 
 Where the soft greensward is inlaid 
 With varied moss and thyme; 
 And, lest the simple lily-braid, 
 That coronets her temples, fade, 
 She hides her still in greenwood 
 
 shade, 
 
 To meditate her rhyme. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And now she comes ! The mnrmur 
 
 dear 
 Of the wild brook hath caught her car, 
 
 The glade hath won her eye, 
 She longs to join with each blithe rill 
 That dances down the Highland hill. 
 
 Her blither melody. 
 And now, my Lucy's way to cheer. 
 She bids Ben-Cruach's echoes hear 
 How closed the tale, my love whilere 
 
 Loved for its chivalry. 
 List how she tells, in notes of flame, 
 ** Child Eoland to the dark tower 
 
 came." 
 
 CANTO THERD. 
 
 I. 
 
 Bewcastle now must keep the Hold, 
 
 Speir-Adam's steeds must bide in 
 stall. 
 Of Hartley-burn the bowmen bold 
 
 Must only shoot from battled wall ; 
 And Liddesdale may buckle spur, 
 
 And Teviot now may belt the brand, 
 Tarras and Ewes keep nightly stir, 
 
 And Eskdale foray Cumberland. 
 Of wasted fields and plundered flocks 
 
 The Borderers bootless may com- 
 plain ; 
 They lack the sword of brave de Vaux, 
 
 There comes no aid from Trier- 
 main. 
 That lord, on high adventure bound. 
 
 Hath wander'd forth alone, 
 And day and night keeps -watchful 
 round 
 
 In the valley of Saint John. 
 
 II. 
 
 When first began his vigil bold. 
 The moon twelve summer nights was 
 old, 
 And shone both fair and full; 
 High in the vault of cloudless blue. 
 O'er streainlet, dale, and rock, she 
 threw 
 Her light composed and cool. 
 Stretch'd on the brown hill's heathy 
 breast, 
 Sir Koland eyed the vale ; 
 Chief where, distinguish'd from the 
 
 rest. 
 Those clustering rocks uprear'd their 
 
 crest, 
 The dwelling of the fair distress'd, 
 
 As told grey Lyulph's tale. 
 Thus as he lay the lamp of night 
 Was quivering on his armour bright. 
 
 In beams that rose and fell, 
 And danced upon his buckler's boss. 
 That lay beside him on the moss, 
 As on a crystal well. 
 
 HL 
 Ever he watch'd, and oft he deem'd, 
 While on the mound the moonlight 
 stream'd, 
 It alter' d to his eyes; 
 Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan 
 
 change 
 To buttress'd walls their shapeless 
 
 range, ' 'i;) 
 
 Fain think, by transmutation 
 strange, 
 He saw grey turrets rise. 
 But scarce his heart with hope 
 
 throbb'd high. 
 Before the wild illusions fly. 
 
 Which fancy had conceived. 
 Abetted by an anxious eye 
 
 That long'd to be deceived. 
 It was a fond deception all, 
 Such as, in solitary hall. 
 
 Beguiles the musing eye. 
 When, gazing on the sinking fire. 
 Bulwark, and battlement, and spire. 
 
 In the red gulf we spy. 
 For, seen by moon of middle night. 
 Or by the blaze of noontide bright, 
 Or by the dawn of morning light, 
 
206 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WOltKS, 
 
 Or evening's western flame, 
 In every tide, at every hour, 
 In mist, in sunshine, and in shower, 
 
 The rocks remain' d the same. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oft has he traced the charmed 
 
 mound. 
 Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it 
 round, 
 
 Yet nothing might explore. 
 Save that the crags so rudely piled, 
 At distance seen, resemblance wild 
 
 To a rough fortress boic. 
 Yet still his watch the Warrior keeps, 
 Feeds hard and spare, and seldom 
 sleeps, 
 
 And drinks but of the well; 
 Ever by day he walks the hill, 
 An,d when the evening gale is chill. 
 
 He seeks a rocky cell, 
 Like hermit poor to bid his bead. 
 And tell his Ave and his Creed, 
 Invoking every saint at need. 
 
 For aid to burst his spell. 
 
 V. 
 
 And now the moon her orb has hid, 
 And dwindled to a silver thread, 
 
 Dim seen in middle heaven, 
 While o'er its curve careering fast. 
 Before the fury of the blast 
 
 The midnight clouds are driven. 
 The brooklet raved, for on the hills, 
 The upland showers had swoln the 
 rills, 
 
 And down the torrents came; 
 Mutter'd the distant thunder dread, 
 And frequent o'er the vale was 
 spread 
 
 A sheet of lightning flame. 
 De Vaux, witliin his mountain cave, 
 (No human step the storm durst 
 
 brave, ) 
 To moody meditation gave 
 
 Each faculty of soul, 
 Till, luU'd by distant torrent sound, 
 And the sad winds that whistled 
 
 round, 
 Upon his thoughts, in musing 
 drown'd, 
 
 A broken slumber stole. 
 
 VI. 
 
 'Twas then was heard a heavy sound, 
 (Sound, strange and fearful there 
 to hear, 
 'Mongst desert hills, where, leagues 
 around, 
 Dwelt but the gorcock and the 
 deer:) 
 As, starting from his couch of fern, 
 Again he heard in clangour stern, 
 
 That deep and solemn swell, — 
 Twelve times, in measured tone, it 
 
 spoke. 
 Like some proud minster's pealing 
 clock. 
 Or city's Tarum-bell. 
 What thought was Roland's first 
 
 when fell. 
 In that deep wilderness, the knell 
 
 Upon his startled ear ? 
 To slander warrior were I loth, 
 Yet must I hold my minstrel troth, — 
 It was a thought of fear. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But lively was the mingled thrill 
 That chased that momentary chill. 
 
 For Love's keen wish was there, 
 And eager Hope, and Valour high, 
 And the i)roud glow of Chivalry, 
 
 That burn'd to do and dare. 
 Forth from the cave the Warrior 
 
 rush'd. 
 Long ere the mountain-voice was 
 hush'd, 
 
 That answer' d to the knell; 
 For long and far the unwonted sound, 
 Eddying in echoes round and round, 
 
 Was toss'd from fell to fell; 
 And Glaramara answer flung, 
 And Grisdale-pike responsive rung, 
 And Legbert heights their echoes 
 swung. 
 
 As far as Derwent's dell. 
 
 vni. 
 
 Forth upon trackless darkness gazed 
 The Knight, bedeafen d and amazed, 
 
 Till all was hushd and still, 
 Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar. 
 And the night-blast that wildly bore 
 
 Its course alon;^ ihe hiH, 
 
THE BRIDAL OF TRIEBMAIN. 
 
 29? 
 
 Then on the northern sky there came 
 A light, as of reflected flame, 
 
 And over Legbert-head, 
 As if by magic art controll'd, 
 A mighty meteor slowly roll'd 
 
 Its orb of fiery red; 
 Thou wouldst have thought some de- 
 mon dire 
 Came mounted on that car of fire. 
 
 To do his errand dread. 
 Far on the sloping valley's course, 
 On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse, 
 Shingle and Scrae,* and Fell and 
 Force, t 
 
 A dusky light arose : 
 Display'd, yet alter'd was the scene; 
 Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen. 
 Even the gay thicket's summer green, 
 
 In bloody tincture glows. 
 
 IX. 
 
 De Vaux had mark'd the sunbeams 
 
 set. 
 At eve, upon the coronet 
 
 Of that enchanted mound, 
 And seen but crags at random flung, 
 That, o'er the brawling torrent hung, 
 
 In desolation frown'd. 
 "What sees he by that meteor's lour ? — 
 A banner'd Castle, keep, and tower, 
 
 Eetum the lurid gleam, 
 "With battled walls and buttress fast. 
 And barbicanf and ballium§ vast. 
 And airy flanking towers that cast, 
 
 Their shadows on the stream. 
 'Tis no deceit ! — distinctly clear 
 Crenellll and parapet appear. 
 While o'er the pile that meteor drear 
 
 Makes momentary pause; 
 Then forth its solemn path it drew. 
 And fainter yet and fainter grew 
 Those gloomy towers upon the view, 
 
 As its wild light withdraws 
 
 X. 
 
 Forth from the cave did Eoland rush, 
 O'er crag and stream, through brier 
 and bush. 
 Yet far he had not sped, 
 
 * Bank of loose stones. t "Watei fail, 
 
 I The outer defence of a castle gate, 
 § A fortified court. 
 
 II Apertures for shooting arrows, 
 
 Ere sunlc was that portentous light 
 Behind the hills, and utter night 
 
 Was on the valley spread. 
 He paused perforce, and blew his 
 
 horn. 
 And, on the mountain-echoes borne. 
 
 Was heard an answering sound, 
 A wild and lonely trumpet-note, — 
 In middle air it seem'd to float 
 
 High o'er the battled mound; 
 And sounds were heard, as when a 
 
 guard. 
 Of some proud castle, holding ward, 
 
 Pace forth their nightly round. 
 The valliant Knight of Triermain 
 Kung forth his challenge-blast again, 
 
 But answer came there none; 
 And 'mid the mingled wind and rain, 
 Darkling he sought the vale in vain, 
 
 Until the dawning shone; 
 And when it dawn'd, that wondrous 
 
 sight. 
 Distinctly t een by meteor light, 
 
 It all had pass'd away ! 
 And that enchanted mount once more 
 A pile of granite fragments bore, 
 
 As at the close of day. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Steel'd for the deed, De Yaux's heart, 
 Scorn'd from his vent'rous quest to 
 
 part, 
 
 He walks the vale once more ; 
 But only sees, by night or day. 
 That shatter'd pile of rocks so grey. 
 
 Hears but the torrent's roar. 
 Till when, through hills of azure 
 
 borne, 
 The moon renew'd her silver horn, 
 Just at the time her waning ray 
 Had faded in the dawning day, 
 
 A summer mist arose; 
 Adown the vale the vapours float. 
 And cloudy undulations moat 
 That tufted mound of mystic note, 
 
 As rqund its base they close. 
 And higher now the fleecy tide 
 Ascends its stern and shaggy side, 
 Until the airy billows hide 
 
 The rock's majestic isle; 
 It seem'd a veil of filmy lawn, 
 
29a 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL W0Ii7C'<. 
 
 By some fantastic fairy drawn 
 Around enchanted pile. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The breeze came softly down the 
 brook, 
 
 And, sighing as it blew, 
 The veil of silver mist it shook, 
 And to De Yaux's eager look 
 
 Kenew'd that wondrous view. 
 For, though the loitering vapour 
 
 braved 
 The gentle breeze, yet oft it waved 
 
 Its mantle's dewy fold; 
 And still, when shook that filmy 
 
 screen, 
 Were towers and bastions dimly seen, 
 And Gothic battlements between 
 
 Their gloomy length unroll'd. 
 Speed, speed, De Vaux, ero on thine 
 
 eye 
 Once more the fleeting vision die ! 
 
 — The gallant knight gan speed 
 As prompt and light as, when the 
 
 hound 
 Is opening, and the horn is wound. 
 
 Careers the hunter's steed. 
 Down the steep dell his course amain 
 
 Hath rivall'd archer's shaft; 
 But ere the mound he could attain, 
 The rocks their shapeless form re- 
 
 And, mocking loud his labour vain, 
 
 The mountain spirits laugh'd. 
 Far up the echoing dell was borne 
 Their wild unearthly shout of scorn. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Am I 
 
 "Wroth wax'd the Warrior. 
 
 then 
 Fool'd by the enemies of men. 
 Like a poor hind, whose homeward 
 
 way 
 Is haunted by malicious fay ! 
 Is Triermain become your taunt, 
 De Vaux your scorn ? False fiends, 
 
 avaunt !" 
 A weighty curtal-axe he bare ; 
 The baleful blade so bright and 
 
 square, 
 And the tough shaft of heben wood, 
 Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued. 
 
 Backward his stately form he drevr, 
 And at the rocks the weapon threw, 
 Just where one crag's projected crest 
 Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest. 
 Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's 
 
 shock 
 Bent a huge fragment of the rock. 
 If by mere strength, 'twere hard to 
 
 tell. 
 Or if the blow dissolved some speU, 
 But down the headlong ruin came, 
 With cloud of dust and flash of flame. 
 Down bank, o'er bush, its course was 
 
 borne, 
 Crush'd lay the copse, the earth was 
 
 torn, 
 Till staid at length, the ruin dread 
 Cumber' d the torrent's rocky bed. 
 And bade the water's high-swoln tide 
 Seek other passage for its pride. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 When ceased that thunder, Triermain 
 Survey 'd the mound's rude front 
 
 again; 
 And lo ! the ruin had laid bare, 
 Hewn in the stone, a winding stair. 
 Whose nioss'd and fractured steps 
 
 might lend 
 The means the summit to ascend ; 
 And by whose aid the brave De Vaux 
 Began to scale these magic rocks, 
 
 And soon a platform won. 
 Where, the wild witchery to close, 
 Within three lances' length arose 
 
 The Castle of St. John ! 
 No misty phantom of the air, 
 No meteor-blazon'd show was there; 
 In morning splendour, full and fair, 
 
 The massive fortress shone. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Embattled high and proudly tower'd. 
 
 Shaded by pond'rous flankers, low- 
 er" d 
 The portal's gloomy way. 
 
 Though for six hundred years and 
 more, 
 
 Its »itrength had brook'd the tem- 
 pest's roar, 
 
 The Bcutcheon'd emblems which it 
 bore 
 
TH:e BRIDAL OF TRTERMAiy. 
 
 S9d 
 
 Had suffer'd no decay: 
 But from the eastern battlement 
 A turret had made sheer descent, 
 And, down in recent ruin rent, 
 
 In the mid torrent lay. 
 Else, o'er the Castle's brow sublime. 
 Insults of violence or of time 
 
 Unfelt had pass'd away. 
 In shapeless characters of yore, 
 The gate this stern inscriptionbore : — 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Inscription. 
 
 "Patience waits the destined day, 
 Strength can clear the cumber'd way. 
 Warrior, who hast waited long. 
 Firm of soul, of sinew strong, 
 It is given thee to gaze 
 On the pile of ancient days. 
 Never mortal builder's hand 
 This enduring fabric plann'd; 
 Sign and sigil, word of power, 
 From the earth raised keep and tower. 
 View it o'er, and pace it round, 
 Eampart, turret, battled mound. 
 Dare no more ! To cross the gate 
 Were to tamper with tiiy fate; 
 Strength and fortitude were vain. 
 View it o'er— and turn again." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "That would I," said the Warrior 
 
 bold, 
 •♦ If that my frame were bent and old. 
 And my thin blood dropp'd slow and 
 cold. 
 
 As icicle in thaw; 
 But while my heart can feel it dance, 
 Blitheas the sparkling wine of France, 
 And this good arm wields sword or 
 
 lance, 
 I mock these words of awe !'* 
 He said ; the wick* t felt the sway 
 Of his strong hand, and straight gave 
 
 way, 
 And, with rude crash and jarring bray, 
 
 The rusty bolts withdraw ; 
 But o'er the threshold as he strode. 
 And forward took the vaulted road. 
 An unseen arm, with force amain. 
 The ponderous gate flung close again, 
 
 And rusted bolt and bar " . 
 
 Spontaneous took their place once 
 
 more, 
 While the deep arch with sullen roar 
 
 Keturn'd their surly jar. 
 "Now closed is the gin and the prey 
 within 
 
 By the rood of Lanercost ! 
 But he that would win the war-wolf's 
 skin, 
 
 May rue him of his boast.'* 
 Thus muttering, on the Warrior went. 
 By dubious light down deep descent. 
 
 xvm. 
 
 Unbarr'd, unlocked, unwatch'd, a port 
 Led to the Castle's outer court: 
 There the main fortress, broad and 
 
 tall, 
 Spread its long range of bower and 
 
 hall, 
 And towers of varied size, 
 Wrought with each ornament extreme, 
 That Gothic art, in wildest dream 
 
 Of fancy, could devise; 
 But full between the Warrior's way 
 And the main portal arch, there lay 
 J^ n inner moat , 
 Nor bridge nor boat 
 Affords Be Vaiix the means to cross 
 The clear, profound, and silent fosse. 
 His arms aside in haste he flings, 
 Cuirass of steel and hauberk rings, 
 And down falls helm, and down the 
 
 shield. 
 Bough with the dints of many a field. 
 Fair was his manly form, and fair 
 His keen dark eye, and close curl'd 
 
 hair. 
 When, all unarm'd, save that the 
 
 brand 
 Of well-proved metal graced his hand. 
 With nought to fence his dauntless 
 
 breast 
 But the close gipon's * under-vest. 
 Whose sullied buff the sable stains 
 Of hauberk and of mail retains, — 
 Boland De Vaux upon the brim 
 Of the broad moat stood prompt to 
 
 swim. 
 
 * A sort of doublet, worn beneath the ar 
 raour. 
 
300 
 
 scorrs poetical works. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Accoutred thus he dared the tide, 
 And Boon he reach 'd the farther side, 
 
 And enter'd soon the Hold, 
 And paced a hall, whose walls so 
 
 wide 
 Were hlazon'd all with feats of pride, 
 
 By warriors done of old. 
 In middle lists they counter'd here, 
 While trumpets seem'd to blow ; 
 And there, in den or desert drear, 
 
 They quell 'd gigantic foe. 
 Braved the fierce griffon in his ire, 
 Or faced the dragon's breath of fire. 
 Strange in their arms, and strange 
 
 in face, 
 Heroes they seem'd of ancient race, 
 Whose deeds of arms, and race, and 
 
 name, 
 Forgotten long by later fame. 
 
 Were here depicted, to appal 
 Those of an age degenerate, 
 Whose bold intrusion braved their 
 fate. 
 In this enchanted hall. 
 For some short space the venturous 
 
 knight 
 With these high marvels fed his 
 
 sight. 
 Then sought the chamber's upper 
 
 end, 
 Where three broad easy steps ascend 
 
 To an arch'd portal door. 
 In whose broad folding leaves of 
 
 state 
 Was framed a wicket window-grate, 
 
 And, ere he ventured more. 
 The gallant Knight took earnest view 
 The grated wicket- window through. 
 
 XX. 
 
 O, for his arms ! Of martial weed 
 Had never mortal ICnight such need ! 
 He spied a stately gallery; all 
 Of snow-white marble was the wall, 
 
 The vaulting, and the floor; 
 And, contrast strange, on either 
 
 hand 
 There stood array'd in sable band 
 
 Four Maids whom Afric bore ; 
 And each a Libyan tiger led. 
 Held by as bright and frail a thread 
 
 As Lucy's golden hair,— 
 For the leash that bound these mon- 
 sters dread 
 
 Was but of gossamer. 
 Each Maiden's short barbaric vest 
 Left all unclosed the knee and breast 
 
 And limbs of shapely jet; 
 White was their vest and turban's 
 
 fold. 
 On arms and ankles rings of gold 
 
 In savage pomp were set; 
 A quiver on their shoulders lay, 
 And in their hand an assagay. 
 Such and so silent stood they there. 
 
 That Roland wellnigh hoped 
 He saw a band of statues rare, 
 Station'd the gazer's soul to scare ; 
 
 But when the wicket oped. 
 Each grisly beast 'gan upward draw, 
 Eoll'd his grim eye, and spread his 
 
 claw. 
 Scented the air, and licked his jaw; 
 While those weird maids, in Moorish 
 
 tongue, 
 A wild and dismal warning sung. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Rash Adventurer, bear thee back! 
 
 Dread the spell of Dahomay ! 
 Fear the race of Zaharak, * 
 
 Daughters of the burning day ! 
 
 "When the whirlwind's gusts are 
 wheeling. 
 
 Ours it is the dance to braid; 
 Zarah's sands in pillars reeling. 
 
 Join the measure that we tread, 
 When the Moon has donn'd her 
 cloak. 
 
 And the stars are red to see, 
 Shrill when pipes the sad Siroc, 
 
 Music meet for such as we. 
 
 " Where the shatter'd columns lie, 
 
 Showing Carthage once had been. 
 If the wandering Santon's eye 
 
 Our mysterious rites hath seen, — 
 Oft he cons the prayer of death, 
 
 To the nations preaches doom, 
 * Azrael's brand hath left the sheath ! 
 
 Moslems, think upon the tomb !' 
 
 * The Arab name of the Treat Desert. 
 
TITE BniDAL OF TniEEMAm. 
 
 301 
 
 "Ours the scorpion, ours tlie snake, 
 
 Ours the hydra of the fen, 
 Ours the tiger of the brake. 
 
 All that plague the sons of men. 
 Ours the tempest's midnight wrack, 
 
 Pestilence that wastes by day — 
 Dread the race of Zaharak ! 
 
 Fear the spell of Dahomay 1" 
 XXII. 
 
 Uncouth and strange the accents 
 shrill 
 Rung those vaulted roofs among, 
 Long it was ere, faint and still, 
 
 Died the far resounding song. 
 While yet the distant echoes roll, 
 The Warrior communed with his 
 
 soul. 
 "When first I took this venturous 
 quest, 
 
 I swore upon the rood. 
 Neither to stop, nor turn, nor rest, 
 
 For evil or for good. 
 My forward path too well I ween. 
 Lies yonder fearful ranks between ! 
 For man unarm'd, 'tis bootless hope 
 With tigers and with fiends to cope- 
 Yet, if I turn, what waits me there. 
 Save famine dire and fell despair ?— 
 Other conclusion let me try, 
 Since, choose howe'er I list, I die. 
 Forward, lies faith and knightly 
 
 fame; 
 Behind, are perjury and shame. 
 In life or death I hold my word !" 
 With that he drew his trusty sword. 
 Caught down a banner from the 
 
 wall. 
 And enter'd thus the fearful hall. 
 
 xxin. 
 
 On high each wayward Maiden threw 
 Her swarthy arm, with wild halloo ! 
 On either side a tiger sprung— 
 Against the leftward foe he flung 
 The ready banner, to engage 
 With tangling folds the brutal rage ; 
 The rightrhand monster in mid air 
 He struck so fiercely and so fair. 
 Through gullet and through spinal 
 
 bone. 
 The trenchant blade had sheerly 
 
 gone 
 
 His grisly brethren ramp'd and yell'd. 
 But the slight leash their rage with- 
 held, 
 Whilst,'twixt their ranks, the danger- 
 ous road 
 Firmly, though swift, the champion 
 
 strode. 
 Safe to the gallery's bound he drew, 
 Safe pass'd an open portal through; 
 And when against pursuit he flung 
 The gate, judge if the echoes rung ! 
 Onward his daring course he bore, 
 AVhile, mix'd with dying growl and 
 
 roar, 
 Wild jubilee and loud hurra 
 Pursued him on his venturous way. 
 
 XXIV. 
 "Hurra, hurra ! Our watch is done ! 
 We hail once more the tropic sun. 
 Pallid beams of northern day, 
 Farewell, farewell ! Hurra, hurra ! 
 
 "Five hundred years o'er this cold 
 
 glen 
 Hath the pale sun come round agen; 
 Foot of man. till now, hath ne'er 
 Dared to cross the Hall of Fear. 
 
 "Warrior! thou, whose dauntless 
 
 heart 
 Gives U3 from our ward to part, 
 Be as strong in future trial, 
 Where resistance is denial. 
 
 "Now for Afric's glowing sky, 
 Zwenga wide and Atlas high, 
 
 Zaharak and Dahomay ! 
 
 Mount the winds I Hurra, hurra X* 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The wizard song at distance died. 
 
 As if in ether borne astray, 
 While through waste halls and cham- 
 bers wide 
 The Knight pursued his steady 
 way, 
 Till to a lofty dome he came. 
 That flash'd with such a brilliant 
 
 flame. 
 As if the wealth of all the world 
 Were there in rich confusion hurl'd. 
 I For here the gold, in sandy heaps. 
 
302 
 
 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 With duller earth, incorporate, sleeps; 
 Was there in ingots piled, and there 
 Coin'd badge of empery it bare; 
 Yonder, huge bars of silver lay, 
 Dimm'd by the diamond's neighbour- 
 ing ray, 
 Like the pale moon in morning day; 
 And in the midst four Maidens stand, 
 The daughters of some distant land. 
 Their hue was of the dark-red dye, 
 That fringes oft a thunder sky; 
 Their hands palmetto baskets bare, 
 And cotton fillets bound their hair; 
 Slim was their form, their mien was 
 
 To earth they bent the humbled eye, 
 Folded their arms, and suppliant 
 
 kneel'd. 
 And thus their proffer' d gifts re- 
 
 veal'd. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 CHOEUS. 
 
 "See the treasures Merlin piled, 
 Portion meet for Arthur's child. 
 Bathe in Wealth's unbounded stream, 
 Wealth that Avarice ne'er could 
 dream !" 
 
 FIRST IIAIDEN. 
 
 " See these clots of virgin gold ! 
 Sever'd from the sparry mould, 
 Nature's mystic alchemy 
 In the mine thus bade them lie ; 
 And their Orient smile can win 
 Kings to stoop, and saints to sin." — 
 
 SECOND MAIDEN. 
 
 have 
 
 "See these pearls, that Ion 
 
 slept; 
 
 These were tears by Naiads wept 
 For the loss of Marinel. 
 Tritons in the silver shell 
 Treasured them, till hard and white 
 As the teeth of Amphitrite." — 
 
 THIRD MAIDEN. 
 
 •'Does a livelier hue delight? 
 Here are rubies blazing bright, 
 Here the emerald's fairy green, 
 And the topaz glows between; 
 Here tiieir varied hues unite, 
 In the changeful chrysolite." — 
 
 FOURTH MAIDEN. 
 
 "Leave these gems of ]ioorer shine, 
 Leave them all and look on mine ! 
 While their glories I expand. 
 Shade thine eyebrows with thy hand. 
 Mid-day sun and diamond's blaze 
 Blind the rash beholder's gaze." — 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 "Warrior, seize the splendid store; 
 Would 'twere all our mountains bore ! 
 Y/e should ne'er in future story. 
 Head, Peru, thy pcrish'd glory !" 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 Calmly and unconcern' d, the Knight 
 Waved aside the treasures bright : — 
 "Gentle Maidens, rise, I pray ! 
 Car not thus my destined way. 
 Let these boasted brilliant toys 
 Braid the hair of girls and boj's ! 
 rid your streams of gold expand 
 O'er proud London's thirsty land. 
 De Yaux of wealth saw never need, 
 Save to purvey him arms and steed, 
 And all the ore ho deign'd to hoard 
 Inlays his helm, and hilts his sword." 
 Thus gently parting from their hold. 
 He left, unmoved, the dome of gold. 
 
 XXYIII. 
 
 And now the morning sun was high, 
 De Y'aux was weary, faint, and dry; 
 When, lo ! a plashing sound he hears, 
 A gladsome signal that he nears 
 
 Some frolic water-run; 
 And soon he reach'd a court-yard 
 
 square. 
 Where, dancing in the sultry air, 
 Toss'd high aloft, a fountain fair 
 
 Was sparkling in the sun. 
 On right and left, a fair arcade, 
 In long perspective view display'd 
 Alleys and bowers, for sun or shade: 
 
 But, full in front, a door, 
 Low-brow'd and dark, seem'd as it 
 
 led 
 To the lone dwelling of the dead, 
 
 Whose memory was no more. 
 
 XXIX. 
 Here stopp'd De Vaux an instant's 
 
 space, 
 To bathe his parched lips and face, 
 
THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIK 
 
 303 
 
 And mark'd witli well-pleased 
 eye, 
 Eefracted on the fountain stream, 
 In rainbow lines the dazzling beam 
 
 Of that gay summer slcy. 
 His senses felt a mild control, 
 Like that which lulls the weary soul, 
 
 From contemplation high 
 Belaxing, when the ear receives 
 The music that the greenwood leaves 
 
 Make to the breezes' sigh. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And oft in such a dreamy mood, 
 
 The half-shut eye can frame 
 Fair apparitions in the wood 
 As if the nymphs of field and flood 
 
 In gay procession came. 
 Are these of such fantastic mould, 
 
 Seen distant down the fair ar- 
 cade, 
 These Maids enlink'd in sister-fold, 
 
 Who, late at bashful distance 
 staid. 
 
 Now tripping from the green- 
 wood shade. 
 Nearer the musing champion draw, 
 And, in a pause of seeming awe, 
 
 Again stand doubtful now ? — 
 Ah, that sly pause of witching powers! 
 That seems tj say, "To please be 
 ours. 
 
 Be yours to tell us how.'' 
 Their hue was of the golden glow 
 That suns of Candahar bestow. 
 O'er which in slight effusion flows 
 A frequent tinge of paly rose ; 
 Their limbs were fashion' d fair and 
 
 free, 
 In nature's justest symmetry; 
 And, wreathed with flowers, with 
 
 . odours graced. 
 Their raven ringlets reach'd the 
 
 waist: 
 In eastern pomp, its gilding pale 
 The hennah lent each shapely nail, 
 And the dark sumah gave the eye 
 More liquid and more lustrous dye. 
 The spotless veil of misty lawn, 
 In studied disarrangement, drawn 
 
 The form and bosom o'er, 
 To win the eye, or tempt the touch, 
 
 For modesty show'd all too much — 
 Too much — yet promised more. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " Gentle Knight, a while delay," 
 
 Thus they sung, ' ' thy toilsome way, 
 
 While we pay the duty due 
 
 To our Master and to you. 
 
 Over Avarice, over Fear, 
 
 Love triumphant led thee here; 
 
 Warrior, list to us, for we 
 
 Are slaves to Love, are friends to 
 
 thee. 
 Though no treasured gems have we, 
 To proffer on the bended knee, 
 Though we boa.^t nor arm nor heart. 
 For the assagay or dart, 
 Gwains allow each simple girl 
 Iluby lip and teeth of pearl; 
 Or, if dangers more you prize. 
 Flatterers find them in our eyes. 
 
 "Stay, then, gentle Warrior, stay, 
 Rest tin evening steal on day; 
 kjtay, O, stay !— in yonder bowers 
 We will braid thy locks with flowers, 
 Spread the feast and fill the wine. 
 Charm thy ear with sounds divine, 
 Weave our dances till delight 
 Yield to languor, day to night. 
 
 "Then shall she you most approve, 
 Sing Vaq lays that best you love, 
 Soft tby mossy couch shall spread. 
 Watch thy pillow, prop thy head. 
 Till the weary night be o'er — 
 Gentle Warrior, wouldst thou more? 
 Wouldst thou more, fair Warrior, — 
 
 she 
 Is slave to Love, and slave to thee." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 O, do not hold it for a crime 
 In the bold hero of my rhyme, 
 
 For Stoic look, 
 
 And meet rebuke, 
 He lack'd the heart or time; 
 As round the band of sirens trip, 
 He kiss'd one damsel's laughing lip, 
 And press'd another's proffer'd hand. 
 Spoke to them all in accents bland, 
 But broke their magic circle through ; 
 
864 
 
 SCOTTS POETICAL WOBKS. 
 
 adieu, 
 
 " Kind Maids," be said, 
 
 adieu ! 
 My fate, my fortune, forward lies." 
 He said, and vanish' d from their 
 
 eyes; 
 But, as he dared that darksome way. 
 Still heard behind their lovely lay:— 
 "Fair Flower of Courtesy, depart ! 
 Go, where the feelings of the heart 
 With the warm pulse in concord 
 
 move; 
 Go, where Virtue sanctions Love !" ^ 
 
 xxxin. 
 
 Downward De Vaux through dark- 
 some ways 
 And ruin'd vaults has gone, 
 Till issue from their wilder 'd maze, 
 
 Or safe retreat, seem'd none, — 
 And e'en the dismal path be strays 
 Grew worse as he went on. 
 For cheerful sun, for living air, 
 Foul vapours rise and mine-fires 
 
 glare, 
 Whose fearful light the dangers 
 
 show'd 
 That dogg'd him on that dreadful 
 
 road. 
 Deep pits, and lakes of waters dun. 
 They show'd, but show'd not how to 
 
 shun. 
 These scenes of desolate despair, 
 These smothering clouds of poison'd 
 
 air; 
 How gladly had De Vaux exchanged, 
 Though 'twere to face yon tigers 
 ranged ! 
 Nay, soothful bards have said 
 So perfious his state seem'd now, 
 He wish'd him under arbour bough 
 
 With Asia's willing maid. 
 When, joyful sound ! at distance near 
 A trumpet flourish'd loud and clear, 
 And as it ceased, a lofty lay 
 Seem'd thus to chide his lagging way. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " Son of Honour, theme of story, 
 Think on the reward before ye ! 
 Danger, darkness, toil despise; 
 'Tin Ambition bids thee rise. 
 
 " He that would her heights ascend, 
 Many a weary step must wend; 
 Hand and foot and knee he tries; 
 Thus Ambition's minions rise. 
 
 "Lag not now, though rough the 
 
 way. 
 Fortune's mood brooks no delay; 
 Grasp the boon that's spread before 
 
 Monarch's power, and Conqueror's 
 glory!" 
 
 It ceased. Advancing on the sound, 
 A steep ascent the wanderer found. 
 
 And then a turret stair: 
 Nor climb'd he far its steepy round 
 
 Till fresher blew the air. 
 And next a welcome glimpse was 
 
 given, 
 That cheer'd him with the light of 
 heaven. 
 
 At length his toil had won 
 A lofty hall with trophies dress'd. 
 Where, as to greet imperial guest, 
 Four Maidens stood, whose crimson 
 vest 
 
 Was bound with golden zone. 
 
 XXXV. 
 Of Europe seem'd the damsels aU; 
 The first a nymph of lively Gaul, 
 Whose easy step and laughing eye 
 Her borrow'd air of awe belie; 
 
 The next a maid of Spain, 
 Dark-eyed, dark-hair'd, sedate, yet 
 
 bold; 
 White ivory skin and tress of gold. 
 Her shy and bashful comrade told 
 
 For daughter of Almaine. 
 These maidens bore a royal robe, 
 With crown, with sceptre, and with 
 globe. 
 
 Emblems of empery; 
 The fourth a space behind them 
 
 stood. 
 And leant upon a harp, in mood 
 
 Of minstrel ecstasy. 
 Of merry England she, in dress 
 Like ancient British Druidess. 
 Her hair an azure fillet bound, 
 Hergracefulvesturesweptthe ground. 
 
 And, in her hand display'd, 
 
TEE BRIDAL OF TRIEBMAIN. 
 
 305 
 
 A crown did that fourth Maiden hold, 
 But unadorn'd with gems and gold, 
 Of glossy laurel made. 
 
 XXXVl. 
 At once to brave De Yaux knelt 
 down 
 These foremost Maidens three, 
 And proffer'd sceptre, robe, and 
 crown, 
 Liegedom and seignorie, 
 O'er many a region wide and fair, 
 Destined, they said, for Arthur's 
 heir; 
 But homage would he none: — 
 "Rather," he said, "De Vaux would 
 
 ride, 
 A Warden of the Border-side, 
 In plate and mail, than, robed in 
 pride, 
 A monarch's empire own; 
 Eather, far rather, would he be 
 A free-born knight of England free, 
 
 Than sit on Despot's throne.'' 
 So pass'd he on, when that fourth 
 Maid, 
 As starting from a trance, 
 "Upon the harp her fingers laid ; 
 Her magic touch the chords obey'd, 
 Their soul awaked at once ! 
 
 SONG or THE FOUBTH MAIDEN. 
 
 *♦ Quake to your foundations deep, 
 Stately Towers, and Banner'd Keep, 
 Bid your vaulted echoes moan, 
 As the dreaded step they own. 
 
 "Fiends, that wait on Merlin's 
 
 spell, 
 Hear the foot-fall ! mark it well ! 
 Spread your dusky wings abroad, 
 Boune ye for your homeward road ! 
 
 "It is His, the first who e'er 
 Dared the dismal Hall of Fear; 
 His, who hath the snares defied 
 Spread by Pleasure, Wealth, and 
 Pride. 
 
 *' Quake to your foundations deer), 
 Bastion huge, and Turret st^ep ! 
 Tremble, Keep ! and totter, 'i\v.ver! 
 This is Gyneth's waking hjur. ' 
 
 xxxvn. 
 
 Thus while she sung, the ventnrons 
 
 Knight 
 Has reach'd a bower, where milder 
 light 
 
 Through crimson curtains fell; 
 Such soften'd shade the hill receives, 
 Her purple veil when twilight leaves 
 
 Upon its western swell. 
 That bower, the gazer to bewitch. 
 Hath wondrous store of rare and rich 
 
 As e'er was seen with eye; 
 For there by magic skill, I wis, 
 Form of each thing that living is 
 
 "Was limn'd in proper dye. 
 All seem'd to sleep— the timid hare 
 On form, the stag upon his lair, 
 The eagle in her eyrie fair 
 
 Between the earth and sky. 
 But what of pictured rich and rare 
 Could win De Vaux's eye-glance, 
 
 where, 
 Deep slumbering in the fatal chair, 
 
 He saw King Arthur's child ! * 
 Doubt, and anger, and dismay. 
 From her brow had pass'd away. 
 Forgot was that fell tourney-day, 
 
 For, as she slept, she smiled: 
 It seem'd, that the repentant Seer 
 Her sleep of many a hundred year 
 
 With gentle dreams beguiled. 
 
 xxxvin. 
 
 That form of maiden loveliness, 
 
 'Twixt childhood and 'twixt 
 youth. 
 That ivory chair, that silvan dress, 
 The arms and ankles bare, express 
 
 Of Lyulph's tale the truth. 
 Still upon her garment's -hem 
 Vanoc's blood ma^e purple gem, 
 And the warder of command 
 Cumber'd still her sleeping hand ; 
 Still her dark locks dishevel'd flow 
 From net of pearl o'er breast of snow ; 
 And so fair the slumberer seems, 
 That De Vaux impeach'd his dreams, 
 Vapid all and void of might, 
 Hiding half her charms tcom. sight. 
 Motionless a while he stands, 
 Folds his arms and clasps his hands, 
 Trembling in his fitful joy, 
 
306 
 
 SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 Doubtful how he should destroy 
 
 Long-enduring spell; 
 Doubtful, too, when slowly rise 
 Dark-fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes, 
 
 What these eyes shall tell. — 
 "St. George ! St. Mary ! can it be, 
 That they will kindly look on me !" 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Gently, lo ! the Warrior kneels, 
 Soft that lovely hand he steals, 
 Soft to kiss, and soft to clasp — 
 But the warder leaves her grasp; 
 
 Lightning flashes, rolls the thun- 
 der, 
 Gyneth startles from her sleep, 
 Totters Tower, and trembles Keep, 
 
 Burst the Castle-walls asunder ! 
 Fierce and frequent were the shocks, -- 
 
 Melt the magic halls away; 
 
 But beneath their mystic rocks, 
 
 In the arms of bold De \ aux, 
 
 Safe the Princess lay; 
 Safe and free from magic power, 
 Blushing like the rose's flower 
 
 Opening to the day; 
 And round the Champion's brows 
 
 were bound 
 The crown that Druidess had wound, 
 
 Of the green laurel-bay. 
 And this was what remain'd of all 
 The wealth of each enchanted hall, 
 
 The Garland and the Dame: 
 But where should Warrior seek the 
 
 meed. 
 Due to high worth for daring deed, 
 
 Except from Love and Fame? 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 I. 
 
 My Lucy, when the Maid is won. 
 The Minstrel's task, thou know'st, is 
 done; 
 
 And to require of bard 
 That to his dregs the tale should run. 
 
 Were ordinance too hard. 
 Our lovers, briefly be it said, 
 Wedded as lovers wont to wed. 
 
 When tale or play is o'er. 
 Lived long and blest, loved fond and 
 true, 
 
 And saw a numerous race renew 
 
 The honours that they bore. 
 Know, too, that when a pilgrim 
 
 strays, 
 In morning mist or evening maze. 
 
 Along the mountain lone. 
 That fairy fortress often mocks 
 His gaze upon the castled rocks 
 
 Of the Valley of St. John ; 
 But never man since brave De Vaux 
 
 The charmed portal won. 
 'Tis now a vain illusive show, 
 That melts whene'er the sunbeams 
 glow 
 
 Or the fresh breeze hath blown. 
 
 n. 
 
 But see, my love, where far below 
 Our lingering wheels are moving 
 slow, 
 
 The whiles, up-gazing stiU, 
 Our menials eye our steepy way, 
 Marvelling, perchance, what wind 
 
 can stay 
 Our steps, when eve is sinking grey, 
 
 On this gigantic hill. 
 So think the vulgar — Life and time 
 King all their joys in one dull chime 
 
 Of luxury and ease ; 
 And, ! beside these simple knaves, 
 How many better born are slaves 
 
 To such coarse joys as these, — 
 Dead to the nobler sense that glows 
 When Nature's grander scenes un- 
 close ! 
 But, Lucy, we will love them yet, 
 The mountain's misty coronet. 
 
 The greenwood, and the wold ; 
 And love the more, that of their maze 
 Adventure high of other days 
 
 By ancient bards is told, 
 Bringing, perchance, like my poor 
 
 tale. 
 Some moral truth in fiction's veil: 
 Nor love them less, that o'er the hill 
 The evening breeze, as now, comes 
 chill ;- 
 
 My love shall wrap her warm. 
 And, fearless of the slippery way, 
 While safe she trips the heathy brae, 
 
 Shall hang on Arthur's arm. 
 
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