€&e Cam&noge €Dition of tf>e $oet£ EDITED BY HORACE E. SCUDDER SCOTT BY THE EDITOR ■ 1 US I 1 ■j^X 33g ; j ■ "■>&**§f^i* 4>V ^a^ > ^^^^^5 l *kS|«SE2Jp3H|!r*' ^S%T"~^^^^^p I* 1 Hi 1 j ' » ci'.V i : HL \ V Lj ^IH Sj '■ ''ft* 1 ^K' t^k ' .=< : ^^B ^^ THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT Cambridge Coition -\ BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY <£&e &tber#De #re$£, CambrtDge 1900 TWO COPIES RECEIVE* Library of Congress (JffUe of tilt APR 2 4 1900 Register of Copyright* COPYRIGHT, 19OO, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ' 'fiksi ccpy: EDITOR'S NOTE When Dr. Rolf e edited The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Seott, Baronet, in 1877, lie made a critical examination of the several texts, with the result of dis- covering many errors and inconsistencies in the current editions. The text which he thus established may be regarded as accurate and trustworthy. It has been adopted, so far as it goes, in the present Cambridge Edition. Dr. Rolf e, however, was preparing a volume which, by calling in the aid of new and faithful illustra- tions, should appeal through its beauty and choiceness to lovers of Scott who might be supposed to know their author and to desire a fit and convenient edition of his poems. He excluded purposely a number of less important poems, and grouped all the minor poems in sections following the series of long narrative poems. At the close he added a body of notes and prefaces, drawn from Scott's own editions. In accordance with the general plan of the Cambridge series, the present editor has undertaken to give the entire body of Sir Walter's poetry and to arrange it with as close an approach to strict chronological order as was possible without pedantry. He has prefaced each poem or group of poems with notes describing the origin or circumstance of composition, and in these notes has included Scott's own Introductions, and such references as occur in Lockhart, in Scott's Letters, and in his Journal. In this way he has undertaken to separate the history of a poem from the explication of its parts. For the latter, he has had recourse for the most part in the Notes and Illustra- tions to the notes written and gathered by Scott for his collective edition. Scott's unfailing interest in everything Scottish led him to great lengths in his annotation and especially to the accumulation of a great deal of antiquarian and sometimes rather remote material. He forgot his poem and even now and then apparently the subject itself as he heaped up illustrations. The editor therefore has found it expedient, while retaining Scott's own notes, to omit some of the discursive por- tions drawn from other writers. The annotation, moreover, is made in one respect more convenient and compact by the explanation of rare and local words in a Glossary which is an enlargement of the one accompanying Dr. Rolfe's volume. In his Biographical Sketch, the Editor has had in view more especially that portion of Scott's life which closed with the great poetical period, since it is Scott the poet who is especially under consideration. He was glad to avail himself of the admirable and suggestive interpretation of the poet's life made by Rusk in in Fors Clavigera. Cambridge, March, 1900. TABLE OF CONTENTS BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER. William and Helen. The Wild Huntsman . EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS. The Violet . . . . . .7 To a Lady with Flowees from a Roman Wall .... 8 The Erl-Ktng, from the German of Goethe 8 War-Song of the Royal Edinburgh Light Dragoons .... 9 Song from 'Goetz von Berlich- ingen' 9 Songs from ' The House of Aspen.' I. 'Joy to the victors, the sons of old Aspen' . . 10 II. 'Sweet shone the sun on THE FAIR LAKE OF TORO ' . 10 III. Rhein-Wein Lled . . 11 Glenfinlas, or Lord Ronald's Coronach 11 The Eve of St. John ... 14 The Gray Brother . . . .17 The Fere-King .... 19 Bothwell Castle . . . .22 The Shepherd's Tale ... 23 Cheviot 25 Frederick and Alice ... 25 Cadyow Castle 26 The Reiver's Wedding . . 29 Christie's Will 30 Thomas the Rhymer ... 32 The Bard's Incantation . . 37 Hellvellyn 37 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. Introductory Note . . . .39 Introduction 46 Canto First 47 Canto Second 51 Canto Third 57 Canto Fourth 61 Canto Fifth 68 Canto Sixth 74 MARMION: A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD. Introductory Note . . . .81 Introduction to Canto First . 88 Canto First: The Castle . . 91 Introduction to Canto Second . 97 Canto Second: The Convent . 100 Introduction to Canto Third . 106 Canto Third : The Hostel, or Inn 109 Introduction to Canto Fourth . 115 Canto Fourth : The Camp . . 117 Introduction to Canto Fifth . 124 Canto Fifth : The Court . . 126 Introduction to Canto Sixth . 137 Canto Sixth: The Battle . . 140 L'Envoy 151 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. Introductory Note . . . 152 Canto First : The Chase . . 156 Canto Second : The Island . 164 Canto Third: The Gathering . 173 Canto Fourth : The Prophecy . 181 Canto Fifth: The Combat . . 190 Canto Sixth: The Guard-Room . 199 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. Introductory Note .... 208 Introduction 210 The Vision of Don Roderick . 212 Conclusion 223 ROKEBY. Introductory Note .... 226 Canto First . . . . .231 Canto Second 239 Canto Third 246 Canto Fourth 255 Canto Fifth * 263 Canto Sixth 273 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMALN. Introductory Note .... 283 Introduction 287 Vlll TABLE OF CONTENTS Canto First 288 Canto Second ..... 293 Introduction to Canto Third . 301 Canto Third 302 Conclusion 311 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. Introductory Note .... 312 Canto First 313 Canto Second 320 Canto Third 327 Canto Fourth 335 Canto Fifth 343 Canto Sixth 351 Conclusion 361 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. Introductory Note . . . 362 The Field of Waterloo . . . 363 Conclusion 368 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. Introductory Note .... 369 Introduction . . . . . 370 Canto First 371 Canto Second 376 Canto Third . . . . . 380 Canto Fourth 384 Canto Fifth 389 Canto Sixth 393 Conclusion . . . . • . . 398 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Dying Bard .... 399 The Norman Horse-Shoe . . 399 The Maid of Toro ... 400 The Palmer 400 The Maid of Neidpath . . 401 Wandering Willie .... 401 Health, to Lord Melville . . 402 Hunting Song 403 Song : * O, say not, my Love ' . 404 The Resolve ...... 404 Epitaph designed for a Monument in Lichfield Cathedral, at the Burial-Place of the Family of Miss Seward 405 Prologue to Miss Baillie's Play of ' The Family Legend ' . . 405 The Poacher . ... 406 The Bold Dragoon ; or, The Plain of Badajos 408 On the Massacre of Glencoe . 409 Song for the Anniversary Meet- ing of the Pitt Club of Scot- land 409 Lines addressed to Ranald Mac- donald, Esq., of Staffa . . 410 Pharos Loquitur .... 410 Letter in Verse on the Voyage with the Commissioners of Northern Lights. To His Grace the Duke of Buccleuch 411 Postscriptum .... 412 Songs and Verses from Waverley. I. ' And did ye not hear of a MIRTH BEFELL' . . . 413 II. ' Late when the autumn EVENING FELL ' . . . 414 HI. ' The knight 's to the mountain' .... 414 IV. ' It 's up Glembarchan's BRAES I GAED ' . . . 414 V. ' Hie away, hie away ' . 414 VI. St. Swithin's Chair . 415 VII. ' Young men will love thee MORE FAIR AND MORE FAST ' 415 VIII. Flora MacIvor's Song . 416 IX. To an Oak Tree . . .417 X. 'We are bound to drive the bullocks' . . . 418 XI. 'But follow, follow me' 418 For a' That an' a' That . . 418 Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail .... 419 Imitation of the Preceding Song 419 War.Song of Lachlan, High Chief of Maclean 420 Saint Cloud 420 The Dance of Death . . . 421 Romance of Dunois . . . 423 The Troubadour .... 423 ' It chanced that Cupid on a sea- son' . .... 423 Song on the Lifting of the Ban- ner of the House of Buccleuch at a great football match on Carterhaugh 424 Songs from Guy Mannering. I. ' Canny moment, lucky fit ' . 424 II. ' Twist ye, twine ye ! even so ' 425 III. ' Wasted, weary, wherefore stay ' 425 IV. ' Dark shall be light ' . 425 Lullaby of an Infant Chief . 425 The Return to Ulster . . . 425 Jock of Hazeldean . . . 426 Pibroch of Donald Dhu . . 427 Nora's Vow 427 MacGregor's Gathering . . 428 Verses sung at the dinner given to the Grand Duke Nicholas of Russia and his Suite, 19th De- cember, 1816 428 TABLE OF CONTENTS Verses from The Antiquary. Verses from The Monastery. I. ' He came, but valor had so I. Answer to Introductory FIRED HIS EYE ' 429 Epistle 453 II. ' Why sit' st thou by that II. Border Song . . . 453 RUINED HALL' 429 III. Songs of the White Lady III. Epitaph 429 of Avenel .... 453 IV. ' THE HERRING LOVES THE IV. To the Sub-Prior . . 454 MERRY MOON-LIGHT ' 429 V. Halbert's Incantation . 455 Verses from Old Mortality. VI. To Halbert . . . .455 I. 'And what though winter VII. To the Same . . .456 WILL PINCH SEVERE ' . 430 VIII. To the Same . . .458 II. Verses found, with a lock IX. To Mary Avenel . . 458 OF HAIR, IN BOTHWELL'S X. To Edward Glendinning . 458 POCKETBOOK 430 XL The White Lady's Fare- III. Epitaph on Balfour of Bur- well 458 ley 430 Goldthred's Song from Kenil- The Search after Happiness 431 worth 459 Lines written for Miss Smith . 436 Verses from The Pirate. Mr. Kemble's Farewell Address I. The Song of the Tempest 459 on taking leave of the Edin- II. Halcro's Song . . . 460 burgh Stage 436 III. Song of Harold Harfager 460 The Sun upon the Welrdlaw Hill 437 IV. Song of the Mermaids and Song from Rob Roy 438 Mermen 461 The Monks of Bangor's March . 438 V. Norna's Verses . . 461 Epilogue to 'The Appeal' 439 VI. Halcro and Norna . . 462 Mackrimmon's Lament . 439 VII. The Fishermen's Song . 463 Donald Caird's Come Again 440 VIII. Cleveland's Songs . . 464 Madge Wildfire's Songs 440 IX. Halcro's Verses . . 464 The Battle of Sempach 442 X. Norna's Incantations . 465 The Noble Moringer 444 XL The Same, at the Meeting Epitaph on Mrs. Erskine . 447 with Minna . . . 465 Songs from The Bride of Lammer- XII. Bryce Snatlsfoot's Adver- moor. tisement .... 467 I. ' Look not thou on beauty's ' On Ettrick Forest's Mountains CHARMING ' 448 Dun' 467 II. ' The monk must arise when The Maid of Isla .... 467- THE MATINS RING ' 448 Farewell to the Muse . . 467 III. 'When the last laird of Nigel's Initiation at Whitefriars 468 Ravenswood to Ravens- ' Carle, now the King's Come' . 469 wood SHALL RIDE' 448 The Bannatyne Club . . . 471 Songs from The Legend of Mont- County Guy 472 rose. Epilogue to the Drama founded I. Ancient Gaelic Melody 448 on ' Saint Ronan's Well ' . 472 II. The Orphan Maid 449 Epilogue 473 Verses from Ivanhoe. Verses from Redgauntlet. I. The Crusader's Return . 449 I. A Catch of Cowley's Altered 473 II. The Barefooted Friar . 450 II. ' As Lords their laborers' III. 'Norman saw on English hire delay' .... 474 oak' 450 Lines addressed to Monsieur IV. War-Song .... 450 Alexandre, the celebrated V. Rebecca's Hymn . 451 ventriloquist 474 VI. The Black Knight and To J. G. Lockhart, Esq., on the Wamba .... 452 Composition of Malda's Epitaph 474 VII. Another Carol by the Songs from The Betrothed. Same 452 I. ' Soldier, wake ! ' . . . 476 VIII. Funeral Hymn 453 II. Woman's Faith . . .476 TABLE OF CONTENTS III. 'I ASKED OF MY HARP ' . . 476 IV. ' Widowed wife and wedded maid ' 477 Verses from The Talisman. I. ' Dark Ahriman, whom Irak still ' 477 II. 'What brave chief shall HEAD THE FORCES ' . . 477 III. The Bloody Vest . . . 478 Verses from Woodstock. I. ' By pathless march, by GREENWOOD TREE ' . . 480 II. Glee for King Charles . 480 III. ' An hour with thee ' . . 480 IV. 'Son of a witch' . . 480 Lines to Sir Cuthbert Sharp . 480 Verses from Chronicles of the Canongate. I. Old Song 481 II. The Lay of Poor Louise 481 III. Death Chant . . . .481 IV- Song of the Glee-Maiden 482 The Death of Keeldar . . . 482 The Secret Tribunal . . . 483 The Foray 484 Inscription for the Monument of the Rev. George Scott . . 484 Songs from The Doom of Devor- goil. I. ' The Sun upon the Lake ' . 484 II. ' We love the shrill trump- et ' 485 III. 'Admire not that I gained the prize' .... 485 TV. ' When the tempest ' . 485 V. Bonny Dundee . . . 485 VI. 'When friends are met'. 486 ' Hither we come ' . . . . 487 The Death of Don Pedro . . 487 Lines on Fortune .... 487 APPENDIX. I. Juvenile Lines. From Virgil 491 On a Thunder-Storm . . 491 On the Setting Sun . . . 491 II. Mottoes from the Novels. From The Antiquary . . .492 From The Black Dwarf . . 493 From Old Mortality . . .493 From Rob Roy .... 493 From The Heart of Midlothian 494 From The Bride of Lammermoor 494 From The Legend of Montrose 494 From Ivanhoe 495 From The Monastery . . 495 From. The Abbot .... 497 From Kenilworth . . . 498 From The Pirate .... 499 From The Fortunes of Nigel 500 From Peveril of the Peak . 502 From Quentin Durward . . 503 From Saint Ronan's Well . . 504 From The Betrothed . . 504 From The Talisman . . .504 From Woodstock . . . 505 From Chronicles of the Canon- gate 506 From The Fair Maid of Perth 506 From Anne of Geierstein . . 506 From Count Robert of Paris 507 From Castle Dangerous . . 508 III. Notes and Illustrations . 508 IV. Glossary 569 573 . 579 INDEX OF FIRST LINES INDEX OF TITLES Note. The frontispiece is a photogravure made by John Andrew and Son from a painting made in 1824 by C. R. Leslie, R. A., once in the possession of the late George Ticknor, Esq., and now the property of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. The vignette is after a drawing by J. M. W. Turner, R. A., engraved in an edition of Scott's Poetical Works published by Adam and Charles Black, 1874. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH It is a happy fortune that made the two Scotsmen who stand as the highest spiritual representatives of their race to bear names so significant as Burns and Scott. The little streams that catch the sunlight as they spring down the slopes of the Scottish hills are as free in their nature and as limpid in their depths as are the songs with which Burns has given perennial freshness to Scottish life. And it was singularly fortunate that the man of all men who was to interpret his country to the world should himself have been named Scott. If we could reproduce earlier conditions, philologists in some future era of the world's history might be querying whether the little country of the north was named Scotland from the native poet, Walter Scott, or the poet took his name from the country of which he sang. Walter Scott was born 15 August, 1771, in his father's house at the head of the Col- lege Wynd, Edinburgh. He was of the purest Border race. Walter Scott — Wat of Harden — was the grandfather of his father's grandfather and was married to Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, two personages whom Sir Walter honored with more than one reference in his verse. Wat of Harden's eldest son was Sir William Scott, a stout Ja- cobite who saved his life when making an unsuccessful foray on the lands of Sir Gideon Murray of Elibank, by accepting the alternative of marrying the plainest of the daugh- ters of Sir Gideon, a marriage which by no means turned out ill, but seems to have created a genuine alliance between the two houses. The third son of Sir William was Walter Scott, the first laird of Raeburn. He and his wife were willing converts to the doctrines of George Fox, the Quaker apostle, but the elder brother, a sturdy Jacobite, would have no such nonsense in the family, and caused Walter and his wife to be clapped into prison and their children educated apart from such pestilential associations as the peace-loving, non-resisting Friends. So effective was the procedure that Walter's son Walter finally intrigued in the cause of the exiled Stuarts, lost pretty much all he had in the world, even his head being in great jeopardy, and wore his beard undipped to the day of his death under vow that no razor should touch it till the return of the Stuarts, and so got the name of Beardie ; vows, razors, and beards always appear to have had some occult connection. In the Introduction to the sixth canto of Marmion he half puts on Beardie's coat as he writes to Richard Heber. Beardie was Scott's great-grandsire. His grandfather was Beardie's second son Robert Scott of Sandy-Knowe, and as this ancestor came to have a large part in Scott's early life, it is worth while to attend to Sir Walter's own narrative concerning him. 'My grandfather,' he writes, in the effective bit of autobiography preserved by Lock- hart, ' was originally bred to the sea ; but, being shipwrecked near Dundee in his trial voyage, he took such a sincere dislike to that element that he could not be persuaded to a second attempt. This occasioned a quarrel between him and his father, who left him to shift for himself. Robert was one of those active spirits to whom this was no misfor- tune. He turned Whig upon the spot, and fairly abjured his father's politics, and his learned poverty. His chief and relative, Mr. Scott of Harden, gave him a lease of the xii WALTER SCOTT farm of Sandy-Knowe, comprehending the rocks in the centre of which Smailholm or Sandy-Knowe tower is situated. He took for his shepherd an old man called Hogg, who willingly lent him, out of respect to his family, his whole savings, about £30, to stock the new farm. With this sum, which it seems was at the time sufficient for the purpose, the master and servant set off to purchase a stock of sheep at Whitsun-Tryste, a fair field on a hill near Wooler in Northumberland. The old shepherd went carefully from drove to drove, till he found a hirsel likely to answer their purpose, and then returned to tell his master to come up and conclude the bargain. But what was his sur- prise to see him galloping a mettled hunter about the race-course, and to find he had expended the whole stock in this extraordinary purchase ! — Moses's bargain of green spectacles did not strike more dismay into the Vicar of Wakefield's family than my grandfather's rashness into the poor old shepherd. The thing, however, was irretrievable, and they returned without the sheep. In the course of a few days, however, my grand- father, who was one of the best horsemen of his time, attended John Scott of Harden's hounds on this same horse, and displayed him to such advantage that he sold him for double the original price. The farm was now stocked in earnest; and the rest of my grandfather's career was that of successful industry. He was one of the first who were active in the cattle-trade, afterward carried to such extent between the Highlands of Scotland and the leading counties in England, and by his droving transactions acquired a considerable sum of money. He was a man of middle stature, extremely active, quick, keen, and fiery in his temper, stubbornly honest, and so distinguished for his skill in country matters that he was the general referee in all points of dispute which occurred in the neighborhood. His birth being admitted as gentle, gave him access to the best society in the county, and his dexterity in country sports, particularly hunting, made him an acceptable companion in the field as well as at the table.' This Robert Scott of Sandy-Knowe married Barbara Haliburton, who brought to her husband that part of Dryburgh which included the ruined Abbey. By a misfortune in the family of Barbara Scott, this property was sold, yet the right of burial remained, and was, as we shall see, availed of by Scott himself. The eldest of the large family of Robert and Barbara Scott was Walter the father of Walter. He was educated to the profession of a Writer to the Signet, which is Scots equivalent for attorney. ' He had a zeal for his clients,' writes his son, ' which was almost ludicrous : far from coldly dis- charging the duties of his employment toward them, he thought for them, felt for their honor as for his own, and rather risked disobliging them than neglecting anything to which he conceived their duty bound them.' For the rest, he was a religious man of the stricter sort, a steady friend to freedom, yet holding fast by the monarchical element, which he thought somewhat jeoparded, a great stickler for etiquette in all the social forms, and a most hearty host. He married Anne, the daughter of Dr. John Rutherford, professor of medicine in the University of Edinburgh. Such was the inheritance with which Walter Scott came into the world, and at every step one counts a strong strain of that Scottish temper which, twisted and knotted in generations of hardihood, issues in a robust nature, delighting in the hunt and the free coursing over hill and plain, and finding in the stern country a meet nurse for a poetic child. But the conditions of life which developed an inherited power are none the less interesting to observe. His mother could not nurse him, and his first nurse had con- sumption. One after another of the little family of which he was a member had died in the close air of the wynd, and Walter was snatched from a like end by the wisdom of his father, who moved his household to a meadow district sloping to the south from the old BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xiii town; but when he was eighteen months old a childish fever cost the boy the full use of his right leg, and all his life long he limped, — a sorry privation to so outdoor a nature ; yet as the loss or disability of a member seems to have the effect on resolute persons of making them do the very things for which these members, one would say, were indispen- sable, making that armless men paint and blind men watch bees, so Scott became moun- tain climber and bold dragoon. The enfeeblement which came led Dr. Rutherford, his mother's father, to send the child to his other grandfather's farm at Sandy-Knowe, and there, with some intervals, he lived as a shepherd's child might live for five years, from 1774 to 1779; from three years old, that is, till eight. Here he came into the hands of the housekeeper, old Alison Wilson, whom he has immortalized, even to the name, in his tale of Old Mortality. His grandfather, meanwhile, the rugged cattle-dealer, took him in hand with a treatment which brought the little fellow into very close contact with nature. ' Among the odd remedies recurred to to aid my lameness,' says Scott in his autobiography, ' some one had recommended that so often as a sheep was killed for the use of the family, I should be stripped, and swathed up in the skin, warm as it was flayed from the carcase of the animal. In this Tartar-like habiliment I well remember lying upon the floor of the little parlor in the farm-house, while my grandfather, a venerable old man with white hair, used every excitement to make me try to crawl.' Whatever may have been the virtue in this contagion, there can be no hesitation in applauding the brave treatment which later was employed. When he was in his fourth year and it was thought best to try the waters of Bath, Walter had begun to show the results of his life at Sandy-Knowe. ' My health,' he says, ' was by this time a good deal confirmed by the country air, and the influence of that imperceptible and unfatiguing exercise to which the good sense of my grandfather had subjected me ; for when the day was fine, I was usually carried out and laid down beside the old shepherd, among the crags or rocks round which he fed his sheep. The impatience of a child soon inclined me to struggle with my infirmity, and I began by degrees to stand, to walk, and to run. Although the limb affected was much shrunk and contracted, my general health, which was of more importance, was much strengthened by being frequently in the open air, and, in a word, I, who in a city had probably been condemned to hopeless and helpless decrepitude, was now a healthy, high- spirited, and, my lameness apart, a sturdy child.' In another place he says that ' he delighted to roll about in the grass all day long in the midst of the flock, and the sort of fellowship he formed with the sheep and lambs impressed his mind with a degree of affectionate feeling towards them which lasted through life.' The year he spent at Bath left little impression on his mind, save an experience at the theatre when he saw As You Like It, and was so scandalized at the quarrel between Orlando and his brother in the first scene that he screamed, out ' Ain't they brothers ? ' so sheltered had his little life been thus far from anything which savored of strife in the household. He had a little schooling at Bath, where he was under the watch and ward of his aunt Janet Scott, but at Sandy-Knowe both before his excursion and after his return for three years more, he had a more natural and vital introduction to literature in the tales which he heard from his grandmother, whose own recollections went back to the days of Border raids. Thus he came, in the course of nature, as it were, into possession of an inexhaustible treasury from which later he drew forth things new and old. The years at Sandy-Knowe were the years of conscious awakening to life, and the early impressions made on his mind were so indelible, that when he first began to put pen to paper it was from the scenes he then had known that the images arose. From these xiv WALTER SCOTT scenes sprang the ' Eve of St. John ' and Marmion ; near at hand was Dryburgh ; the Tweed, which flows through his song like an enchanted stream, flowed with an embracing sweep about Melrose; and the Eildon Hills, the Cheviot range, and the wilderness of Lammermoor all mingled with his childish memories and fancies. As one reads on in Scott's Autobiography, and in the records and letters which supple- ment it, the experiences begin to call up scenes in the novels and even familiar names offer themselves. Thus, when in his eighth year he abode for a while with his aunt at Prestonpans, to get the benefit of sea-bathing, he formed a youthful intimacy with an old military veteran, Dalgetty by name, ' who had pitched his tent in that little village, after all his campaigns, subsisting upon an ensign's half-pay, though called by courtesy a Captain. As this old gentleman, who had been in all the German wars, found very few to listen to his tales of military feats, he formed a sort of alliance with me, and I used invariably to attend him for the pleasure of hearing those communications.' At Prestonpans, too, he fell in with George Constable, an old friend of his father, and por- trayed him afterward so vividly, while unconscious of it, in the character of Jonathan Oldbuck in The Antiquary as to fix suspicion on himself as the author of the book. But now, thanks to the generous course of nature-treatment, he was ready for school- ing, and a Scottish boy would be a strange lad, indeed, if he were not given over into the hands of the schoolmaster at a tender age ; the schoolmaster himself ranking in the social scale with the minister and the doctor. Thanks too to his mother and his aunt Janet, he began his school life with his head well stocked with stories of the real happen- ings in his own country, and with a portrait gallery of stalwart figures of history and poetry. The boy lived at home in his father's house in Edinburgh, and went to the High School for five years, from 1778 to 1783. Here he learned Latin and tried his own skill at making versified translations of Virgil and Horace, and here he made friendships that lasted through his life. He had, besides, a tutor at home, and he went, as the custom was, to a separate school for writing and arithmetic. At this school young girls also went, and one of them later in life set down in this wise her remembrance of her school- fellow : — ' He attracted the regard and fondness of all his companions, for he was ever rational, fanciful, lively, and possessed of that urbane gentleness of manner which makes its way to the heart. His imagination was constantly at work, and he often so engrossed the attention of those who learnt with him that little could be done — Mr. Morton himself being forced to laugh as much as the little scholars at the odd turns and devices he fell upon ; for he did nothing in the ordinary way, but for example, even when he wanted ink to his pen, would get up some ludicrous story about sending his doggie to the mill again. He used also to interest us in a more serious way, by telling us the visions, as he called them, which he had lying alone on the floor or sofa, when kept from going to church on a Sunday by ill health. Child as I was, I could not help being highly delighted with his description of the glories he had seen — his misty and sublime sketches of the regions above, which he had visited in his trance. Eecollecting these descriptions, radi- ant and not gloomy as they were, I have often thought since that there must have been a bias in his mind to superstition — the marvellous seemed to have such power over him, though the mere offspring of his own imagination, that the expression of his face, habit- ually that of genuine benevolence, mingled with a shrewd innocent humor, changed greatly while he was speaking of these things, and showed a deep intenseness of feeling, as if he were awed even by his own recital. ... I may add, that in walking he used always to keep his eyes turned downwards as if thinking, but with a pleasing expression of BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xv countenance, as if enjoying his thoughts. Having once known him, it was impossible ever to forget him.' But familiar as was the boy's intercourse with companions of his own age, Scott himself plainly lays great emphasis on the affectionate relation he held with his elders. After his studies at the High School and before he entered college, he lived for a while, and afterward frequently visited, with his aunt Janet at Kelso. Here he kept up some schooling with the village schoolmaster, who appears to have been the original of Dominie Sampson, but he also read voraciously in Spenser and Shakespeare, in the older novelists, and here he made the acquaintance of Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry. ' I remember well,' he records in later life, ' the spot where I read these volumes for the first time. It was beneath a huge platanus-tree, in the ruins of what had been intended for an old- fashioned arbor in the garden. The summer-day sped onward so fast, that notwithstand- ing the sharp appetite of thirteen, I forgot the hour of dinner, was sought for with anxiety, and was found still entranced in my intellectual banquet. To read and to remem- ber was in this instance the same thing, and henceforth I overwhelmed my school-fellows and all who would hearken to me with tragical recitations from the ballads of Bishop Percy.' Among these school-fellows was James Ballantyne, so closely identified with his later fortunes. ' He soon discovered,' says Ballantyne in a reminiscence, ' that I was as fond of listening as he himself was of relating ; and I remembered it was a thing of daily occurrence, that after he had made himself master of his own lesson, I, alas ! being still sadly to seek in mine, he used to whisper to me : " come, slink over beside me, Jamie, and I '11 tell you a story." ' And stories in abundance he afterward told to the listening Jamie. If at Sandy-Knowe nature had stolen into his mind, as well as sent her healing messages into his body, at Kelso he entered upon that hearty, enthusiastic love of natural beauty, and especially of the mingling of man's deeds with nature's elements, which glows through his poems and his novels. ' The meeting,' there, he says, ' of two superb rivers, the Tweed and the Teviot, both renowned in song — the ruins of an ancient Abbey — the more distant vestiges of Roxburgh Castle — the modern mansion of Fleurs, which is so situated as to combine the ideas of ancient baronial grandeur with those of modern taste — are in themselves objects of the first class ; yet are so mixed, united, and melted among a thousand other beauties of a less prominent description, that they harmonize into one general picture, and please rather by unison than by concord. I believe I have written unintelligibly upon this subject, but it is fitter for the pencil than the pen. The romantic feelings which I have described as predominating in any mind, naturally rested upon and associated themselves with these grand features of the landscape around me ; and the historical incidents, or traditional legends connected with many of them, gave to my admiration a sort of intense impression of reverence, which at times made my heart feel too big for its bosom. From this time the love of natural beauty, more especially when combined with ancient ruins, or remains of our fathers' piety or splendor, became with me an insatiable passion, which if circumstances had permitted, I would willingly have gratified by travelling over half the globe.' In 1783, when he was twelve years old, he entered college at Edinburgh, after the manner of Scottish boys, and had three years of college life, such as it was, for he let Greek sink out of knowledge, kept up a smattering only of Latin, heard a little philosophy under Dugald Stewart, and attended a class in history. His health was not confirmed, and he had recourse more than once to the healing of Kelso, and by the time he was fifteen and had done with college, he was poorly enough equipped with learning. But xvi WALTER SCOTT the flame of poetry and romance which had been kindled burned steadily within him and was fed with large draughts from literature, with delightfully free renderings amongst his chosen friends, and with now and then little exercises with his pen. It is, however, noticeable throughout the formative period of Scott's life, how little he was affected with the cacoethes scribendi. He had the healthier appetite which is appeased though never satiated with literature, and the natural gift which finds expression in improvised story- telling, or the free recital of what one has read. A friend recalling the delightful Satur- day excursions to Salisbury Crags, Arthur's Seat, or Blackford Hill, when they carried books from the circulating library to read on the rocks in the intervals of hardy climbing adds : ' After we had continued this practice of reading for two years or more together, he proposed that we should recite to each other alternately such adventures of knight- errants as we could ourselves contrive ; and we continued to do so a long while. He found no difficulty in it, and used to recite for half an hour or more at a time, while I seldom continued half that space. The stories we told were, as Sir Walter has said, interminable — for we were unwilling to have any of our favorite knights killed. Our passion for romance led us to learn Italian together ; after a time we could both read it with fluency, and we then copied such tales as we had met with in that language, being a continued succession of battles and enchantments. He began early to collect old bal- 'lads, and as my mother could repeat a great many, he used to come and learn those she could recite to him. He used to get all the copies of these ballads he could, and select the best.' Scott himself, never given to subjective analysis, repeatedly stood off and looked at himself, boy and man, to sketch the figure in some of one of his characters, and thus he has portrayed with great accuracy in the person of Waverley the course of voluntary study which he had followed up to this time. ' He had read, and stored in a memory of uncommon tenacity, much curious, though ill-arranged and miscellaneous information. In English literature he was master of Shakespeare and Milton, of our earlier dramatic authors, of many picturesque and inter- esting passages from our old historical chronicles, and was particularly well acquainted with Spenser, Drayton, and other poets, who have exercised themselves on romantic fiction, — of all themes the most fascinating to a youthful imagination, before the pas- sions have roused themselves, and demand poetry of a more sentimental description.' In 1786 Scott was apprenticed to his father, and for five years he served his time; five more years were spent in the scanty practice of the law, before the first volume appeared of tnat long row which, compress it as we may, must always take up a great deal of shelf-room with the complete writings of Sir Walter Scott. These ten years witnessed the strength- ening of a nature which, with all the early promise to be traced in the outlines we have drawn, had nothing in it of the forced ripening of a stimulated brain. Scott was twenty- five years old when he printed the thin volume of translations from the German; he was over thirty when he edited the Border Minstrelsy with the first essays into his own field of romantic verse, and he had entered upon the second of man's generations before he wrote The Lay of the Last Minstrel. There is nothing of the prodigy in this. Scott's industry was great. His productiveness was notable, especially when one takes into account the great body of letters and journal- writing, and remembers how popular he was in society; but before he entered on his career as an author, he was simply a full-blooded young Scotsman, delighting in excursions, with a capacious memory in which he stored and assimilated the records in prose and verse of Scottish achievements, an omnivorous reader, and a hearty companion. He was not even regarded as a leading figure in the literary society affected by the ingenious youth of Edinburgh. His essays in literature were BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xvii not very effective. As he himself humorously puts it, ' I never attempted them unless compelled to do so by the regulations of the society, and then I was like the Lord of Castle Rackrent, who was obliged to cut down a tree to get a few fagots to boil the kettle ; for the quantity of ponderous and miscellaneous knowledge which I really pos- sessed on many subjects was not easily condensed, or brought to bear upon the object I wished particularly to become master of. Yet there occurred opportunities when this odd lumber of my brain, especially that which was connected with the recondite parts of history, did me, as Hamlet says, " yeoman's service." My memory of events was like one of the large, old-fashioned stone-cannons of the Turks, — very difficult to load well and discharge, but making a powerful effect when by good chance any object did come within range of its shot.' It was at the beginning of this period that Scott caught a glimpse of that other great Scotsman, Burns, with whom, though he did not know it, he was to share the bench which Scotland owns on the slope of Parnassus. Quite as notable was the acquaintance which he first made about the same time with the Highlands. Though business for his father took him into this region, his delight in the scenery and the people took precedence of his occupation with affairs, and long after he had forgotten the trivial errands in the interest of the law, he remembered the tales he had heard, and his imagination built upon his experience those characters and scenes which live in the lines of The Lady of the Lake and in the pages of Rob Roy. The record of Scott's life during the ten years of his legal training and early practice is delightfully varied with narratives of these excursions. The ardor of the young Scots- man carried him into the midst of scenes which were to prove the unfailing quarry from which he was to draw the material for his work of romance and fiction; and when one looks back upon his years of adolescence from the vantage ground of a full knowledge of his career, it would seem as if never did a writer qualify himself for his work of creation in so thorough and direct a fashion. Yet happily this preparation was unpre- meditated and unconscious, for the naturalness which is the supreme characteristic of Sir Walter's verse and prose was due to the integrity and simplicity of his nature expending itself during these years of preparation upon occupations and interests which were ends in themselves. His healthy spirit found outlet in this hearty enjoyment of nature and history and human life, with apparently no thought of what use he should put his acquisi- tions to; it was enough for the time that he should share his enjoyment with his cherished friends, or at the most shape his knowledge into some amateur essay for his literary club. In the midst of this active, wholesome life he entered upon an experience which made a deep furrow in his soul. It is witness to the sincerity of his first real passion — we may pass over the youthful excitement which gave him a constancy of affection for a girl when he was in his twentieth year — that it should have found expression in the earliest of his own poems, ' The Violet,' have risen into view more than once in direct and indirect reference in poems and novels, and even late in life should have called out a deep note of yearning regret in his journal. The tale of his disappointment in love has been spread before the world recently with sufficient detail in Mr. Adam Scott's book * and in Miss Skene's magazine article. As we have intimated, it was an expe- rience of no idle sort, but the outcome is another tribute, if one were needed, to the 1 The Story of Sir Walter Scotfs First Love, with illustrative passages from his Life and Works, and portraits of Sir Walter and Lady Scott, and of Sir William and Lady Forbes. By Adam Scott. Edinburgh : Macniven & Wallace, 1896. xviii WALTER SCOTT wholesomeness and freedom from morbid self-love which make Scott in these latter days so eminently the friend in literature of the young and whole hearted. It is a comment on the absence of bitterness in his nature that he did not disengage himself from his kind, but threw himself into the affairs of the hour and organized the Edinburgh Light- horse, of which he became quartermaster, writing a spirited war song, and using his pen thus as an instrument of service, before he was regarded as a man of the pen at all. There is something very consonant with our largest knowledge of Scott's temper in the incidents which led up to his marriage. The story in its beginning shall be told by Lockhart : ' Riding one day with Fergusson, they met, some miles from Gilsland, a young lady taking the air on horseback, whom neither of them had previously remarked, and whose appearance instantly struck both so much, that they kept her in view until they had satisfied themselves that she also was one of the party at Ellisland [the watering-place where they had halted]. The same evening there was a ball, at which Captain [John] Scott produced himself in his regimentals, and Fergusson also thought proper to be equipped in the uniform of the Edinburgh Volunteers. There was no little rivalry among the young travellers as to who should first get presented to the unknown beauty of the morning's ride; but though both the gentlemen in scarlet had the advantage of being dancing partners, their friend succeeded in handing the fair stranger to supper — and such was his first introduction to Charlotte Margaret Carpenter. 'Without the features of a regular beauty, she was rich in personal attractions ; "a form that was fashioned as light as a fay's ; " a complexion of the clearest and lightest olive ; eyes large, deep-set and dazzling, of the finest Italian brown ; and a profusion of silken tresses, black as the raven's wing ; her address hovering between the reserve of a pretty young English woman who has not mingled largely in general society, and a certain natural archness and gaiety that suited well with the accompaniment of a French accent. A lovelier vision, as all who remember her in the bloom of her days have assured me, could hardly have been imagined ; and from that hour the fate of the young poet was fixed.' The lady was a daughter of a French royalist who had died at the beginning of the revolution, but who had foreseen the approaching perils and had secured a moderate sum in English securities, so that his widow and her family at once fled across the channel and made their home in London. Miss Carpenter at the time was making a summer tour under the direction of a Scotswoman who had been her governess. Here was a young fellow just emerging from a bitter disappointment, who falls head over ears in love with a saucy, piquant girl whose letters, after the acquaintance had ripened swiftly into passion, disclose a capricious, teasing nature. Scott could write to his mother and to Lord Downshire, who was a sort of guardian of Miss Carpenter, in a reasonable manner, but it is clear from his impetuous love-making and the eagerness he showed to bring matters to a head, that he was swept away by his zeal and impatient of all obstacles. It is just possible that in all this there was something of a reaction from the hurt he had suffered, and that Miss Carpenter's winsomeness and little imperious ways blinded him to all considerations of a prudent sort. He was ready at one time to throw aside all other considerations and take his bride to one of the colonies, there to win a place by the sheer force of energy in a new land. But his impetuousness shows the gay spirit with which he threw himself into all his enterprises, and the ardor with which he pursued an end which he thought he must attain. He removed one difficulty after another, and the sudden encounter in July was followed by marriage on the eve of Christmas, 1797. Lady Scott bore Sir Walter four children, who lived and grew to maturity, two sons and two daughters. It is not easy to escape the impression that BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xix though she was lively and volatile, there was a certain lack of profound sympathy between husband and wife ; that with all her love of society, Lady Scott was not able to bring to her husband the kind of appreciation of his genius which he found in such friends as Lady Louisa Stuart, the Duchess of Buccleuch, and the Marchioness of Abercorn. But it would be a mistake to infer that there was any lack of loyalty and tenderness on the part of either ; and when Scott, broken in his fortunes, is obliged also to see his wife pass out of his life, the pathos of his utterance shows how intimately their interests had been blended. Yet Scott's own frank expression of the relation between them (see below, p. 152) must stand as indicating the limitations of their union. The young couple at first set up their home in Edinburgh not far from the residence of Scott's mother and father, who were now feeble and soon to leave them. Scott was shortly appointed sheriff of Selkirk, an office which carried no very heavy duties and a moderate salary. With this and such other property as he and his wife enjoyed, they were able to live modestly and cheerfully, and Scott let slip the practice of his profession, never very congenial to him, and turned with zest to the semi-literary occupations which had begun to engross his attention. For shortly before his marriage he had made a little venture in the field of books by publishing his translation of a couple of German ballads that were then highly popular, and not a great while after his marriage, he made a similar effort in the same direction by translating Goethe's drama of Goetz von Berlichengen • but his more zealous pursuit was in the collection of Scottish ballads, and by a natural sequence in patching these where they were broken, and by making very good imitations. Thus, stimulated also by a group of similar collectors, he published in 1802 and 1803 the three volumes of Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, and by the most natural transition took up a theme suggested by his ballad studies and wrought with great celerity The Lay of the Last Minstrel. The Introductory Note to that poem, including as it does Scott's own Introduction, describes in some detail the origin of the poem and the motives which led Scott to under- take it. With the frankness always characteristic of him in his addresses to the public and his letters to his friends, he spoke as if he was moved chiefly by the need to better his circumstances, and the same confession is very openly made in connection with the writing of Rokeby, when he was full of the notion of realizing his dreams in the establish- ment of Abbotsf ord. But it is given to us with our large knowledge of Scott's career to place motives in a more just relation ; and though it is entirely true that Scott wanted money and found his want an incentive to the writing of poems and novels, it is equally true that the whole course of his life up to the time of writing The Lay of the Last Minstrel was a direct preparation for this form of expression, and that his generous enthusiasm and warm imagination found this outlet with a simplicity and directness which explain how truly this writer, though a deliberate maker of books, had yet always that delightful quality which we recognize most surely in the improvisatore. It was his nature to write just such poetry as the free, swinging lines of his long poems. Before the Lay was completed and published, Scott moved with his little family to Ashestiel, a country farm seven miles from the small town of Selkirk, and having a beautiful setting on the Tweedside with green hills all about. Here he lived as a tenant of the Buccleuch estate for seven of the happiest years of his life. It was here that he wrote the poems preceding Rokeby and here that he began the Waverley, and tossed the fragment aside. His income, which, at the beginning of his poetical career, was from all sources about £1000 a year, enabled him to live at ease, and the successive productions greatly augmented his property. Mr. Morritt, one of his closest friends, visited him at xx WALTER SCOTT Asliestiel in 1808, and an extract from a memorandum which he gave Lockhart gives a most agreeable picture of the poet in his home. 1 There he was the cherished friend and kind neighbor of every middling Selkirkshire yeoman, just as easily as in Edinburgh he was the companion of clever youth and narra- tive old age in refined society. He carried us one day to Melrose Abbey or Newark ; another, to course with mountain greyhounds by Yarrow braes or St. Mary's loch, repeat- ing every ballad or legendary tale connected with the scenery; and on a third, we must all go to a farmer's kirn, or harvest home, to dance with Border lasses on a barn floor, drink whiskey punch, and enter with him into all the gossip and good fellowship of his neighbors, on a complete footing of unrestrained conviviality, equality, and mutual respect. His wife and happy young family were clustered round him, and the cordiality of his reception would have unbent a misanthrope. At this period his conversation was more equal and animated than any man's that I ever knew. It was most characterized by the extreme felicity aud fun of his illustrations, drawn from the whole encyclopaedia of life and nature, in a style somewhat too exuberant for written narrative, but which to him was natural and spontaneous. A hundred stories, always apposite and often interesting the mind by strong pathos, or eminently ludicrous, were daily told, which, with many more, have since been transplanted, almost in the same language, into the Waverley Novels and his other writings. These and his recitations of poetry, which can never be forgotten by those who knew him, made up the charm that his boundless memory enabled him to exert to the wonder of the gaping lover of wonders. But equally impressive and powerful was the language of his warm heart, and equally wonderful were the conclusions of his vigor- ous understanding, to those who could return or appreciate either. Among a number of such recollections, I have seen many of the thoughts which then passed through his mind embodied in the delightful prefaces annexed late in life to his poetry and novels.' Shortly after the publication of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, and when he was plea- santly established at Ashestiel, James Ballantyne, who had already been helped by Scott with a loan, applied to his old school friend and the now successful author for further aid in his business. Scott took the opportunity to make an investment in Ballantyne's printing business. He became a silent partner with a third interest. It seemed a most reasonable move. He had practically retired from the bar, though he was making an effort to secure a salaried position as a clerk of the court. He had a fair income, but his real capital he perceived was in his fertile brain, and by allying himself with a printing- office he would be in a position to get far more than an author's ordinary share in the productions of his pen. There was not the same wide gulf in Edinburgh between trade and profession which existed in London ; and though Scott, with the natural pride of an author, did not make public his connection with Ballantyne, he was doubtless led to keep his engagement private quite as much by the advantage which privacy gave him in the influence he could use to turn business into Ballantyne's hands. It is possible that if the Ballantynes had been better business men and cooler headed, — for James Ballantyne's bro- ther John shortly set up as a publisher, and after that the affairs of author, printer, and publisher became inextricably interdependent, — the venture might not have turned out ill, but all the men engaged were of a speculative turn of mind, and Scott's marvellous fecundity and versatility seemed to promise an inexhaustible spring from which the cur- rents of manufacture and trade would flow clearly and steadily. All sorts of enterprises were projected and carried out, beyond and beside Scott's creative work. Editions of standard works, magazines, collections of poetry, rushed forth, and capital was shortly locked up, so that an early bankruptcy would have been inevitable, except for the sudden BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxi discovery of a new source of wealth. This lay in the invention of the Waverley Novels, at first anonymous, which swept the reading world like a freshet swelling into a flood and seeming for a while to be almost a new force in nature. The "Waverley Novels for a while saved this mad combination of author, printer, and publisher from going to pieces, and there might possibly have been no catastrophe had not a new element come into action. Scott, when he formed the partnership with James Ballantyne, took the money which he contributed from a fund with which he had intended buying Broadmeadows, a small estate on the northern bank of the Yarrow. He abandoned at the time this design, but the strong passion which could not fail to possess a man with Scott's deep love of the soil, and his imagination ever busy with historic traditions, still held him; and when the opportunity came, with the rising tide of his own fortunes, to buy a farm a few miles from Ashestiel, he seized it with alacrity. Nor was his venture an unwise one. He was tenant at will at Ashestiel, and had the natural desire of a man with a growing family to establish himself in a permanent home. ' The farm,' says Lockhart, ' consisted of a rich meadow or haugh along the banks of the river, and about a hundred acres of undulated ground behind, all in a neglected state, undrained, wretchedly enclosed, much of it covered with nothing better than the native heath. The farm-house itself was small and poor, with a common kail-yard on one flank, and a staring barn on the other, while in front appeared a filthy pond covered with ducks and duckweed, from which the whole tene- ment had derived the unharmonious designation of Clarty Hole. But the Tweed was everything to him — a beautiful river, flowing broad and bright over a bed of milk-white pebbles, unless here and there where it darkened into a deep pool, overhung as yet only by the birches and alders which had survived the statelier growth of the primitive forest; and the first hour that he took possession he claimed for his farm the name of the adjoin- ing ford, situated just above the influx of the classical tributary Gala. As might be guessed from the name of Abbotsford, these lands had all belonged of old to the great Abbey of Melrose.' Abbotsford was in the heart of a country already dear to Scott by reason of its teeming historic memories, and here he began and continued through his working days to enrich a creation which was the embodiment in stone and wood and forest and field of the ima- gination which at the same time was finding vent in poem and novel and history and essay. The characteristics of the estate which he thus formed were the characteristics of his work as an author also. There is the free nature, the trees planted with a fine sense of landscape effect; there is the reproduction in miniature of the life of a bygone age, and there is the suggestion of the stage with its pasteboard properties, its structures all front, and its men and women acting a part. Ruskin has said with penetrating criticism : ' Scott's work is always epic, and it is con- trary to his very nature to treat any subject dramatically.' In explication of this dictum, Ruskin defines dramatic poetry as ' the expression by the poet of other people's feelings, his own not being told,' and epic poetry as an ' account given by the poet of other people's external circumstances, and of events happening to them, with only such expression either of their feelings, or his own, as he thinks may be conveniently added.' We must not confound the dramatic with the theatrical. To Scott, who never wrote a successful play, his figures were nevertheless quite distinctly theatrical. That is to say, he placed them before his readers not only vividly, but with the make-up which would bring into conspic- uous light rather the outward show than the inward reality. Not that his persons had not clearly conceived characters, and not that he merely missed the modern analytic pre- WALTER SCOTT sentation, but his persons interested him chiefly by their doing things, and these things were the incidents and accidents of life rather than the inevitable consequences of their nature, the irresistible effects of causes lying deep in their constitution. Hence the delight which he takes in battle and adventure of all sorts, and the emphasis which he lays upon the common, elemental qualities of human nature, male and female, rather than upon the individual and eccentric. There is no destiny in his poems or novels, no inevi- table drawing to a climax of forces which are moving beyond the power of restraint which the author may in his own mind exercise. It is not to be wondered at that Scott, breathing the fresh air of the ballads of the border, should make his first leap into the saddle of verse and ride heartily down his short, bounding lines. It is quite as natural that, as his material grew more and more historical in its character, and greater complexities crept in, he should find the narrative of verse too simple, and should resort to the greater range and diversity of prose ; and that once having found his power in novel writing, he should have abandoned poetry as a vehicle for epic narrative, contenting himself thenceforth with lyric snatches, and with brief flights of verse. Moreover, in poetry, though he had a delighted audience, and never has failed since to draw a large following entirely satisfied with his form, he shared at the time the throne with that mightier, more dramatic artist, Byron, and knew also that men were beginning to turn their eyes toward Wordsworth and Coleridge. But in fiction he held quite undisputed sway. The fashion in fiction changes perhaps more quickly than in poetry ; its representation of the manner of the day, even when it is consciously antiquarian and historic, renders it largely dependent on contemporane- ous interest. In Scott's day, Fielding, Smollett, and Richardson were read more because they had not been supplanted than because they appealed strongly to the reader of the time. A more genuine attention was given to Miss Edgeworth, Miss Ferrier, Mackenzie and Gait. But these became at once minor writers when Scott took the field, and he called into existence a great multitude of readers of fiction, establishing thereby a habit of novel reading which was of the greatest service to the later novelists, like Dickens and Thackeray, when they came in with newer appeal to the changing taste of a newer generation. To all these considerations must be added the incessant demands made upon Scott's brain by the need of keeping on its base the commercial house of cards which he had helped to build and in which he was living, and of carrying farther and farther into reality the dream of a baronial estate which was Rokeby done in plaster. Thus the years went by, full of active occupation, with brilliant pageant indeed, and with social excite- ment. It is a pleasure, in the midst of it all, to see the real Scott, Sir Walter to the world of display but the genuine master to Tom Purdie and Will Laidlaw, to note the wholesome pride of the firm-footed treader on his own acres, the generous care of others, the absence of cant, religious or social. And when the supreme test came, the test of overwhelming misfortune, the genuineness of this great nature was made plain in the high courage with which he set about the task of paying his creditors, in the toil of year after year, and in those moving passages in his diary when he sat in his loneliness and looked fortune in the face. Listen to the entry in his diary under date December 18, 1825. " Ballantyne called on me this morning. Venit ilia supremo, dies. My extremity is come. Cadell has received letters from London which all but positively announce the failure of Hurst and Robinson, so that Constable & Co. must follow, and I must go with poor James Ballantyne for company. I suppose it will involve my all. But if they BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxiii leave me £500, 1 can still make it £1000 or £1200 a year. And if they take my salaries of £1300 and £300, they cannot but give me something out of them. I have been rash in anticipating funds to buy land, but then I made from £5000 to £10,000 a year, and land was my temptation. I think nobody can lose a penny — that is one comfort. Men will think pride has had a fall. Let them indulge their own pride in thinking that my fall makes them higher, or seems so at least. I have the satisfaction to recollect that my prosperity has been of advantage to many, and that some at least will forgive my transient wealth on account of the innocence of my intentions, and my real wish to do good to the poor. The news will make sad hearts at Darwick, and in the cottages at Abbotsford, which I do not nourish the least hope of preserving. It has been my Delilah, and so I have often termed it ; and now the recollection of the extensive woods I planted, and the walks I have formed, from which strangers must derive both the pleasure and the profit, will excite feelings likely to sober my gayest moments. I have half resolved never to see the place again. How could I tread my hall with such a diminished crest ? How live a poor indebted man where I was once the wealthy, the honored ? My children are provided ; thank God for that. I was to have gone there on Saturday in joy and prosperity to receive my friends. My dogs will wait for me in vain. It is foolish — but the thoughts of parting from these dumb creatures have moved me more than any of the painful reflections I have put down. Poor things, I must get them kind masters ; there may be yet those who loving me may love my dog because it has been mine. I must end this, or I shall lose the tone of mind with which men should meet distress. ' I find my dogs' feet on my knees. I hear them whining and seeking me everywhere — this is nonsense, but it is what they would do could they know how things are. Poor Will Laidlaw ! poor Tom Purdie ! this will be news to wring your heart, and many a poor fellow's besides to whom my prosperity was daily bread. . . . For myself the magic wand of the Unknown is shivered in his grasp. He must henceforth be termed the Too- well-known. The feast of fancy is over with the feeling of independence. I can no longer have the delight of waking in the morning with bright ideas in my mind, haste to commit them to paper, and count them monthly, as the means of planting such groves, and purchasing such wastes ; replacing my dreams of fiction by other prospective visions of walks by — " Fountain heads, and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves." This cannot be ; but I may work substantial husbandry, work history, and such concerns. They will not be received with the same enthusiasm. ... To save Abbotsford I would attempt all that was possible. My heart clings to the place I have created. There is scarce a tree on it that does not owe its being to me, and the pain of leaving it is greater than I can tell.' 3 we close our study of Scott's career. Thenceforth his energy was devoted to a clearing away of the ruins of his fortune. With patience and with many gleams mnny temperament, he labored on. In the end the debts were settled, Abbotsford ved to his family, and there on the 21st of September, 1832, Scott died. * It was biful day,' says Lockhart, ' so warm, that every window was wide open — and so ;ly still, that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of eed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eidtsi gon kissed and closed his eyes.' H. E. S. TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER The first publication by Scott was a transla- tion or imitation of two German ballads, and bore the following title-page : ' The Chase and William and Helen. Two Ballads from the German of Gottfried Augustus Burger, Edin- burgh: Printed by Mundell and Son, Royal Bank Close, for Manners and Miller, Parlia- ment Square ; and sold by T. Cadell, junr, and W. Davies, in the Strand, London, 1796.' It was a thin quarto, and, as seen, did not bear the name of the translator. Scott owed his copy of Burger's works to the daughter of the Saxon Ambassador at the court of St. James, who had married his kinsman, Mr. Scott of Harden. She interested herself in his German studies and lent him aid in correcting his ver- sions. But the immediate occasion of his trans- lating Burger was the interest excited in the autumn of 1795 by the reading of William Taylor's unpublished version of Burger's Le- nore", at a party at Dugald Stewart's, by Mrs. Barbauld, then on a visit to Edinburgh. Scott was not present at the reading, but one of his friends who heard it, told him the story, and repeated the chorus, — ' Tramp ! tramp ! across the land they speede, Splash ! splash ! across the sea ; Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ! Dost fear to ride with me ? ' Scott eagerly laid hold of the original and be- ginning the task after supper did not go to bed till he had finished it, a good illustration of the impetuosity of his literary labor his life long. The ballad of The Wild Huntsman (Wilde Jiiger) Scott appears to have written to accom- pany the other ballad for the little volume. The book attracted some attention in Edin- burgh, where the author was known, but his friends were disappointed that it received slight notice in London, but translations of Le- nore*, which had caught the public ear, were abundant enough to keep in tolerable obscurity any single one of them. ' My adventure,' Scott wrote thirty-six years later, when he was fa- mous, ' where so many pushed off to sea, proved a dead loss, and a great part of the edi- tion was condemned to the service of the trunk- maker. This failure did not operate in any unpleasant degree either on my feelings or spirits. I was coldly received by strangers, but my reputation began rather to increase among my own friends, and on the whole I was more bent to show the world that it had neglected something worth notice, than to be affronted by its indifference ; or rather, to speak candidly, I found pleasure in the literary labors in which I had almost by accident become engaged, and labored less in the hope of pleasing others, though certainly without despair of doing so, than in a pursuit of a new and agreeable amuse- ment to myself.' And this may be taken as the most significant element in Scott's first lit- erary venture, made when he was twenty-five years of age, and fairly started in the practice of law. One other interesting fact connected with the little volume is that James Ballantyne, with whom Scott was to have such momentous relations, reprinted it, at Scott's suggestion, a little enlarged, three years later, in order to show Edinburgh society how well he could print. WILLIAM AND HELEN From heavy dreams fair Helen rose, And eyed the dawning red : * Alas, my love, thou tarriest long ! O art thou false or dead ? ' With gallant Frederick's princely power He sought the bold Crusade, But not a word from Judah's wars Told Helen how he sped. With Paynim and with Saracen At length a truce was made, And every knight returned to dry The tears his love had shed. Our gallant host was homeward bound With many a song of joy ; TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER Green waved the laurel in each plume, The badge of victory. And old and young, and sire and son, To meet them crowd the way, With shouts and mirth and melody, The debt of love to pay. 20 Full many a maid her true-love met, And sobbed in his embrace, And fluttering joy in tears and smiles Arrayed full many a face. Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad, She sought the host in vain ; For none could tell her William's fate, If faithless or if slain. The martial band is past and gone ; She rends her raven hair, 30 And in distraction's bitter mood She weeps with wild despair. * O, rise, my child,' her mother said, * Nor sorrow thus in vain ; A perjured lover's fleeting heart No tears recall again.' ' O mother, what is gone is gone, What 's lost forever lorn : Death, death alone can comfort me ; O had I ne'er been born ! 40 * O, break, my heart, O, break at once ! Drink my life-blood, Despair ! No joy remains on earth for me, For me in heaven no share.' * O, enter not in judgment, Lord ! ' The pious mother prays ; 1 Impute not guilt to thy frail child ! She knows not what she says. * O, say thy pater-noster, child ! O, turn to God and grace ! 50 His will, that turned thy bliss to bale, Can change thy bale to bliss.' * O mother, mother, what is bliss ? O mother, what is bale ? My William's love was heaven on earth, Without it earth is hell. ' Why should I pray to ruthless Heaven, Since my loved William 's slain ? I only prayed for William's sake, And all my prayers were vain.' 6© ' O, take the sacrament, my child, And check these tears that flow ; By resignation's humble prayer, O V ^owed be thy woe ! ' ' No saci anient can quench this fire, Or slake this scorching pain ; No sacrament can bid the dead Arise and live again. ' O, break, my heart, O, break at once ! Be thou my god, Despair ! 7 o Heaven's heaviest blow has fallen on me, And vain each fruitless prayer.' ' O, enter not in judgment, Lord, With thy frail child of clay ! She knows not what her tongue has spoke 5. Impute it not, I pray ! 1 Forbear, my child, this desperate woe, And turn to God and grace ; Well can devotion's heavenly glow Convert thy bale to bliss.' 80 ' O mother, mother, what is bliss ? O mother, what is bale ? Without my William what were heaven, Or with him what were hell ? ' Wild she arraigns the eternal doom, Upbraids each sacred power, Till, spent, she sought her silent room, All in the lonely tower. She beat her breast, she wrung her hands, Till sun and day were o'er, 90 And through the glimmering lattice shone The twinkling of the star. Then, crash ! the heavy drawbridge fell That o'er the moat was hung ; And, clatter ! clatter ! on its boards The hoof of courser rung. The clank of echoing steel was heard As off the rider bounded ; And slowly on the winding stair A heavy footstep sounded. 100 And hark ! and hark ! a knock — tap ! tap ! A rustling stifled noise ; — WILLIAM AND HELEN Dcor-latch and tinkling staples ring ; — x».t length a whispering voice. i Awake, awake, arise, my love ! How, Helen, dost thou fare ? Wak'st thou, or sleep'st ? laugh'st thou, or weep'st? Hast thought on me, my fair ? ' * My love ! my love ! — so late by night ! — I waked, I wept for thee : no Much have I borne since dawn of morn ; Where, William, couldst thou be ? ' * We saddle late — from Hungary I rode since darkness fell ; And to its bourne we both return Before the matin-bell. ' O, rest this night within my arms, And warm thee in their fold ! Chill howls through hawthorn bush the wind : — My love is deadly cold.' 120 Let the wind howl through hawthorn bush ! This night we must away ; The steed is wight, the spur is bright ; I cannot stay till day. Busk, busk, and boune ! Thou mount'st behind Upon my black barb steed : O'er stock and stile, a hundred miles, We haste to bridal bed.' To-night — to-night a hundred miles ! — O dearest William, stay ! 130 The bell strikes twelve — dark, dismal hour! O, wait, my love, till day ! ' \ Look here, look here — the moon shines clear — Full fast I ween we ride ; Mount and away ! for ere the day We - — h our bridal bed. : barb snorts, the bridle rings ; ask, and boune, and seat thee ! 3 made, the chamber spread, al guests await thee.' 140 re prevailed : she busks, she tes, nts the barb behind, And round her darling William's waist Her lily arms she twined. And, hurry ! hurry ! off they rode, As fast as fast might be ; Spurned from the courser's thundering heels The flashing pebbles flee. And on the right and on the left, Ere they could snatch a view, 150 Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and plain, And cot and castle flew. ' Sit fast — dost fear ? — The moon shines clear — Fleet goes my barb — keep hold ! Fear'st thou ? ' — « O no ! ' she faintly said ; ' But why so stern and cold ? ' What yonder rings ? what yonder sings ? Why shrieks the owlet gray ? ' 1 'T is death-bells' clang, 't is funeral song, The body to the clay. 160 ' With song and clang at morrow's dawn Ye may inter the dead : To-night I ride with my young bride To deck our bridal bed. ' Come with thy choir, thou coffined guest, To swell our nuptial song ! Come, priest, to bless our marriage feast ! Come all, come all along ! ' Ceased clang and song ; down sunk the bier ; The shrouded corpse arose : 170 And hurry ! hurry ! all the train The thundering steed pursues. And forward ! forward ! on they go ; High snorts the straining steed ; Thick pants the rider's laboring breath, As headlong on they speed. ' O William, why this savage haste ? And where thy bridal bed ? ' * 'T is distant far, low, damp, and chill, And narrow, trustless maid.' 180 * No room for me ? ' — ' Enough for both ; — Speed, speed, my barb, thy course ! ' TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER O'er thundering bridge, through boiling surge, He drove the furious horse. Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode, Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; The scourge is wight, the spur is bright, The flashing pebbles flee. Fled past on right and left how fast Each forest, grove, and bower ! i 9 o On right and left fled past how fast Each city, town, and tower ! ' Dost fear ? dost fear ? The moon shines clear, Dost fear to ride with me ? — Hurrah ! hurrah ! the dead can ride ! ' — 1 William, let them be ! — 1 See there, see there ! What yonder swings And creaks mid whistling rain ? ' — ' Gibbet and steel, the accursed wheel ; A murderer in his chain. — 200 ' Hollo ! thou felon, follow here : To bridal bed we ride ; And thou shalt prance a fetter dance Before me and my bride.' And, hurry ! hurry ! clash, clash, clash ! The wasted form descends ; And fleet as wind through hazel bush The wild career attends. Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode, Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 2 10 The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, The flashing pebbles flee. How fled what moonshine faintly showed ! How fled what darkness hid ! How fled the earth beneath their feet, The heaven above their head ! ' Dost fear ? dost fear ? The moon shines clear, And well the dead can ride ; Dost faithful Helen fear for them ? ' — ' O leave in peace the dead I ' — 220 1 Barb ! Barb ! methinks I hear the cock ; The sand will soon be run : Barb ! Barb ! I smell the morning air ; The race is well-nigh done.' Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode, Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, The flashing pebbles flee. 230 1 Hurrah ! hurrah ! well ride the dead ; The bride, the bride is come ; And soon we reach the bridal bed, For, Helen, here 's my home.' Reluctant on its rusty hinge Revolved an iron door, And by the pale moon's setting beam Were seen a church and tower. With many a shriek and cry whiz round The birds of midnight scared ; And rustling like autumnal leaves Unhallowed ghosts were heard. 2 O'er many a tomb and tombstone pale He spurred the fiery horse, Till sudden at an open grave He checked the wondrous course. The falling gauntlet quits the rein, Down drops the casque of steel, The cuirass leaves his shrinking side, The spur his gory heel. The eyes desert the naked skull, The mouldering flesh the bone, Till Helen's lily arms entwine A ghastly skeleton. The furious barb snorts fire and foam, And with a fearful bound Dissolves at once in empty air, And leaves her on the ground. Half seen by fits, by fits half heard, Pale spectres flit along, Wheel round the maid in dismal dance, And howl the funeral song ; 260 ' E'en when the heart 's with anguish cleft Revere the doom of Heaven, Her soul is from her body reft ; Her spirit be forgiven ! ' 250 THE WILD HUNTSMAN THE WILD HUNTSMAN The Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn, To horse, to horse ! halloo, halloo ! His fiery courser snuffs the morn, And thronging serfs their lord pursue. The eager pack from couples freed Dash through the hush, the brier, the brake ; While answering hound and horn and steed The mountain echoes startling wake. The beams of God's own hallowed day- Had painted yonder spire with gold, 10 And, calling sinful man to pray, Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled ; But still the Wildgrave onward rides ; Halloo, halloo ! and, hark again ! When, spurring from opposing sides, Two stranger horsemen join the train. Who was each stranger, left and right, Well may I guess, but dare not tell; The right-hand steed was silver white, The left the swarthy hue of hell. 20 The right-hand horseman, young and fair, His smile was like the morn of May; The left from eye of tawny glare Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. He waved his huntsman's cap on high, Cried, ' Welcome, welcome, noble lord ! What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, To match the princely chase, afford ? ' j Cease thy loud bugle's changing knell,' Cried the fair youth with silver voice; 30 ' And for devotion's choral swell Exchange the rude unhallowed noise. ' To-day the ill-omened chase forbear, Yon bell yet summons to the fane ; To-day the Warning Spirit hear, To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.' ' Away, and sweep the glades along ! ' The sable hunter hoarse replies ; ' To muttering monks leave matin-song, And bells and books and mysteries.' 40 The Wildgrave spurred his ardent steed, And, launching forward with a bound, ' Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede, Would leave the jovial horn and hound ? ' Hence, if our manly sport offend ! With pious fools go chant and pray : — Well hast thou spoke, my dark-browed friend ; Halloo, halloo ! and hark away ! ' The Wildgrave spurred his courser light, O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill ; And on the left and on the right, 51 Each stranger horseman followed still. Up springs from yonder tangled thorn A stag more white than mountain snow ; And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn, ' Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho ! ' A heedless wretch has crossed the way ; He gasps the thundering hoofs below ; — But live who can, or die who may, Still, ' Forward, forward ! ' on they go. 60 See, where yon simple fences meet, A field with autumn's blessings crowned ; See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, A husbandman with toil embrowned : ' O mercy, mercy, noble lord ! Spare the poor's pittance,' was his cry, 'Earned by the sweat these brows have poured In scorching hour of fierce July.' Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, The left still cheering to the prey ; 70 The impetuous Earl no warning heeds, But furious holds the onward way. ' Away, thou hound so basely born, Or dread the scourge's echoing blow ! ' Then loudly rung his bugle-horn, ' Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho ! ' So said, so done : — A single bound Clears the poor laborer's humble pale ; Wild follows man and horse and hound, Like dark December's stormy gale. 80 And man and horse, and hound and horn, Destructive sweep the field along ; While, joying o'er the wasted corn, Fell Famine marks the maddening throng. TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER Again uproused the timorous prey Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill Hard run, he feels his strength decay, And trusts for life his simple skill. Too dangerous solitude appeared ; He seeks the shelter of the crowd ; Amid the nock's domestic herd His harmless head he hopes to shroud. 9 o O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill, His track the steady blood-hounds trace ; O'er moss and moor, unwearied still, The furious Earl pursues the chase. Full lowly did the herdsman fall : ' O spare, thou noble baron, spare These herds, a widow's little all ; These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care ! ' 100 Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, The left still cheering to the prey ; The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds, But furious keeps the onward way. ' Unmannered dog ! To stop my sport Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, Though human spirits of thy sort Were tenants of these carrion kine ! ' Again he winds his bugle-horn, ' Hark forward, forward, holla, ho !' no And through the herd in ruthless scorn He cheers his furious hounds to go. In heaps the throttled victims fall ; Down sinks their mangled herdsman near ; The murderous cries the stag appall, — Again he starts, new-nerved by fear. With blood besmeared and white with foam, While big the tears of anguish pour, He seeks amid the forest's gloom The humble hermit's hallowed bower. 120 But man and horse, and horn and hound, Fast rattling on his traces go ; The sacred chapel rung around With, ' Hark away ! and, holla, ho ! All mild, amid the rout profane, The holy hermit poured his prayer ; ' Forbear with blood God's house to stain ; Revere His altar and forbear ! ' The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which, wronged by cruelty or pride, 130 Draw vengeance on the ruthless head : — Be warned at length and turn aside.' Still the fair horseman anxious pleads ; The black, wild whooping, points the prey : — Alas ! the Earl no warning heeds, But frantic keeps the forward way. ' Holy or not, or right or wrong, Thy altar and its rites I spurn ; Not sainted martyrs' sacred song, Not God himself shall make me turn ! ' 140 He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, ' Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! ' But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne, The stag, the hut, the hermit, go. And horse and man, and horn and hound, And clamor of the chase, was gone ; For hoofs and howls and bugle-sound, A deadly silence reigned alone. Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ; He strove in vain to wake his horn, 150 In vain to call ; for not a sound Could from his anxious lips be borne. He listens for his trusty hounds, No distant baying reached his ears ; His courser, rooted to the ground, The quickening spur unmindful bears. Still dark and darker frown the shades, Dark as the darkness of the grave ; And not a sound the still invades, Save what a distant torrent gave. High o'er the sinner's humbled head At length the solemn silence broke ; And from a cloud of swarthy red The awful voice of thunder spoke. ' Oppressor of creation fair ! Apostate Spirits' hardened tool ! Scorner of God ! Scourge of the poor ! The measure of thy cup is full. ' Be chased forever through the wood, Forever roam the affrighted wild ; And let thy fate instruct the proud, God's meanest creature is His child.' THE VIOLET T was hushed : — One flash of sombre glare With yellow tinged the forests brown ; Uprose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, And horror chilled each nerve and bone. Cold poured the sweat in freezing rill ; A rising wind began to sing, And louder, louder, louder still, 179 Brought storm and tempest on its wing. Earth heard the call ; — her entrails rend ; From yawning rifts, with many a yell, Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend The misbegotten dogs of hell. What ghastly huntsman next arose Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; His eye like midnight lightning glows, His steed the swarthy hue of hell. The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn With many a shriek of helpless woe ; 190 Behind him hound and horse and horn, And, ' Hark away, and holla, ho ! ' With wild despair's reverted eye, Close, close behind, he marks the throng, With bloody fangs and eager cry ; In frantic fear he scours along. — Still, still shall last the dreadful chase Till time itself shall have an end ; By day they scour earth's caverned space, At midnight's witching hour ascend. 200 This is the horn and hound and horse That oft the lated peasant hears ; Appalled he signs the frequent cross, When the wild din invades his ears. The wakeful priest oft drops a tear For human pride, for human woe, When at his midnight mass he hears The infernal cry of ' Holla, ho ! ' EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS Scott followed his translations from Burger with other efforts in the same direction. The first book, indeed, which bore his name, was a prose rendering of Goethe's tragedy of Goetz von Berlichingen, published in 1799, and he trans- lated near the same time, but did not publish till thirty years later, the House of Aspen, a free adaptation of Der Heilige Vehmi, by a pseu- donymous German author of the day. The Ger- manic influence was curiously blended with an antiquarian zeal which had an early birth and now sent him eagerly abroad among Scottish legends and half -mythical tales for subjects. Moreover, he was drawn into the service of Monk Lewis, who persuaded him to contribute to his collection of Tales of Wonder, them- selves touched with the prevailing temper of eeriness imported freely from Germany. But the most substantial result of his labors in these experimental years was the publica- tion in 1802 and 1803 of the three volumes of Minstrelsy of The Scottish Border. Scott had now become so enamored of the native legends, so skilful as an imitator, and, much more, so informed with the spirit of the old ballads, that his own contributions harmonized with the antiquities he had gathered, and these showed in every line, as well as in the rich ap- paratus of notes with which they were illus- trated, a mastery of the ballad literature, and a mind thoroughly at home in material which was soon to be the quarry for the author and editor's most noble edifices in verse. The present group contains, in as nearly exact chronological order as is practicable, Scott's experiments and performances in origi- nal verse, with scattered translations and im- itations, before he leaped into fame with The Lay of the Last Minstrel. THE VIOLET These slight verses have an interest derived from the fact that they were written by Scott in 1797 in connection with that suppressed passion for Williamina Stuart which never found direct expression to her, but remained deep in the poet's heart long after her mar- riage to Sir William Forbes, and Scott's to Miss Carpenter; so that thirty years later Scott could write in his Journal, just after waiting on Lady Jane Stuart, the aged mother of Williamina : ' I went to make another visit, and fairly softened myself like an old fool, with recalling old stories, till I was fit for no- thing but shedding tears and repeating verses s EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS for the whole night. This is sad work. The very grave gives up its dead, and time rolls hack thirty years to add to my perplexities. I don't care. Yet what a romance to tell, and told I fear it will one day be. And then my three years of dreaming and my two years of waken- ing will be chronicled, doubtless. But the dead will feel no pain.' The story of this dis- appointment is told without names in the eighth chapter of Lockhart's Life, and has re- cently been repeated with greater explieitness by Miss Skene in The Century for July, 1899. The violet in her green-wood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazels min- gle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen or copse or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclining ; I 've seen an eye of lovelier blue, More sweet through watery lustre shin- ing. The summer sun that dew shall dry Ere yet the day be past its morrow, Nor longer in my false love's eye Remained the tear of parting sorrow. TO A LADY WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL 1797 Take these flowers which, purple waving, On the ruined rampart grew, Where, the sons of freedom braving, Rome's imperial standards flew. Warriors from the breach of danger Pluck no longer laurels there ; They but yield the passing stranger Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair. THE ERL-KING FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE Scott, in sending this in a letter to a friend, makes the comment : ' The Erl-King is a goblin that haunts the Black Forest in Thurin- gia. — To be read by a candle particularly long in the snuff.' The translation was made in 1797. O, who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild ? It is the fond father embracing his child ; And close the boy nestles within his loved arm, To hold himself fast and to keep himself warm. ' O father, see yonder ! see yonder ! ' he 'My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze ? ' — 'O, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud.' — 'No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud.' THE ERL-KING SPEAKS ' O, come and go with me, thou loveliest child ; By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled ; My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy, And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy.' 'O father, my father, and did you not hear The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?' — ' Be still, my heart's darling — my child, be at ease ; It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees.' ERL-KING ' O, wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy? My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy ; She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild, And press thee and kiss thee and sing to my child.' ' O father, my father, and saw you not plain, The Erl-King's pale daughter glide past through the rain ? ' — ' O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon ; It was the gray willow that danced to the moon.' SONG Nor patriot valor, desperate grown, Sought freedom in the grave ! Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, In Freedom's temple born, Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, To hail a master in our isle, Or brook a victor's scorn ? No ! though destruction o'er the land Come pouring as a flood, The sun, that sees our falling day, Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway, And set that night in blood. For gold let Gallia's legions fight, Or plunder's bloody gain ; Unbribed, unb ought, our swords we draw, To guard our king, to fence our law, Nor shall their edge be vain. If ever breath of British gale Shall fan the tri-color, Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore, — Then farewell home ! and farewell friends ! Adieu each tender tie ! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer or to die. To horse ! to horse ! the sabres gleam ; High sounds our bugle call ; Combined by honor's sacred tie, Our word is Laws and Liberty I March forward, one and all ! SONG FROM GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN It was a little naughty page, Ha ! ha ! Would catch a bird was closed in cage. Sa ! sa ! Ha ! ha ! Sa ! sa ! He seized the cage, the latch did draw, Ha! ha! And in he thrust his knavish paw. Sa ! sa ! Ha ! ha ! Sa ! sa ! ERL-KING * O, come and go with me, no longer delay, Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away.' — * O father ! O father ! now, now keep your hold, The Erl-King has seized me — his grasp is so cold ! ' Sore trembled the father ; he spurred thro' the wild, Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child ; He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread, But, clasped to his bosom, the infant was dead ! WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS In 1797 Scott's ardor led to the formation of the Royal Edinburgh Light Dragoons, and he served in it as quartermaster. In 1798, when a French invasion was threatened, Mr. Skene was one day reciting the German Kriegslied 1 Der Abschied's Tag ist Da,' and the next morning Scott showed the following piece which was adopted as the troop-song. To horse ! to horse ! the standard flies, The bugles sound the call ; The Gallic navy stems the seas, The voice of battle 's on the breeze, Arouse ye, one and all ! From high Dunedin's towers we come, A band of brothers true ; Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, With Scotland's hardy thistle crowned ; We boast the red and blue. Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown Dull Holland's tardy train ; Their ravished toys though Romans mourn ; Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn, And, foaming, gnaw the chain ; Oh ! had they marked the avenging call Their brethren's murder gave, Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, IO EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS The bird dashed out, and gained the thorn, Ha ! ha ! And laughed the silly fool to scorn ! Sa ! sa ! Ha ! ha ! Sa ! sa ! SONGS FROM THE HOUSE OF ASPEN Lockhart .calls attention to the fact that the first of these lyrics has the metre, and not a little of the spirit, of the boat-song of Rod- erick Dbu and Clan Alpin ; and that the sec- ond is the first draft of ' The Maid of Toro.' Joy to the victor, the sons of old Aspen ! Joy to the race of the battle and scar ! Glory's proud garland triumphantly grasp- Generous in peace, and victorious in war. Honor acquiring, Valor inspiring, Bursting, resistless, through foemen they go; War-axes wielding, Broken ranks yielding, Till from the battle proud Roderic re- tiring, Yields in wild rout the fair palm to his foe. Joy to each warrior, true follower of As- pen ! Joy to the heroes that gained the bold day ! Health to our wounded, in agony gasping ; Peace to our brethren that fell in the fray ! Boldly this morning, Roderic's power scorning, Well for their chieftain their blades did they wield : Joy blest them dying, As Maltingen flying, Low laid his banners, our conquest adorning, Their death-clouded eye-balls descried on the field ! Now to our home, the proud mansion of Aspen Bend we, gay victors, triumphant away. There each fond damsel, her gallant youth clasping, Shall wipe from his forehead the stains of the fray. Listening the prancing Of horses advancing ; E'en now on the turrets our maidens ap- pear. Love our hearts warming, Songs the night charming, Round goes the grape in the goblet gay dancing ; Love, wine, and song, our blithe evening shall cheer ! II Sweet shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, Weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood, As a fair maiden, bewildered in sorrow, Sighed to the breezes and wept to the flood. — ' Saints, from the mansion of bliss lowly bending, Virgin, that hear'st the poor suppliant's cry, Grant my petition, in anguish ascending, My Frederick restore, or let Eleanor die.' Distant and faint were the sounds of the battle ; With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail, Till the shout, and the groan, and the con- flict's dread rattle, And the chase's wild clamor came load- ing the gale. Breathless she gazed through the wood- land so dreary, Slowly approaching, a warrior was seen ; Life's ebbing tide marked his footsteps so weary, Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien. ' Save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying; Save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low ; Cold on yon heath thy bold Frederick is !y in g> Fast through the woodland approaches the foe.' GLENFINLAS ii in RHEIN-WEIN LIED What makes the troopers' frozen courage muster ? The grapes of juice divine. Upon the Rhine, upon the Rhine they cluster : Oh, blessed be the Rhine ! Let fringe and furs, and many a rabbit skin, sirs, Bedeck your Saracen ; He '11 freeze without what warms our heart within, sirs, "When the night-frost crusts the fen. But on the Rhine, but on the Rhine they cluster, The grapes of juice divine, That makes our troopers' frozen courage muster : Oh, blessed be the Rhine ! GLENFINLAS ; OR LORD RONALD'S CORONACH This ballad, written in the summer of 1799, and first published in Monk Lewis's Tales of Wonder, was provided by Scott with a preface which is here reproduced because of the sug- gestion that Scott, in making thus his first use of native, Scottish material, was affected by his German studies and translations. The prose preface, it has been held, where he speaks in his natural voice, ' is more affecting than the lofty and sonorous stanzas themselves ; that the vague tenor of the original dream loses, instead of gaining, by the expanded elabora- tion of the detail.' Be that as it may, here is Scott's preface : — ' The simple tradition, upon which the follow- ing stanzas are founded, runs thus : While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bothy, (a hut, built for the purpose of hunting,) and making merry over their venison and whiskey, one of them expressed a wish that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the siren who at- tached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut : the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain, consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and de- voured by the fiend into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called the Glen of the Green Women. ' Glenfinlas is a tract of forest-ground, lying in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from Callender, in Menteith. It was formerly a royal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of Moray. This country, as well as the adja- cent district of Balquidder, was, in times of yore, chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors. To the west of the Forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its romantic avenue, called the Troshachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoir- lich, are mountains in the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The River Teith passes Callender and the Castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The Pass of Lenny is immediately above Callender, and is the principal access to the Highlands, from that town. Glenartney is a forest, near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of Alpine scenery.' It may be observed that the scenery of the ballad reappears in The Lady of the Lake, as also in Waverley and Rob Hoy. For them the viewless forms of air obey, Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair ; They know what spirit brews the stormful day, And heartless oft, like moody madness stare, To see the phantom-train their secret work prepare. Collins. ' O hone a rie' ! O hone a rie' ! The pride of Albin's line is o'er, And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree ; We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more ! ' O ! sprung from great Macgillianore, The chief that never feared a foe, How matchless was thy broad claymore, How deadly thine unerring bow ! Well can the Saxon widows tell How on the Teith's resounding shore io The boldest Lowland warriors fell, As down from Lenny's pass you bore. But o'er his hills in festal day How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree, While youths and maids the light strath- spey So nimbly danced with Highland glee ! 12 EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS Cheered by the strength of Ronald's shell, E'en age forgot his tresses hoar ; But now the loud lament we swell, O, ne'er to see Lord Ronald more ! 20 From distant isles a chieftain came The joys of Ronald's halls to find, And chase with him the dark-brown game That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind. 'T was Moy ; whom in Columba's isle The seer's prophetic spirit found, As, with a minstrel's fire the while, He waked his harp's harmonious sound. lull many a spell to him was known Which wandering spirits shrink to hear ; And many a lay of potent tone 31 Was never meant for mortal ear. For there, 't is said, in mystic mood High converse with the dead they hold, And oft espy the fated shroud That shall the future corpse enfold. O, so it fell that on a day, To rouse the red deer from their den, The chiefs have ta'en their distant way, And scoured the deep Glenfinlas glen. No vassals wait their sports to aid, 41 To watch their safety, deck their board; Their simple dress the Highland plaid, Their trusty guard the Highland sword. Three summer days through brake and dell Their whistling shafts successful flew; And still when dewy evening fell The quarry to their hut they drew. In gray Glenfinlas' deepest nook The solitary cabin stood, 50 Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood. Soft fell the night, the sky was calm, When three successive days had flown ; And summer mist in dewy balm Steeped heathy bank and mossy stone. The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes, Afar her dubious radiance shed, Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes, And resting on Benledi's head. 60 Now in their hut in social guise Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy; And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes, As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy. ' What lack we here to crown our bliss, While thus the pulse of joy beats high ? What but fair woman's yielding kiss, Her panting breath and melting eye ? ' To chase the deer of yonder shades, This morning left their father's pile 70 The fairest of our mountain maids, The daughters of the proud Glengyle. ' Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart, And dropped the tear and heaved the sigh : But vain the lover's wily art Beneath a sister's watchful eye. ' But thou mayst teach that guardian fair, While far with Mary I am flown, Of other hearts to cease her care, And find it hard to guard her own. 80 ' Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see The lovely Flora of Glengyle, Unmindful of her charge and me, Hang on thy notes 'twixt tear and smile ' Or, if she choose a melting tale, All underneath the greenwood bough, Will good Saint Oran's rule prevail, Stern huntsman of the rigid brow ? ' ' Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, No more on me shall rapture rise, 9c Responsive to the panting breath, Or yielding kiss or melting eyes. ' E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, I bade my harp's wild wailings flow, On me the Seer's sad spirit came. ' The last dread curse of angry heaven, With ghastly sights and sounds of woe To dash each glimpse of joy was given — The gift the future ill to know. ' The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn, So gayly part from Oban's bay, My eye beheld her dashed and torn Far on the rocky Colonsay. GLENFINLAS i3 I Thy Fergus too — thy sister's son, Thou saw'st with pride the gallant's power, As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe He left the skirts of huge Benmore. * Thou only saw'st their tartans wave 109 As down Benvoirlich's side they wound, Heard'st but the pibroch answering brave To many a target clanking round. ' I heard the groans, I marked the tears, I saw the wound his bosom bore, When on the serried Saxon spears He poured his clan's resistless roar. ' And thou, who bidst me think of bliss, And bidst my heart awake to glee, And court like thee the wanton kiss — That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee ! 120 I I see the death-damps chill thy brow : I hear thy Warning Spirit cry ; The corpse-lights dance — they 're gone, and now — No more is given to gifted eye ! ' ' Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, Sad prophet of the evil hour ! Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams Because to-morrow's storm may lour ? 1 Or false or sooth thy words of woe, 129 Clangillian's Chieftain ne'er shall fear ; His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, Though doomed to stain the Saxon spear. ' E'en now, to meet me in yon dell, My Mary's buskins brush the dew.' He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell, But called his dogs and gay withdrew. Within an hour returned each hound, In rushed the rousers of the deer ; They howled in melancholy sound, Then closely couched beside the Seer. 140 No Ronald yet, though midnight came, And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams, As, bending o'er the dying flame, He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams. Sudden the hounds erect their ears, And sudden cease their moaning howl, Close pressed to Moy, they mark their fears By shivering limbs and stifled growl. Untouched the harp began to ring As softly, slowly, oped the door ; 150 And shook responsive every string As light a footstep pressed the floor. And by the watch-fire's glimmering light Close by the minstrel's side was seen An huntress maid, in beauty bright, All dropping wet her robes of green. All dropping wet her garments seem ; Chilled was her cheek, her bosom bare, As, bending o'er the dying gleam, She wrung the moisture from her hair. 160 With maiden blush she softly said, ' O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, In deep Glenfinlas' moonlight glade, A lovely maid in vest of green : ' With her a chief in Highland pride ; His shoulders bear the hunter's bow, The mountain dirk adorns his side, Far on the wind his tartans flow ? ' — ' And who art thou ? and who are they ? ' All ghastly gazing, Moy replied : 170 ' And why, beneath the moon's pale ray, Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side ? ' ' Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide, Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle, Our father's towers o'erhang her side, The castle of the bold Glengyle. ' To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer Our woodland course this morn we bore, And haply met while wandering here The son of great Macgillianore. 180 ' O, aid me then to seek the pair, Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost ; Alone I dare not venture there, Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost.' ' Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there ; Then first, my own sad vow to keep, Here will I pour my midnight prayer, Which still must rise when mortals sleep.' 14 EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS ' O, first, for pity's gentle sake, Guide a lone wanderer on her way ! 190 For I must cross the haunted brake, And reach my father's towers ere day.' ' First, three times tell each Ave-bead, And thrice a Pater-noster say ; Then kiss with me the holy rede ; So shall we safely wend our way.' ' O, shame to knighthood, strange and foul ! Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, And shroud thee in the monkish cowl, Which best befits thy sullen vow. 200 ' Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, Thy heart was froze to love and joy, When gayly rung thy raptured lyre To wanton Morna's melting eye.' Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of flame And high his sable locks arose, And quick his color went and came As fear and rage alternate rose. * And thou ! when by the blazing oak I lay, to her and love resigned, 210 Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke, Or sailed ye on the midnight wind ? ' Not thine a race of mortal blood, Nor old Glengyle's pretended line ; Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood — Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine.' He muttered thrice Saint Oran's rhyme, And thrice Saint Fillan's powerful prayer ; Then turned him to the eastern clime, And sternly shook his coal-black hair. 220 And, bending o'er his harp, he flung His wildest witch-notes on the wind ; And loud and high and strange they rung, As many a magic change they find. Tall waxed the Spirit's altering form, Till to the roof her stature grew ; Then, mingling with the rising storm, With one wild yell away she flew. Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear : The slender hut in fragments flew ; 230 But not a lock of Moy's loose hair Was waved by wind or wet by dew. Wild mingling with the howling gale, Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise ; High o'er the minstrel's head they sail And die amid the northern skies. The voice of thunder shook the wood, As ceased the more than mortal yell ; And spattering foul a shower of blood Upon the hissing firebrands fell. 240 Next dropped from high a mangled arm ; The fingers strained an half-drawn blade : And last, the life-blood streaming warm, Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. Oft o'er that head in battling field Streamed the proud crest of high Ben- more ; That arm the broad claymore could wield Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. Woe to Moneira's sullen rills ! Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen ! 250 There never son of Albin's hills Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen ! E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet At noon shall shun that sheltering den, Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet The wayward Ladies of the Glen. And we — behind the chieftain's shield No more shall we in safety dwell ; None leads the people to the field — And we the loud lament must swell. 260 O hone a rie' ! O hone a rie' ! The pride of Albin's line is o'er ! And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree ; We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more ! THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN This ballad was written in the autumn of 1799 at Mertoun House, and was first published in Monk Lewis's Tales of Wonder. Lockhart points out that it is the first of Scott's original pieces in which he uses the measure of his own favorite minstrels. The ballad was written at the playful request of Scott of Harden, who was the owner of the tower of Smailholm, when Walter Scott begged him not to destroy it. The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, He spurred his courser on, THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN J 5 Without stop or stay, down the rocky way, That leads to Brotherstone. He went not with the bold Buccleuch His banner broad to rear ; He went not 'gainst the English yew To lift the Scottish spear. Yet his plate-jack was braced and his hel- met was laced, And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore ; 10 At his saddle - gerthe was a good steel sperthe, Full ten pound weight and more. The baron returned in three days' space, And his looks were sad and sour ; And weary was his courser's pace As he reached his rocky tower. He came not from where Ancram Moor Ean red with English blood ; Where the Douglas true and the bold Buccleuch 'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. 20 Yet was his helmet hacked and hewed, His acton pierced and tore, His axe and his dagger with blood im- brued, — But it was not English gore. He lighted at the Chapellage, He held him close and still ; And he whistled thrice for his little foot- page, His name was English Will. * Come thou hither, my little foot-page, Come hither to my knee ; 30 Though thou art young and tender of age, I think thou art true to me. * Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, And look thou tell me true ! Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, What did thy lady do ? ' *My lady, each night, sought the lonely light That burns on the wild Watchf old ; For from height to height the beacons bright Of the English foemen told. 40 * The bittern clamored from the moss, The wind blew loud and shrill ; Yet the craggy pathway she did cross To the eiry Beacon Hill. ' I watched her steps, and silent came Where she sat her on a stone ; — No watchman stood by the dreary flame, It burned all alone. * The second night I kept her in sight Till to the fire she came, 50 And, by Mary's might ! an armed knight Stood by the lonely flame. ' And many a word that warlike lord Did speak to my lady there ; But the rain fell fast and loud blew the blast, And I heard not what they were. * The third night there the sky was fair, And the mountain-blast was still, As again I watched the secret pair On the lonesome Beacon Hill. 60 * And I heard her name the midnight hour, And name this holy eve ; And say, "Come this night to thy lady's bower ; Ask no bold baron's leave. '"He lifts his spear with the bold Buc- cleuch ; His lady is all alone ; The door she '11 undo to her knight so true On the eve of good Saint John." * " I cannot come ; I must not come ; I dare not come to thee ; 70 On the eve of Saint John I must wander alone : In thy bower I may not be." ' " Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight ! Thou shouldst not say me nay ; For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet Is worth the whole summer's day. * " And I '11 chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound, And rushes shall be strewed on the stair; i6 EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS So, by the black rood-stone and by holy Saint John, I conjure thee, my love, to be there ! " 80 * " Though the blood-hound be mute and the rush beneath my foot, And the warder his bugle should not blow, Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east, And my footstep he would know." '"O, fear not the priest who sleepeth to the east, For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en ; And there to say mass, till three days do pass, For the soul of a knight that is slayne." 'He turned him around and grimly he frowned ; Then he laughed right scornfully — 90 "He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight May as well say mass for me : '"At the lone midnight hour when bad spirits have power In thy chamber will I be." — With that he was gone and my lady left alone, And no more did I see.' Then changed, I trow, was that bold baron's brow From the dark to the blood-red high; * Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen, For, by Mary, he shall die ! ' 100 'His arms shone full bright in the beacon's red light ; His plume it was scarlet and blue ; On his shield was a hound in a silver leash bouud, And his crest was a branch of the yew.' 'Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot- page, Loud dost thou lie to me ! For that knight is cold and low laid in the mould, Ail under the Eildon-tree.' ' Yet hear but my word, my noble lord ! For I heard her name his name ; no And that lady bright, she called the knight Sir Richard of Coldinghame.' The bold baron's brow then changed, I trow, From high blood-red to pale — 'The grave is deep and dark — and the corpse is stiff and stark — So I may not trust thy tale. ' Where fair Tweed flows round holy Mel- rose, And Eildon slopes to the plain, Full three nights ago by some secret foe That gay gallant was slain. 120 ' The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drowned the name ; For the Dryburgh bells ring and the white monks do sing For Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! ' He passed the court-gate and he oped the tower-gate, And he mounted the narrow stair To the bartizan-seat where, with maids that on her wait, He found his lady fair. That lady sat in mournful mood ; Looked over hill and vale ; 130 Over Tweed's fair flood and Mertoun's wood, And all down Teviotdale. ' Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright ! ' 'Now hail, thou baron true ! What news, what news, from Ancram fight? What news from the bold Buccleuch ? ' ' The Ancram moor is red with gore, For many a Southern fell ; And Buccleuch has charged us evermore To watch our beacons well.' 140 The lady blushed red, but nothing she said : Nor added the baron a word : Then she stepped down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody lord. THE GRAY BROTHER 17 In sleep the lady mourned, and the baron tossed and turned, And oft to himself he said, — ' The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep — It cannot give up the dead ! ' It was near the ringing of matin-bell, The night was well-nigh done, 150 When a heavy sleep on that baron fell, On the eve of good Saint John. The lady looked through the chamber fair, By the light of a dying flame ; And she was aware of a knight stood there — Sir Richard of Coldinghame! * Alas ! away, away ! ' she cried, ' For the holy Virgin's sake ! ' ' Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side ; But, lady, he will not awake. 160 * By Eildon-tree for long nights three In bloody grave have I lain ; The mass and the death-prayer are said for me, But, lady, they are said in vain. His hardy partner bore. Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show The tidings of the English foe : ' Belted Will Howard is marching here, And hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear, And all the German hackbut-men Who have long lain at Askerten. They crossed the Liddel at curfew hour, And burned my little lonely tower — The fiend receive their souls therefor ! 80 It had not been burnt this year and more. Barnyard and dwelling, blazing bright, 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 turned at Priesthaugh Scrogg, And shot their horses in the bog, Slew Fergus with my lance outright — I had him long at high despite ; 90 He drove my cows last Fastern's night.' VII Now weary scouts from Liddesdale, Fast hurrying in, confirmed the tale; As far as they could judge by ken, Three hours would bring to Teviot's strand Three thousand armed Englishmen. Meanwhile, full many a warlike band, From Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick shade, Came in, their chief's defence to aid. There was saddling and mounting in haste, 100 There was pricking o'er moor and lea; He that was last at the trysting-place Was but lightly held of his gay ladye. VIII From fair Saint Mary's silver wave, From dreary Gamescleuch's dusky height, His ready lances Thirlestane brave Arrayed beneath a banner bright. CANTO FOURTH 63 The tressured fleur-de-luce he claims To wreathe his shield, since royal James, Encamped by Fala's mossy wave, 1 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, in fair remembrance worn, Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne ; Hence his high motto shines revealed, * Ready, aye ready,' for the field. An aged knight, to danger steeled, 120 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 Oakwood Tower, And wide round haunted Castle-Ower; High over Borthwick's mountain flood His wood-embosomed mansion stood; In the dark glen, so deep below, The herds of plundered England low, 130 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 spurned at rest, And still his brows the helmet pressed, Albeit the blanched locks below Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow. 140 Five stately warriors drew the sword Before their father's band; A braver knight than Harden's lord Ne'er belted on a brand. Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band, Came trooping down the Todshawhill; By the sword they won their land, And by the sword they hold it still. Hearken, Ladye, to the tale How thy sires won fair Eskdale. 150 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 recked of a tame liege-lord. The earl into fair Eskdale came, Homage and seigniory to claim: Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriot he sought, Saying, 'Give thy best steed, as a vassal ought.' 160 1 Dear to me is my bonny white steed, Oft has he helped 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, Till so high blazed the Beattison's ire, But that the earl the flight had ta'en, The vassals there their lord had slain. Sore he plied both whip and spur, As he urged his steed through Eskdale muir ; 170 And it fell down a weary weight, Just on the threshold of Branksome gate. 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 ! 18c 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 spurred amain, And with him five hundred riders has ta'en. He left his merrymen in the midst of the hill, And bade them hold them close and still; And alone he wended to the plain, To meet with the Galliard and all his train. 190 To Gilbert the Galliard thus he said : ' Know thou 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 laughed in scorn; * Little care we for thy winded horn. 200 '64 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL Ne'er shall it be the Galliard's lot To yield his steed to a haughty Scott. Wend thou to Branksome back on foot, With rusty spur and miry boot.' He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse That the dun deer started at far Craik- cross ; He blew again so loud and clear, Through the gray mountain-mist there did lances appear; And the third blast rang with such a din That the echoes answered from Pentoun- linn, 210 And all his riders came lightly in. Then had you seen a gallant shock, When saddles were emptied and lances broke ! Tor each scornful word the Galliard had said A Beattison on the field was laid. His own good sword the chieftain drew, And he bore the Gailliard through and through ; Where the Beattisons' blood mixed with the rill, The Galliard's Haugh men call it still. The Scotts have scattered the Beattison clan, 220 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. Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came, And warriors more than I may name ; From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaugh-swair, From Woodhouselie to Chester-glen, Trooped man and horse, and bow and spear; Their gathering word was Bellenden. And better hearts o'er Border sod 230 To siege or rescue never rode. The Ladye marked 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: 1 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; 240 The red cross on a Southern bieas Is broader than the raven's nest: Thou, Whitslade, shall teach weapon to wield, And o'er him hold his father's shi XIV Well may you think the wily pag< Cared not to face the Ladye sage. He counterfeited childish fear, And shrieked, and shed full many And moaned, and plained in manr The attendants to the Ladye to] Some fairy, sure, had changed the That wont to be so free and bol Then wrathful was the noble dam She blushed blood-red for very sh ' Hence ! ere the clan his faintnesi Hence with the weakling to Buccl Watt Tinlinn, thou shalt be his gi To Rangleburn's lonely side. — Sure, some fell fiend has cursed o That coward should e'er be mine ! ' xv A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had, To guide the counterfeited lad. Soon as the palfrey felt the weigl Of that ill-omened elfish freight, He bolted, sprung, and reared air Nor heeded bit nor curb nor rein. It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil To drive him but a Scottish mile; But as a shallow brook they cr< The elf, amid the running stream His figure changed, like form in < And fled, and shouted, 'Lo lost ! ' Full fast the urchin ran and laug] But faster still a cloth-yard shaft Whistled from startled Tinlinn's And pierced his shoulder thr< through. Although the imp might not be s And though the wound soon heal Yet, as he ran, he yelled for pain And Watt of Tinlinn, much agha; Rode back to Branksome fiery fa XVI Soon on the hill's steep verge he That looks o'er Branksome's t< wood; CANTO FOURTH 65 And marti?l murmurs from below Proclaimed 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; While broke at times the solemn hum, 290 The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum; And banners tall, of crimson sheen, Above the copse appear; And, glistening through the hawthorns green, Shine helm and shield and spear. XVII Light forayers first, to view the ground, Spurred their fleet coursers loosely round; Behind, in close array, and fast, The Kendal archers, all in green, Obedient to the bugle blast, 300 Advancing from the wood were seen. To back and guard the archer band, Lord Dacre's billmen were at hand: A hardy race, on Irthing bred, With kirtles white and crosses red, Arrayed beneath the banner tall That streamed o'er Acre's conquered wall; And minstrels, as they marched in order, Played, 'Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on the Border.' XVIII Behind the English bill and bow 310 The mercenaries, 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, owned no lord : They were not armed like England's sons, But bore the levin-darting guns; Buff coats, all frounced and broidered o'er, 320 And morsing-horns and scarfs they wore; Each better knee was bared, to aid The warriors in the escalade; All as they marched, in rugged tongue Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung. XIX But louder still the clamor grew, And louder still the minstrels blew, When, from beneath the greenwood tree, Rode forth Lord Howard's chivalry; His men-at-arms, with glaive and spear, 330 Brought up the battle's glittering rear. There many a youthful knight, full keen To gain his spurs, in arms was seen, With favor in his crest, or glove, Memorial of his ladye-love. So rode they forth in fair array, Till full their lengthened lines display; Then called a halt, and made a stand, And cried, ' Saint George for merry Eng- land!' XX Now every English eye intent 340 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 Gleamed axe and spear and partisan; Falcon and culver on each tower Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower; And flashing armor frequent broke From eddying whirls of sable smoke, Where upon tower and turret head 350 The seething pitch and molten lead Reeked 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 breastplate spread; Unbroke by age, erect his seat, He ruled his eager courser's gait, Forced him with chastened fire to prance, 360 And, high curvetting, slow advance: In sign of truce, his better hand Displayed a peeled willow wand; His squire, attending in the rear, Bore high a gauntlet on his 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. XXII ' Ye English warden lords, of you 370 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 ? 66 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL My Ladye reads 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, 380 Saint Mary ! but we '11 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 Seneschal, 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; 390 Each chief around leaned on his spear, To see the pursuivant appear. All in Lord Howard's livery dressed, The lion argent decked his breast; He led a boy of blooming hue — 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 1 It irks, high dame, my noble lords, 400 'Gainst ladye 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 nemens-firth. We claim from thee William of Delo- raine, That he may suffer march-treason pain. It was but last Saint Cuthbert's even 410 He pricked to Stapleton on Leven, Harried the lands of Richard Musgrave, And slew his brother by dint of glaive. Then, since a lone and widowed dame These restless riders may not tame, Either receive within thy towers Two hundred of my master's powers, Or straight they sound their warrison, And storm and spoil thy garrison ; And this fair boy, to London led, 420 Shall good King Edward's page be bred.' He ceased — and loud the boy did cry, And stretched his little arms on high, Implored for aid each well-known face, And strove to seek the dame's embrace. A moment changed that Ladye's cheer, Gushed to her eye the unbidden tear; She gazed upon the leaders round, And dark and sad each warrior frowned; Then deep within her sobbing breast 4 She locked the struggling sigh to rest, Unaltered and collected stood, And thus replied in dauntless mood : ' Say to your lords of high emprise 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 honor's sake. No knight in Cumberland so good 440 But William may count with him kin and blood. Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword, When English blood swelled Ancram ford; And but Lord Dacre's steed was wight, And bare him ably in the flight, Himself had seen him dubbed 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. 450 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.' XXVII Proud she looked round, applause to claim — Then lightened Thirlestane's eye of flame; His bugle Wat of Harden blew; Pensils and pennons wide were flung, To heaven the Border slogan rung, 459 ' Saint Mary for the young Buccleuch ! ' The English war-cry answered wide, And forward bent each Southern spear; Each Kendal archer made a stride, And drew the bowstring to his ear; Each minstrel's war-note loud was blown ; — But, ere a gray-goose shaft had flown, A horseman galloped from the rear. XXVIII * Ah ! noble lords ! ' he breathless said, * What treason has your march betrayed ? CANTO FOURTH 67 What make you here from aid so far, 470 Before you walls, around you war ? Your foemen triumph in the thought That in the toils the lion 's caught. Already on dark Rubers! aw The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw; 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, 479 Lord Maxwell ranks his merrymen good Beneath the eagle and the rood; And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale, Have to proud Angus come; And all the Merse and Lauderdale Have risen with haughty Home. An exile from Northumberland, In Liddesdale I 've wandered long, But still my heart was with merry Eng- land, And cannot brook my country's wrong; And hard I Ve spurred all night, to show 490 The mustering of the coming foe.' '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 dis- played, Shall mock the rescue's lingering aid ! — Level each harquebuss on row; Draw, merry archers, draw the bow; Up, billmen, to the walls, and cry, 500 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 thousands three, Certes, were desperate policy. Nay, take the terms the Ladye made 510 Ere conscious of the advancing aid: Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine In single fight, and if he gain, He gains for us; but if he 's crossed, 'T is but a single warrior lost: The rest, retreating as they came, Avoid defeat and death and shame.' XXXI 111 could the haughty Dacre brook His brother warden's sage rebuke; And yet his forward step he stayed, 520 And slow and sullenly obeyed. 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 stand; His trumpet called with parleying strain The leaders of the Scottish band; And he defied, in Musgrave's right, 530 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, 540 Unharming Scots, by Scots unharmed, In peaceful march, like men unarmed, Shall straight retreat to Cumberland.' XXXIII Unconscious of the near relief, The proffer pleased each Scottish chief, Though much the Ladye sage gain- said; For though their hearts were brave and true, From Jedwood's recent sack they knew How tardy was the Regent's aid: And you may guess the noble dame 550 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 fixed 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, 560 Or else a champion in his stead, Should for himself and chieftain stand Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand. 68 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 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, whenas the spear Should shiver in the course: But he, the jovial harper, taught 570 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 brooked 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, 580 The bard of Reull he slew. On Teviot's side in fight they stood, And tuneful hands were stained with blood, Where still the thorn's white branches wave, Memorial o'er his rival's grave. Why should I tell the rigid doom That dragged 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 590 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 Minstrel's strain. With many a word of kindly cheer, — In pity half, and half sincere, — Marvelled the Duchess how so well His legendary song could tell Of ancient deeds, so long forgot; Of feuds, whose memory was not; 600 Of forests, now laid waste and bare; Of towers, which harbor now the hare; Of manners, long since changed and m gone; 6 ro Of chiefs, who under their gray stone So long had slept that fickle Fame Had blotted from her rolls their name, And twined round some new minion's head The fading wreath for which they bled: In sooth, 't was 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 620 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 Call it not vain: — they do not err, Who say that when the poet dies Mute Nature mourns her worshipper 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, 10 And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave. 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. 2 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: CANTO FIFTH 69 The phantom knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead, Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain And shrieks along the battle-plain; The chief, whose antique crownlet long Still sparkled in the feudal song, 30 Now, from the mountain's misty throne, Sees, in the thanedom once his own, His ashes undistinguished 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 unstrung, Their name unknown, their praise un- sung. ill Scarcely the hot assault was stayed, The terms of truce were scarcely made, 40 When they could spy, from Branksome's towers. The advancing march of martial powers. Thick clouds of dust afar appeared, And trampling steeds were faintly heard ; Bright spears above the columns dun Glanced momentary to the sun; And feudal banners fair displayed The bands that moved to Branksome's aid. IV Vails not to tell each hardy clan, From the fair Middle Marches came; 50 The Bloody Heart blazed in the van, Announcing Douglas, dreaded name ! Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn, Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne 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 Lammermore, 60 And Tweed's fair borders, to the war, Beneath the crest of old Dunbar And Hepburn's mingled banners, come Down the steep mountain glittering far, And shouting still, ' A Home ! a Home ! ' Now squire and knight, from Branksome sent, On many a courteous message went: To every chief and lord they paid Meet thanks for prompt and powerful aid, And told them how a truce was made, 70 And how a day of fight was ta'en 'Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine; And how the Ladye prayed 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, Bode forth, in seemly terms to call 80 Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall. Accepted Howard, than whom knight Was never dubbed, more bold in fight, Nor, when from war and armor free, More famed for stately courtesy; But angry Dacre rather chose In his pavilion to repose. Now, noble dame, perchance you ask How these two hostile armies met, Deeming it were no easy task 9 o 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, As brothers meet in foreign land: The hands, the spear that lately grasped, 100 Still in the mailed gauntlet clasped, 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 chased the day; And some, with many a merry shout, In riot, revelry, and rout, Pursued the football play. no VII Yet, be it known, had bugles blown Or sign of war been seen, Those bands, so fair together ranged, Those hands, so frankly interchanged, 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, 7° THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL The social meal to part and share, 120 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 Branksome's towers and town, In peaceful merriment, sunk down The sun's declining ray. VIII The blithesome signs of wassail gay Decayed not with the dying day; Soon through the latticed windows tall 130 Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall, Divided square by shafts of stone, Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone; Nor less the gilded rafters rang With merry harp and beakers' clang; 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, proclaim 140 Douglas' or Dacre's conquering name. IX Less frequent heard, and fainter still, At length the various clamors died, And you might hear from Branksome hill No sound but Teviot'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 Rung from the nether lawn; 150 For many a busy hand toiled there, Strong pales to shape and beams to square, The lists' dread barriers to prepare Against the morrow's dawn. Margaret from hall did soon retreat, Despite the dame's reproving eye; Nor marked 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, 160 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 bannered hosts repose, She viewed 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, 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 passed below; But when he raised his plumed head — Blessed Mary ! can it be ? — Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers, He walks through Branksome's hostile towers, 180 With fearless step and free. She dared not sign, she dared not speak — O, if one page's slumbers break, His blood the price must pay ! Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears, Not 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: 190 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 crossed, 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, 200 And both could scarcely master love — Lord Henry 's at her feet. XIII 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 deemed, perchance he thought 209 Their erring passion might have wrought Sorrow and sin and shame, And death to Cranstoun's gallant Knight, CANTO FIFTH 7i 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; 221 It liveth not in fierce desire, With dead desire it doth not die; It is the secret sympathy, The silver link, the silken tie, Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, In body and in soul can bind. — Now leave we Margaret and her knight, To tell you of the approaching fight. Their warning blasts the bugles blew, The pipe's shrill port aroused each clan ; 230 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 favored most. XV Meantime full anxious was the dame; For now arose disputed claim 240 Of who should fight for Deloraine, 'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestane. They gan to reckon kin and rent, And frowning brow on brow was bent; But yet not long the strife — for, lo ! Himself, the Knight of Deloraine, Strong, as it seemed, and free from pain, In armor sheathed from top to toe, Appeared and craved the combat due. The dame her charm successful knew, 250 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 walked, And much in courteous phrase they talked Of feats of arms of old. Costly his garb — his Flemish ruff Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff, With satin slashed and lined; 260 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 Called noble Howard Belted Will. XVII Behind Lord Howard and the dame Fair Margaret on her palfrey came, Whose footcloth swept the ground; 270 White was her wimple 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; Without his aid, her hand in vain Had strove to guide her broidered rein. He deemed she shuddered at the sight Of warriors met for mortal fight; But cause of terror, all unguessed, 280 Was fluttering in her gentle breast, When, in their chairs of crimson placed, The dame and she the barriers graced. Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch 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, 290 As marshals of the mortal field, While to each knight their care assigned Like vantage of the sun and wind. Then 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 300 Till thus the alternate heralds spoke : — XIX ENGLISH HERALD ' Here standeth Richard of Musgrave, Good knight and true, and freely born, Amends from Deloraine to crave, For foul despiteous scathe and scorn. He sayeth that William of Deloraine Is traitor false by Border laws; 72 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL This with his sword he will maintain, So help him God and his good cause ! ' xx SCOTTISH HERALD 1 Here standeth William of Deloraine, 3 10 Good knight and true, of noble strain, Who sayeth that foul treason's stain, Since he bore arms ne'er soiled his coat; And that, so help him God above ! He will on Musgrave's body prove He lies most foully in his throat.' LORD DACRE ' Forward, brave champions, to the fight ! Sound trumpets ! ' LORD HOME ' God defend the right ! ' — Then, Teviot, how thine echoes rang, When bugle-sound and trumpet-clang 320 Let loose the martial foes, And in mid-list, with shield poised high, And measured step and wary eye, The combatants did close ! XXI 111 would it suit your gentle ear, Ye lovely listeners, to hear How to the axe the helms did sound, And blood poured down from many a wound; For desperate was the strife and long, And either warrior fierce and strong. 33 o But, were each dame a listening knight, I well could tell how warriors fight; For I have seen war's lightning flashing, Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing, Seen through red blood the war-horse dashing, And scorned, amid the reeling strife, To yield a step for death or life. XXII 'T is done, 't is done ! that fatal blow Has stretched him on the bloody plain; He strives to rise — brave Musgrave, no ! 340 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 ! — O, 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 ! XXIII In haste the holy friar sped; — 350 His naked foot was dyed with red, As through the lists he ran; Unmindful of the shouts on high That hailed the conqueror's victory, He raised the dying man; Loose waved his silver beard and hair, As o'er him he kneeled down in prayer ; And still the crucifix on high He holds before his darkening eye; And still he bends an anxious ear, 360 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. XXIV As if exhausted in the fight, Or musing o'er the piteous sight, The silent victor stands; 370 His beaver did he not unclasp, Marked not the shouts, felt not the grasp Of gratulating hands. When lo ! strange cries of wild surprise, Mingled with seeming terror, rise Among the Scottish bands ; And all, amid the thronged array, In panic haste gave open way To a half-naked ghastly man, Who downward from the castle ran: 38. He crossed the barriers at a bound, And wild and haggard looked around, As dizzy and in pain; And all upon the armed ground Knew William 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 — 390 ' Cranstoun of Teviot-side ! For this fair prize I 've fought and won,' — And to the Ladye led her son. CANTO FIFTH ^S XXV Full oft the rescued boy she kissed, And often pressed him to her breast, For, under all her dauntless show, Her heart had throbbed at every blow; Yet not Lord Cranstoun deigned she greet, Though low he kneeled at her feet. Me lists not tell what words were made, 4 oo What Douglas, Home, and Howard said — For Howard was a generous foe — And how the clan united prayed The Ladye would the feud forego, And deign to bless the nuptial hour Of Cranstoun's lord and Teviot's Flower. XXVI She looked to river, looked to hill, Thought on the Spirit's prophecy, Then broke her silence stern and still: 409 'Not you, but Fate, has vanquished me; Their influence kindly stars may shower On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower, For pride is quelled 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, 420 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 Deloraine, And of his page, and of the book Which from the wounded knight he took; And how he sought her castle high, That morn, by help of gramarye ; How, in Sir William's armor dight, 430 Stolen by his page, while slept the knight, He took on him the single fight. But half his tale he left unsaid, And lingered till he joined the maid. — Cared not the Ladye to betray Her mystic arts in view of day; But 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. — 440 Needs not to tell each tender word 'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Cranstoun's lord; Nor how she told of former woes, And how her bosom fell and rose While he and Musgrave bandied blows. — Needs not these lovers' joys to tell; One day, fair maids, you '11 know them well. XXVIII William of Deloraine some chance Had wakened from his deathlike trance, And taught that in the listed plain 450 Another, in his arms and shield, Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield, Under the name of Deloraine. Hence to the field unarmed he ran, 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: 460 He would not waken old debate, For he was void of rancorous hate, Though rude and scant of courtesy; 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 't was seen of him e'en now, When on dead Musgrave he looked down: 470 Grief darkened 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, Richard 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, 480 Till ransomed 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, No 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. n THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL In all the northern counties here, Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear, 49 o Thou wert the best to follow gear. 'T was pleasure, as we looked behind, To see how thou the chase couldst wind, Cheer the dark bloodhound on his way, And with the bugle rouse the fray ! I 'd give the lands of Deloraine, Dark Musgrave were alive again.' xxx So mourned he till Lord Dacre's band Were bowning back to Cumberland. They raised brave Musgrave from the field 500 And laid him on his bloody shield ; On levelled 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; With trailing pikes the spearmen trode; And thus the gallant knight they bore 510 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 hushed 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, 520 Now the sad requiem, loads the gale; Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave, Rung the full choir in choral stave. After due pause, they bade him tell Why he, who touched the harp so 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. The aged harper, howsoe'er His only friend, his harp, was dear, Liked not to hear it ranked so " Above his flowing poesy: 53° Less liked he still that scornful jeer Misprized the land he loved so dear; High was the sound as thus again The bard resumed his minstrel strain. CANTO SIXTH 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 burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned 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, 9 Boundless his 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, unhonored, and unsung. 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, 20 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, m 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. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, 30 Though none should guide my feeble way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my withered cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot-stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The bard may draw his parting groan. Not scorned like me, to Branksome Hall The minstrels came at festive call; Trooping they came from near and far, CANTO SIXTH 75 The jovial priests of mirth and war; 40 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. Me lists not at this tide declare The splendor of the spousal rite, How mustered in the chapel fair Both maid and matron, squire knight ; Me lists not tell of owches rare, Of mantles green, and braided hair, And kirtles furred with miniver; What plumage waved the altar round, How spurs and ringing chainlets sound: And hard it were for bard to speak The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek, That lovely hue which comes and flies, As awe and shame alternate rise ! So and 60 Some bards have sung, the Ladye high Chapel or altar came not nigh, Nor durst the rites of spousal grace, So much she feared each holy place. False slanders these: — I trust right well, She wrought not by forbidden spell, For mighty words and signs have power O'er sprites in planetary hour; 70 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 embroidered and entwined, Guarded with gold, with ermine lined; A merlin sat upon her wrist," Held by a leash of silken twist. 80 The spousal rites were ended soon; 'T was now the merry hour of noon, And in the lofty arched hall Was spread the gorgeous festival. Steward and squire, with heedful haste, Marshalled 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, 90 And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave, And cygnet from Saint 'Mary's wave, O'er ptarmigan and venison, The priest had spoke his benison. Then rose the riot and the din, Above, beneath, without, within ! For, from the lofty balcony, Rung trumpet, shalm,'and psaltery: Their clanging bowls old warriors quaffed, Loudlyithey spoke and loudly laughed; 100 Whispered young knights, in tone more mild, To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. The hooded hawks, high perched on beam, The clamor joined with whistling scream, And flapped their wings and shook their bells, In concert with the stag-hounds' yells. Round go the flasks of ruddy wine, From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine; Their tasks the busy sewers ply, Anjl all is mirth and revelry. no 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 humor highly crossed About some steeds his band had lost, High words to words succeeding still, Smote with his gauntlet stout Hunthill, 120 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 Douglas rose, The kindling discord to compose; Stern Rutherford right little said, But bit his glove and shook his head. A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, 129 Stout Conrad, cold, and drenched in blood, His bosom gored with many a wound, Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found: Unknown the manner of his death, Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath; But ever from that time, 't was said, That Dickon wore a Cologne blade. / 7 6 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL The dwarf, who feared his master's eye Might his foul treachery espie, Now sought the castle buttery, Where many a yeoman, bold and free, 140 Revelled as merrily and well As those that sat in lordly selle. Watt Tinlinn there did frankly raise The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes ; And he, as by his breeding bound, To Howard's merrymen sent it round. To quit them, on the English side, Red Roland Forster loudly cried, ' A deep carouse to yon fair bride! ' At every pledge, from vat and pail, 150 Foamed forth in floods the nut-brown ale, While shout the riders every one; Such day of mirth ne'er cheered 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, Remembered him of Tinlinn's yew, And swore it should be dearly bought That ever he the arrow drew. First, he the yeoman did molest 160 With bitter gibe and taunting jest; Told how he fled at Solway strife, And how Hob Armstrong cheered his wife; Then, shunning still his powerful arm, At unawares he wrought him harm; From trencher stole his choicest cheer, Dashed from his lips his can of beer; Then, to his knee sly creeping on, With bodkin pierced him to the bone : The venomed wound and festering joint 170 Long after rued that bodkin's point. The startled yeoman swore and spurned, And board and flagons overturned. Riot and clamor wild began; Back to the hall the urchin ran, Took in a darkling nook his post, And grinned, and muttered, ' Lost ! lost ! lost ! ' By this, the dame, lest farther fray Should mar the concord of the day, Had bid the minstrels tune their lay. 180 And first stepped forth old Albert Grseme, The minstrel of that ancient name : Was none who struck the harp so well Within the Land Debatable; 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. 190 XI ALBERT GE^EME 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 Carlisle wall ; 200 Her brother gave but a flask of wine, For ire that Love was lord of all. For she had lands both meadow and lea, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall; And he swore her death, ere he would see A Scottish knight the lord of all ! XII That wine she had not tasted well, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell, For Love was still the lord of all. 210 He pierced her brother to the heart, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisl 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 Carlisle wall, And died for her sake in Palestine, So Love was still the lord of all. CANTO SIXTH 77 Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) 220 Pray for their souls who died for love, For Love shall still be lord of all ! XIII As ended Albert's simple lay, Arose a bard of loftier port, For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay Renowned in haughty Henry's court: There rung thy harp, unrivalled long, Fitztraver of the silver song ! The gentle Surrey loved his lyre — 229 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. XIV 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 stayed, 239 And deemed that spirits from on high, Round where some hermit saint was laid, Were breathing heavenly melody; So sweet did harp and voice combine To praise the name of Geraldine. xv Fitztraver, O, 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 called wrath and vengeance down. 250 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. FITZTRAVER 'T was All-souls' eve, and Surrey's heart beat high; He heard the midnight bell with anx- ious start, Which told the mystic hour, approaching nigh, When wise Cornelius promised by his art 260 To show to him the ladye of his heart, Albeit betwixt them roared 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 grama- rye, To which the wizard led the gallant knight, Save that before a mirror, huge and high, A hallowed taper shed a glimmering light On mystic implements of magic might, 270 On cross, and character, and talisman, And almagest, and altar, nothing bright; For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan, As watch-light by the bed of some depart- ing man. XVIII But soon, within that mirror huge and high, Was seen a self -emitted light 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, 280 Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam, Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom, And part by moonshine pale, and part was hid in gloom. Fair all the pageant — but how passing fair The slender form which lay on couch of Ind ! O'er her white bosom strayed her hazel hair, 78 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined ; All in her night-robe loose she lay re- clined, And pensive read from tablet eburnine Some strain that seemed her inmost soul to find: 290 That favored strain was Surrey's rap- tured line, That fair and lovely form the Lady Ger- aldine. Slow rolled the clouds upon the lovely form, And swept the goodly vision all away — So royal envy rolled the murky storm O'er my beloved Master's glorious day. Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant ! Hea- ven repay On thee, and on thy children's latest line, The wild caprice of thy despotic sway, The gory bridal bed, the plundered shrine, 300 The murdered Surrey's blood, the tears of Geraldine ! XXI Both Scots and Southern chiefs prolong 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 Harold, bard of brave Saint Clair, — Saint Clair, who, feasting high at Home, Had with that lord to battle come. Harold was born where restless seas 310 Howl round the storm-swept Orcades ; Where erst Saint Clairs held princely sway O'er isle and islet, strait and bay; — Still nods their palace to its fall, Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall! — Thence oft he marked fierce Pentland rave, As if grim Odin rode her wave, And watched the whilst, with visage pale And throbbing heart, the struggling sail ; For all of wonderful and wild 320 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 Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war, The Norsemen, trained to spoil and blood, Skilled to prepare the raven's food, Kings of the main their leaders brave, Their barks the dragons of the wave ; And there, in many a stormy vale, 330 The Scald had told his wondrous tale, And many a Runic column high Had witnessed grim idolatry. And thus had Harold in his youth Learned many a Saga's rhyme uncouth, — Of that Sea-Snake, tremendous curled, Whose monstrous circle girds the world ; Of those dread Maids whose hideous yell Maddens the battle's bloody swell; Of chiefs who, guided through the gloom 340 By the pale death-lights of the tomb, Ransacked the graves of warriors old, Their falchions wrenched from corpses' hold, Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms, And bade the dead arise to arms ! With war and wonder all on flame, To Roslin's bowers young Harold came, Where, by sweet glen and greenwood tree, He learned a milder minstrelsy; Yet something of the Northern spell Mixed with the softer numbers well. XXIII HAKOLD O, listen, listen, ladies gay ! No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay, That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. ' Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew ! 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; 360 To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water Sprite, Whose screams forebode 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 ? ' CANTO SIXTH 79 [ 'T is not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there 370 Sits lonely in her castle-hall. I 'T is not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 't is not filled by Rosabelle.' O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 'T was broader than the watch-fire light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 380 It ruddied all the copsewood glen; 'T was seen from Dreyden's groves of oak, And seen from caverned Hawthornden. Seemed all on fire that chapel proud Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie, Each baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seemed all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 390 And glimmered 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 Saint Clair. There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold — But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! And each Saint Clair was buried there, 400 With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. XXIV So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, Scarce marked the guests the darkened hall, Though, long before the sinking day, A wondrous shade involved them all. It was not eddying mist or fog, Drained by the sun from fen or bog; Of no eclipse had sages told; 410 And yet, as it came on apace, Each one could scarce his neighbor's face, Could scarce his own stretched hand be- hold. A secret horror checked the feast, And chilled 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, muttered, 'Found! found ! found ! ' Then sudden through the darkened air 420 A flash of lightning came; So broad, so bright, so red the glare, The castle seemed on flame. Glanced 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 flashed the levin-brand, And filled the hall with smouldering smoke, 43 o As on the elfish page it broke. It broke with thunder long and loud, Dismayed the brave, appalled 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 elfish dwarf was seen no more ! XXVI Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall, Some saw a sight, not seen by all; 44 o 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 prayed and shook, And terror dimmed each lofty look. But none of all the astonished train Was so dismayed as Deloraine: 450 His blood did freeze, his brain did burn, 'T was feared his mind would ne'er return ; For he was speechless, ghastly, wan, Like him of whom the story ran, 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 8o THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL A shape with amice wrapped around, With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, 460 Like pilgrim from beyond the sea; And knew — but how it mattered not — It was the wizard, Michael Scott. 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 Saint Bride of Douglas make, That he a pilgrimage would take 470 To Melrose Abbey, for the sake Of Michael's restless sprite. Then each, to ease his troubled breast, To some blest saint his prayers addressed: Some to Saint Modan made their vows, Some to Saint Mary of the Lowes, Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle, Some to Our Lady of the Isle; Each did his patron witness make That he such pilgrimage would take, 480 And monks should sing and bells should toll, All for the weal of Michael's soul. While vows were ta'en and prayers were prayed, 'T is said the noble dame, dismayed, Renounced for aye dark magic's aid. XXVIII Nought of the bridal will I tell, Which after in short space befell; Nor how brave sons and daughters fair Blessed Teviot's Flower and Cranstoun's heir: After such dreadful scene 't were vain 490 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. XXIX 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, 500 Through all the lengthened row: No lordly look nor martial stride, Gone was their glory, sunk their pride, Forgotten their renown; Silent and slow, like ghosts, they glide * 510 To the high altar's hallowed side, And there they knelt them down. Above the suppliant chieftains wave The banners of departed brave; Beneath the lettered stones were laid The ashes of their fathers dead; From many a garnished niche around Stern saints and tortured martyrs frowned 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 bare, And holy banner, nourished fair 520 With the Redeemer's name. Above the prostrate pilgrim band The mitred abbot stretched his hand, And blessed them as they kneeled; With holy cross he signed them all, And prayed 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 tolled out their mighty peal 530 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^e, dies illa, solvet s^clum in favilla, While the pealing organ rung. Were it meet with sacred strain To close my lay, so light and vain, 540 Thus the holy fathers sung: HYMN FOR 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 yot, and yet more dread, Swells the high trump that wakes the dead ! O, on that day, that wrathful day, 550 When man to judgment wakes from clay, MARMION: INTRODUCTORY NOTE 81 Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay, Though heaven and earth shall pass away ! Hushed 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 560 The little garden hedged with green, The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. There sheltered wanderers, by the blaze, Oft heard the tale of other days; For much he loved to ope his door, And give the aid he begged before. So passed the winter's day; but still, When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill, And July's eve, with balmy breath, Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath, 570 When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw, And corn was green on Carterhaugh, And flourished, 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; 580 And Yarrow, as he rolled along, Bore burden to the Minstrel's song. MARMION A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD INTRODUCTORY NOTE In August, 1791, when Scott was twenty years of age, and shortly before he was called to the bar, he made an excursion to North- umberland, ostensibly for fishing ; but with the keen scent for things and places histor- ical which possessed him from his earliest years, he revelled especially in the associations which rose to mind in all the neighborhood. [ We are amidst places,' he writes to his friend CJerk,.' renowned by the feats of former days ; each hill is crowned with a tower or camp, or cairn, and in no situation can you be near more fields of battle : Flodden, Otterburn, Chevy Chase, Ford Castle, Chillingham Castle, Cop- land Castle, and many another scene of blood are within the compass of a forenoon's ride. . . . Often as I have wished for your company, I never did it more earnestly than when I rode over Flodden Edge. I knew your taste for these things, and could have undertaken to demonstrate, that never was an affair more completely bungled than that day's work was. Suppose one army posted upon the face of a hill, and secured by high grounds projecting on each flank, with the river Till in front, a deep and still river, winding through a very extensive valley called Milfield Plain, and the only passage over it by a narrow bridge, which the Scots artillery, from the hill, could in a moment have demolished. Add, that the Eng- lish must have hazarded a battle while their troops, which were tumultuously levied, re- mained together ; and that the Scots, behind whom the country was opened to Scotland, had nothing to do but to wait for the attack as they were posted. Yet, did two thirds of the army, actuated by the perfervidium ingenium Scoto- rum, rush down and give an opportunity to Stanley to occupy the ground they had quitted, by coming over the shoulder of the hill, while the other third, under Lord Home, kept their ground, and having seen their king and about 10,000 of their countrymen cut to pieces, re- tired into Scotland without loss. For the rea- son of the bridge not being destroyed while the English passed, I refer you to Pitscottie, who narrates at large, and to whom I give credit for a most accurate and clear descrip- tion, agreeing perfectly with the ground.' Seventeen years later Scott availed himself of this visit to make the battle on Flodden Field the culminating scene of the second great poem which he gave the public. As he states in his Introduction, printed below, he had retired from his profession, and since the publication of The Lay of the Last Minstrel had been engaged in editing Dryden. But he was also now the quarry at which the pub- lishers were flying, and Constable especially was spreading his wings for that large enter- prise in which Scott was to play so promi- nent a part. As Scott further states in his Introduction, Constable made him a munificent offer of a thousand guineas for the as yet un- 82 MARMION finished poem of Marmion, and the offer came just as Scott was in special need of money to aid his brother Thomas, then withdrawing' from his profession as Writer to the Signet. The first reference which Scott makes to his poem is in a letter to Miss Seward dated Edin- burgh, 20 February, 1S07 : ' I have at length fixed on the title of my new poem, which is to be christened, from the principal character, Marmion, or A Tale of Flodden Field. There are to be six Cantos, and an introductory Epis- tle to each, in the style of that which I send to you as a specimen. In the legendary part of the work, ''Knights, Squires and Steeds shall enter, on the stage." I am not at all afraid of my patriotism being a sufferer in the course of the tale. It is very true that my friend Leyden has said : — ' " Alas ! that Scottish maid should sing The combat where her lover fell, That Scottish Bard should wake the string The triumph of our foes to tell." But we may say with Francis I. " that at Flod- den all was lost but our honor," — an exception which includes everything that is desirable for a poet.' The difficulties into which his brother Thomas had fallen were connected with the business affairs of the Marquis of Abercorn, for whom Thomas Scott had been manager. ' The consequence of my brother's failure,' Scott wrote later to Miss Seward, ' was that the whole affairs of these extensive estates were thrown upon my hands in a state of unutterable con- fusion, so that to save myself from ruin [he was security for his brother] I was obliged to lend my constant and unremitting attention to their reestablishment.' All this, however, though it delayed his poem, produced no es- trangement from Lord and Lady Abercorn, and on 10 September, 1807, he writes to the latter from Ashestiel, ' I have deferred writing from day to day, my dear Lady Abercorn, until I should be able to make good my pro- mise of sending you the first two cantos of Mar- mion ; ' and on 22 January, 1808, he writes to the same, ' I have finished Marmion, and your Ladyship will do me the honor, I hope, to ac- cept a copy very soon. In the sixth and last canto I have succeeded better than I had ven- tured to hope, for I had a battle to fight, and I dread hard blows almost as much in poetry as in common life.' He had thought of asking Lord Abercorn to let him dedicate Marmion to him, but was deterred by hearing him express his general dislike to dedications. Loekhart points out that Scott was doubt- less indebted for the death scene in Marmion to Goethe's Goetz von Berlichingen of the Iron Hand, which Scott had translated ten years before ; but Scott himself, as was his wont, made but few allusions to the origin of any parts of the poem. He did, indeed, in a letter to Miss Seward, 23 November, 1807, give slight explanation of one point, when he wrote ' My reason for transporting Marmion from Lichfield was to make good the minstrel pro- phecy of Constance's song. Why I shoulc ever have taken him there I cannot very wel say. Attachment to the place, its locality with respect to Tamworth, the ancient seat oj the Marmions, partly, perhaps, the whim o: taking a slap at Lord Brooke en passant, joinec in suggesting the idea which I had not time to bring out or finish.' And in a letter to Lady Louisa Stuart from Edinburgh, 3 March, 1808 he writes this - unusually full explanation o: one passage in the poem : — ' I have thought on your reading about th( death of Constance, and with all the respec which (sans phrase) I entertain for everything you honor me with, I have not made up mj mind to the alteration, and here are my rea sons. Clare has no wish to embitter Marmion last moments, and is only induced to mention the death of Constance because she observes that the wounded man's anxiety for her de- liverance prevents his attending to his owe spiritual affairs. It seems natural, however that knowing by the Abbess, or however you please, the share which Marmion had in the fate of Constance, she should pronounce the line assigned to her in such a manner as per- fectly conveyed to his conscience the whole truth, although her gentleness avoided convey- ing it in direct terms. We are to consider too, that Marmion had from various workings of his own mind been led to suspect the fate of Constance, so that, the train being ready laid, the slightest hint of her fate communicated the whole tale of terror to his conviction. Were I to read the passage, I would hesitate a little, like one endeavoring to seek a soft mode of conveying painful intelligence : — ' " In vain for Constance is your zeal ; She — died at Holy Isle." Perhaps after all this is too fine spun, and re- quires more from my gentle readers to fill up my sketch than I am entitled to exact. But I would rather put in an explanatory couplet describing Clare's manner of speaking the words, than make her communication more full and specific' But the couplet he did not add. Loekhart in his Life throws a little further light on the construction of Marmion by quot- ing from a narrative by Mr. Guthrie Wright, who had succeeded Thomas Scott in the charge of the Abercorn estate. ' In the sum- mer of 1807,' he writes, ' I had the pleasure of INTRODUCTORY NOTE 83 making a trip with Sir Walter to Dumfries, for the purpose of meeting- the late Lord Aber- corn on his way with his family to Ireland. His Lordship did not arrive for two or three days after we reached Dumfries, and we em- ployed the interval in visiting' Sweetheart Abbey, Caerlaverock Castle, and some other ancient buildings in the neighborhood. . . . [Sir Walter] recited poetry and old legends from morn till night, and in short it is impossi- ble that anything could be more delightful than his society ; but what I particularly al- lude to is the circumstance, that at that time he was writing Marmion, the three or four first cantos of which he had with him, and which he was so good as to read to me. It is unnecessary to say how much I was enchanted with them ; but as he good-naturedly asked me to state any observations that occurred to me, I said in joke that it appeared to me he had brought his hero by a very strange route into Scotland. " Why," says I, " did ever mortal coming from England to Edinburgh go by Gifford, Crichton Castle, Borthwick Castle, and over the top of Blackford Hill? Not only is it a circuitous detour, but there never was a road that way since the world was created! " "That is a most irrelevant objec- tion," said Sir Walter ; " it was my good plea- sure to bring Marmion by that route, for the purpose of describing the places you have mentioned, and the view from Blackford Hill — it was his business to find his road and pick his steps the best way he could. But, pray, how would you have me bring him ? Not by the post-road, surely, as if he had been trav- elling in a mail-coach ? " " No," I replied ; " there were neither post - roads nor mail- coaches in those days ; but I think you might have brought him with a less chaiice of getting into a swamp, by allowing him to travel the natural route by Dunbar and the sea-coast; and then he might have tarried for a space with the famous Earl of Angus, surnamed Bell-the-Cat, at his favorite residence of Tan- tallon Castle, by which means you would have had not only that fortress with all his feudal followers, but the Castle of Dunbar, the Bass, and all the beautiful scenery of the Forth, to describe." This observation seemed to strike him much, and after a pause he exclaimed — " By Jove, you are right ! I ought to have brought him that way ; " and he added, " but before he and I part, depend upon it he shall visit Tantallon." He then asked me if I had ever been there, and upon saying I had fre- quently, he desired me to describe it, which I did ; and I verily believe it is from what I then said, that the accurate description con- tained in the fifth canto was given — at least I never heard him say he had afterwards gone to visit the castle ; and when the poem was published, I remember he laughed, and asked me how I liked Tantallon.' The dating of the several poetical Introduc- tions gives a hint of Scott's abodes when he was engaged upon Marmion. The first four are from Ashestiel, and the scenes about that spot became identified in his mind with the com- position of the poem. ' I well remember his saying,' writes Lockhart, ' as I rode with him across the hills from Ashestiel to Newark one day in his declining years — " Oh, man, I had many a grand gallop among these braes when I was thinking of Marmion, but a trotting canny pony must serve me now." His friend, Mr. Skene, however, informs me that many of the more energetic descriptions, and particu- larly that of the battle of Flodden, were struck out while he was in quarters again with his cavalry, in the autumn of 1807. " In the in- tervals of drilling," he says, "Scott used to delight in walking his powerful black steed up and down by himself upon the Portobello sands, within the beating of the surge ; and now and then you would see him plunge in his spurs, and go off as if at the charge, with the spray dashing about him. As we rode back to Mus- selburgh, he often came and placed himself be- side me, to repeat the verses that he had been composing during these pauses of our exer- cise." ' It was a year after he began the poem that he wrote the Introductory Epistle for Canto IV. at Ashestiel. The next month he wrote the fifth introduction in Edinburgh ; the last was writ- ten during the Christmas festivities of Mertoun house, where, as Lockhart says, * from the first days of his ballad-rhyming, down to the close of his life, he, like his bearded ancestor, usu- ally spent that season with the immediate head of the race.' These epistles, it should be remarked, were not designed in the first instance to be inwoven with the romance. They were, in fact, an- nounced early in 1807 in an advertisement as Six Epistles from Ettrick Forest, and were to have been published in an independent volume. It is perhaps a happier fortune for readers of this day than for the first readers of Marmion that the epistles were thus inwoven, since they serve so emphatically to connect Scott's friend- ships with his poetry ; the personal side of authorship in Scott's case is written thus indeli- bly in the poem. Marmion was published February 23, 1808, and was seized with avidity by Scott's personal friends, and by the public, which called for new editions in rapid succession. Every one natu- rally compared it with The Lay of the Last Min- strel. Southey wrote frankly : ' The story is made of better materials than the Lay, yet 8 4 MARMION they are not so well fitted together. As a ■whole, it has not pleased me so much — in parts, it has pleased nie more. There is no- thing' so finely conceived in your former poem as the death of Marmion : there is nothing- finer in its conception anywhere. The intro- ductory epistles I did not wish away, because, as poems, they gave me great pleasure ; but I wished them at the end of the volume, or at the beginning — anywhere except where they were. My taste is perhaps peculiar in disliking all interruptions in narrative poetry.' Wordsworth, too, wrote with the freedom of an accepted friend, and the frankness of these brother poets implies the candor also of Scott's nature. ' I think your end has been attained. That it is not the end which I should wish you to propose to yourself, you will be well aware, from what you know of my notions of com- position, both as to matter and manner. In the circle of my acquaintance, it seems as well liked as the Lay, though I have heard that in the world it is not so. Had the poem been much better than the Lay, it could scarcely have satisfied the public, which has too much of the monster, the moral monster, in its com- position.' Mr. George Ellis, the accomplished antiqua- rian scholar who had made the acquaintance of Scott in the days of the Border Minstrelsy, also wrote at length, reflecting in his leisurely letter the best judgment of the men of letters of the day. After balancing the opinions of critics respecting the two poems, he concludes : ' My own opinion is, that both the productions are equally good in their different ways : yet, upon the whole, I had rather be the author of Marmion than of the Lay. because I think its species of excellence of much more difficult attainment. What degree of bulk may be es- sentially necessary to the corporeal part of an Epic poem, I know not ; but sure I am that the story of Marmion might have furnished twelve books as easily as six — that the masterly character of Constance would not have been less bewitching had it been much more mi- nutely painted — and that De Wilton might have been dilated with great ease, and even to considerable advantage ; — in short, that had it been your intention merely to exhibit a spirited romantic story, instead of making that story subservient to the delineation of the manners which prevailed at a certain period of our history, the number and variety of your characters would have suited any scale of painting.' Scott himself in a letter to Surtees, who had offered him the subject of Prince Charlie, says : ' When you have read over Marmion, which has more individuality of character than the Lay, although it wants a sort of tenderness which the personage of the old minstrel gave to my first-born romance, you will be a better judge whether I should undertake a work which will depend less on incident and descrip tion than on the power of distinguishing anc marking the dramatis persona;. 1 And it is i commentary on the confusion of literature and politics so characteristic of the day, that we find him writing to Lady Abercorn : ' All the Whigs here (in Edinburgh) are in arms against Marmion. If I had satirized Fox, they could have borne it, but a secondary place for the god of their idolatry puts them beyond the slender degree of patience which displaced patriots usually possess. I make them welcome to cry till they are hoarse against both the book and author, as they are not in the habit of hav- ing majorities upon their side. I suppose the crossed critics of Holland House will take the same tone in your Metropolis.' The allusion, of course, is to the lines in the Introduction to Canto I., beginning withline 126. In illustration of the asperity of politics at the time, Scott writes to the same correspondent : ' The Morning Chronicle of the 29th March [1808] has made a pretty story of the cancel of page 10th of Marmion which your Ladyship cannot but recollect was reprinted for the sole purpose of inserting the lines suggested so kindly by the Marquis : — ' " For talents mourn, untimely lost, When best employed and wanted most ; " I suppose from the carelessness of those who arranged the book for binding, this sheet may not in a copy or two have been right placed, and the worthy Editor affirms kindly that this was done that I might have copies to send to Mr. Pitt's friends in which these lines do not occur ! ! ! My publishers here, who for- warded the books, have written in great wrath to contradict the story, and were surprised to find I had more inclination to laugh at it. This is a punishment for appropriating my neighbor's goods. I suppose it would surprise Mr. Morning Chronicle considerably to know that the couplet in question was written by so distinguished a friend of Mr. Pitt as Lord Abercorn.' We noted how Scott's youthful excursion into the Cheviot Hills found expression later in Marmion. It is pleasant to recall that later journey made with his family when Marmion had made Flodden Field famous. ' Halting at Flodden,' is Lockhart's narrative, ' to expound the field of battle to his young folks, he found that Marmion had, as might have been ex- pected, benefited the keeper of the public house there very largely ; and the village Boni- face, overflowing with gratitude, expressed his anxiety to have a Scott's Head for his sign-post. INTRODUCTORY NOTE 85 The poet demurred to this proposal, and as- sured mine host that nothing could be more appropriate than the portraiture of a foaming" tankard, which already surmounted his door- way. ' ' Why, the painter-man has not made an ill job," said the landlord, " but I would fain have something 1 more connected with the book that has brought me so much good cus- tom." He produced a well-thumbed copy, and handing it to the author, begged he would at least suggest a motto from the tale of Flodden Field. Scott opened the book at the death scene of the hero, and his eye was immediately caught by the " inscription " in black letter — ' ' ' Drink, weary pilgrim, drink, and pray For the kind soul of Sibyl Grey," etc. "Well, my friend," said he, "what more would you have ? You need but strike out one letter in the first of these lines, and make your painter-man, the next time he comes this way, print between the jolly tankard and your own name — ' " Drink, weary pilgrim, drink and pay." Scott was delighted to find, on his return, that this suggestion had been adopted, and for aught I know, the romantic legend may still be visible.' The poem when first published was pre- faced by the following ADVERTISEMENT ' It is hardly to be expected that an author whom the public have honored with some degree of applause should not be again a tres- passer on their kindness. Yet the author of Marmion must be supposed to feel some anxi- ety concerning its success, since he is sensible that he hazards, by this second intrusion, any reputation which his first poem may have pro- cured him. The present story turns upon the private adventures of a fictitious character, 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 de- sign 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 nar- rative, far more an attempt at epic composition, exceeded his plan of a romantic tale ; yet he may be permitted to hope, from the popularity of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, 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 defeat of Flodden, 9th September, 1513. ' ASHESTIEL, 1808.' The poem, as Scott wrote to Lady Abercorn, in consequence of an unexampled demand was hurried through the press again and a second edition was quickly issued ; but second edi- tions in those days were not second impres- sions from the same type or from plates, and the author had an opportunity to make correc- tions. Scott heeded Lady Abercorn's criticism on the speech of Constance, but after much consideration placed a single dash in the line, as it now stands (page 105, line 522), to express her confusion. A few weeks after, when he could look back deliberately on the whole poem, he wrote his friend from Edinburgh 9 June, 1808 : ' No one is so sensible as I am of what deficiencies occur in my poetry from the want of judicious criticism and correction, above all from the extreme hurry in which it has hitherto been composed. The worst is that I take the pet at the things myself after they are finished, and I fear I shall never be able to muster up the courage necessary to revise Marmion as he should be revised. But if I ever write another poem, I am determined to make every single couplet of it as perfect as my uttermost care and attention can possi- bly effect. In order to ensure the accomplish- ment of these good resolutions, I will consider the whole story in humble prose, and endeavor to make it as interesting as I can before I begin to write it out in verse, and thus I shall have at least the satisfaction to know where I am going, my narrative having been hitherto much upon the plan of blind man's buff. Sec- ondly, having made my story, I will write my poem with all deliberation, and when finished lay it aside for a year at least, during which quarantine I would be most happy if it were suffered to remain in your escritoire or in that of the Marquis, who has the best ear for Eng- lish versification of any person whom, in a pretty extensive acquaintance with literary characters, I have ever had the fortune to meet with ; nor is his taste at all inferior to his power of appreciating the harmony of verse.' When Marmion was reissued in the collective edition of 1830, it carried the following — 86 MARMION INTRODUCTION What I have to say respecting this poem may he "briefly told. In the Introduction to the Lay of the Last Minstrel I have mentioned the circumstances, so far as my literary life is con- cerned, which induced me to resign the active pursuit of an honorable profession for the more precarious resources of literature. My appoint- ment to the Sheriffdom of Selkirk called for a change of residence. I left, therefore, the pleasant cottage I had upon the side of the Esk, for the ' pleasanter banks of the Tweed,' in or- der to comply with the law, which requires that the sheriff shall he resident, at least during a certain numher of months, within his jurisdic- tion. We found a delightful retirement, by my "becoming the tenant of my intimate friend and. cousin-german, Colonel Russel, in his mansion of Ashestiel, which was unoccupied during his absence on military service in India. The house was adequate to our accommodation and the exercise of a limited hospitality. The situ- ation is uncommonly heautif ul, hy the side of a fine river whose streams are there very favor- ahle for angling, surrounded by the remains of natural woods, and hy hills abounding in game. In point of society, according to the heartfelt phrase of Scripture, we dwelt ' amongst our own people ; ' and as the distance from the metropolis was only thirty miles, we were not out of reach of our Edinburgh friends, in which city we spent the terms of the summer and winter sessions of the court, that is, five or six months in the year. An important circumstance had, about the same time, taken place in my life. Hopes had "been held out to me from an influential quar- ter, of a nature to relieve me from the anxiety which I must have otherwise felt, as one upon the precarious tenure of whose own life rested the principal prospects of his family, and espe- cially as one who had necessarily some depend- ence upon the favor of the public, which is proverbially capricious ; though it is but justice to add that in my own case I have not found it so. Mr. Pitt had expressed a wish to my personal friend, the Right Honorable William Dundas, now Lord Clerk Register of Scotland, that some fitting opportunity should be taken to be of service to me ; and as my views and wishes pointed to a future rather than an im- mediate provision, an opportunity of accom- plishing this was soon found. One of the Principal Clerks of Session, as they are called (official persons who occupy an important and responsible situation, and enjoy a considerable income), who had served upwards of thirty years, felt himself, from age and the infirmity of deafness with which it was accompanied, de- sirous of retiring from his official situation. As the law then stood, such official persons were entitled to bargain with their successors, either for a sum of money, which was usually a con- siderable one, or for an interest in the emol- uments of the office during their life. My predecessor, whose services had been unusu- ally meritorious, stipiilated for the emoluments of his office during his life, while I should en- joy the survivorship on the condition that I discharged the duties of the office in the mean time. Mr. Pitt, however, having died in the interval, his administration was dissolved, and was succeeded by that known by the name of the Fox and Grenville Ministry. My affair was so far completed that my commission lay in the office subscribed by his Majesty ; but, from hurry or mistake, the interest of my predeces- sor was not expressed in it, as had been usual in such cases. Although, therefore, it only required payment of the fees, I could not in honor take out the commission in the present state, since, in the event of my dying before him, the gentleman whom I succeeded must have lost the vested interest which he had stip- ulated to retain. I had the honor of an inter- view with Earl Spencer on the subject, and he, in the most handsome manner, gave directions that the commission should issue as originally intended ; adding, that the matter having re- ceived the royal assent, he regarded only as claim of justice what he would have willingly done as an act of favor. I never saw Mr. F02 on this or on any other occasion, and never made any application to him, conceiving that in doing so I might have been supposed to ex- press political opinions contrary to those which I had always professed. In his private capa- city, there is no man to whom I would have been more proud to owe an obligation, had I been so distinguished. By this arrangement I obtained the survi- vorship of an office the emoluments of which were fully adequate to my wishes ; and as the law respecting the mode of providing for su- perannuated officers was, about five or six years after, altered from that which admitted the ar- rangement of assistant and successor, my col- league very handsomely took the opportunity of the alteration to accept of the retiring annu- ity provided in such cases, and admitted me to the full benefit of the office. But although the certainty of succeeding tc a considerable income, at the time I obtainec it, seemed to assure me of a quiet harbor in m3 old age, I did not escape my share of inconven- ience from the contrary tides and currents which we are so often encountered in our jour- AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 87 ney through life. Indeed, the publication of my next poetical attempt was prematurely accelerated, from one of those unpleasant accidents which can neither be foreseen nor avoided. I had formed the prudent resolution to en- deavor to bestow a little more labor than I had yet done on my productions, and to be in no hurry again to announce myself as a candidate for literary fame. Accordingly, particular pas- sages of a poem which was finally called Mar- mion were labored with a good deal of care by one by whom much care was seldom bestowed. Whether the work was worth the labor or not, I am no competent judge ; but I may be per- mitted to say that the period of its composition was a very happy one in my life ; so much so, that I remember with pleasure, at this moment, some of the spots in which particular passages were composed. It is probably owing to this that the Introductions to the several cantos as- sumed the form of familiar epistles to my inti- mate friends, in which I alluded, perhaps more than was necessary or graceful, to my domestic occupations and amusements, — a loquacity which may be excused by those who remember that I was still young, light-headed, and happy, and that ' out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.' The misfortunes of a near relation and friend, which happened at this time, led me to alter my prudent determination, which had been to use great precaution in sending this poem into the world ; and made it convenient at least, if not absolutely necessary, to hasten its publication. The publishers of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, emboldened by the success of that poem, willingly offered a thousand pounds for Marmion. The transaction, being no secret, afforded Lord Byron, who was then at general war with all who blacked paper, an apology for including me in his satire entitled English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 1 I never could conceive how an arrangement between an au- thor and his publishers, if satisfactory to the persons concerned, could afford matter of cen- sure to any third party. I had taken no un- usual or ungenerous means of enhancing the value of my merchandise, — I had never hig- gled a moment about the bargain, but accepted at once what I considered the handsome offer 1 Lockhart quotes the passage, which is as follows : — ' Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; A mighty mixture of the great and base. And think'st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though Murray with his Miller may combine of my publishers. These gentlemen, at least, were not of opinion that they had been taken advantage of in the transaction, which indeed was one of their own framing ; on the contrary, the sale of the poem was so far beyond their expectation as to induce them to supply the author's cellars with what is always an accept- able present to a young Scottish housekeeper, namely, a hogshead of excellent claret. The poem was finished in too much haste to allow me an opportunity of softening down, if not removing, some of its most prominent de- fects. The nature of Marmion's guilt, although similar instances were found, and might be quoted, as existing in feudal times, was never- theless not sufficiently peculiar to be indicative of the character of the period, forgery being the crime of a commercial rather than a proud and warlike age. This gross defect ought to have been remedied or palliated. Yet I suffered the tree to lie as it had fallen. I remember my friend, Dr. Leyden, then in the East, wrote me a furious remonstrance on the subject. I have, nevertheless, always been of opinion that cor- rections, however in themselves judicious, have a bad effect — after publication. An author is never so decidedly condemned as on his own confession, and may long find apologists and partisans until he gives up his own cause. I was not, therefore, inclined to afford matter for censure out of my own admissions ; and, by good fortune, the novelty of the subject and, if I may say so, some force and vivacity of de- scription, were allowed to atone for many im- perfections. Thus the second experiment on the public patience, generally the most peril- ous, — for the public are then most apt to judge with rigor what in the first instance they had received perhaps with imprudent generosity, — was in my case decidedly successful. I had the good fortune to pass this ordeal favorably, and the return of sales before me makes the copies amount to thirty-six thousand printed between 1808 and 1825, besides a considerable sale since that period. I shall here pause upon the sub- ject of Marmion, and, in a few prefatory words to The Lady of the Lake, the last poem of mine which obtained eminent success, I will continue the task which I have imposed on myself re- specting the origin of my productions. Abbotsford, April, 1830. To yield thy muse just half a crown per line ? No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame ; Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain ! And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! Such be their meed, such still the just reward Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, And bid a long " Good-night to Marmion." ' 88 MARMION MARMION A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD Alas ! that Scottish maid should sing The combat where her lover fell ! That Scottish Bard should wake the string, The triumph of our foes to tell ! Leyden's Ode on Visiting Flodden RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY, LORD MONTAGUE, &c, &c, &c, THIS ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. 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 hems 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 trilled the streamlet through; Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen 9 Through bush and brier, no longer green, An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, Brawls over rock and wild cascade, And, foaming brown with double speed, Hurries its waters to the Tweed. No longer autumn's glowing red Upon our Forest hills is shed; No more, beneath the evening beam, Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam. Away hath passed the heather-bell That bloomed so rich on Needpath-fell; 20 Sallow his brow, and russet bare Are now the sister-heights of Yair. The sheep, before the pinching heaven, To sheltered dale and down are driven, Where yet some faded herbage pines, And yet a watery sunbeam shines; In meek despondency they eye The withered sward and wintry sky, And far beneath their summer hill" Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill. 3o 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, 40 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 tie; The lambs upon the lea shall bound, The wild birds carol to the round; 50 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; INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST The genial call dead Nature hears, And in her glory reappears. But oh ! my country's wintry state What second spring shall renovate ? What powerful call shall bid arise The buried warlike and the wise, 60 The mind that thought for Britain's weal, The hand that grasped 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, Oh, never let those names depart ! 70 Say to your sons, — Lo, here his grave Who 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, Rolled, blazed, destroyed, — and was no Nor mourn ye less his perished worth Who bade the conqueror go forth, 80 And launched that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar; Who, born to guide such high emprise, For Britain's weal was early wise; Alas ! to whom the Almighty gave, For Britain's sins, an early grave! His worth who, in his mightiest hour, A bauble held the pride of power, Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf, And served his Albion for herself; 90 Who, when the frantic crowd amain Strained at subjection's bursting rein, O'er their wild mood full conquest gained, The pride, he would not crush, restrained, Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause, And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws. Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power, A watchman on the lonely tower, Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, When fraud or danger were at hand; 100 By thee, as by the beacon-light, Our pilots had kept course aright; As some proud column, though alone, Thy strength had propped the tottering throne. Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quenched 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, claimed his prey, no With Palinure's unaltered mood, Firm at his dangerous post he stood, Each call for needful rest repelled, With dying hand the rudder held, Till, in his fall, with fateful sway, The steerage of the realm gave way ! Then, while on Britain's thousand plains One unpolluted church remains, Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, 120 But still, upon the hallowed 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, 130 When best employed and wanted most; Mourn genius high, and lore profound, 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 below: And, if thou mourn'st they could not save From error him who owns this grave, Be every harsher thought suppressed, 140 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 again, ' All peace on earth, good- will to men; ' If ever from an English heart, 150 Oh, here let prejudice depart, And, partial feeling cast aside, Record that Fox a Briton died ! 9° MARMION When Europe crouched to France's yoke, And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, And the firm Russian's purpose brave Was bartered by a timorous slave, Even then dishonor's peace he spurned, The sullied olive-branch returned, Stood for his country's glory fast, 160 And nailed her colors to the mast ! Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave A portion in this honored grave, And ne'er held marble in its trust Of two such wondrous men the dust. With more than mortal powers endowed, How high they soared above the crowd ! Theirs was no common party race, Jostling by dark intrigue for place; Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 170 Shook realms and nations in its jar; Beneath each banner proud to stand, Looked up the noblest of 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, 180 The wine of life is on the lees, Genius and taste and talent gone, Forever tombed beneath the stone, W T here — taming thought to human pride ! — The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 'T will 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, — 190 * 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 again ? ' Best, 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, oh, how impotent and vain 200 This grateful tributary strain ! Though not unmarked from northern clime, Ye heard the Border Minstrel's rhyme: His Gothic harp has o'er you rung; The Bard you deigned to praise, your deathless names has sung. Stay yet, illusion, stay a while, My wildered 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, 210 And all the raptures fancy knew, And all the keener rush of blood That throbs through bard in bardlike 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 ecstacy ! — It will not be — it may not last — The vision of enchantment's past: Like frostwork in the morning ray, 220 The fancy 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 copse wood wild, The gambols of each frolic child, Mixing their shrill cries with the tone 230 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, 240 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-learned taste refined. But thou, my friend, canst fitly tell — For few have read romance so well — 250 How still the legendary lay O'er poet's bosom holds its sway; CANTO FIRST: THE CASTLE 9i 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 Morgan's fated house, Or in the Chapel Perilous, 260 Despising spells and demons' force, Holds converse with the unburied 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 unconfessed, He took the Sangreal's holy quest, And slumbering saw the vision high He might not view with waking eye. 270 The mightiest chiefs of British song Scorned not such legends to prolong. They gleam through Spenser's elfin dream, And mix in Milton's heavenly theme; And Dryden, in immortal strain, Had raised the Table Round 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, 280 Licentious satire, song, and play; The world defrauded of the high design, Profaned the God - given strength, and marred the lofty line. Warmed by such names, well may we then, Though dwindled sons of little men, Essay to break a feeble lance In the fair fields of old romance; Or seek the moated castle's cell, Where long through talisman and spell, While tyrants ruled and damsels wept, 290 Thy Genius, Chivalry, hath slept. There sound the harpings of the North, Till he awake and sally forth, On venturous quest to prick again, In all his arms, with all his train, Shield, lance, and brand, and plume, and scarf, Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf, And wizard with his wand of might, And errant maid on palfrey white. Around the Genius weave their spells, 300 Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells; Mystery, half veiled and half revealed j And Honor, with his spotless shield; Attention, with fixed eye; and Fear, That loves the tale she shrinks to hear; And gentle Courtesy; and Faith, Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death; And Valor, lion-mettled lord, Leaning upon his own good sword. Well has thy fair achievement shown 310 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 Red King, who, while of old Through Boldrewood 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, 320 That Amadis so famed in hall, For Oriana, foiled in fight The Necromancer's felon might; And well in modern verse hast wove Partenopex's mystic love: 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, The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone. The warriors on the turrets high, Moving athwart the evening sky, Seemed forms of giant height; ] Their armor, as it caught the rays, Flashed back again the western blaze, In lines of dazzling light. 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. 9 2 MARMION The scouts had parted on their search, 20 The castle gates were barred ; Above the gloomy portal arch, Timiug his footsteps to a march, The warder kept his guard, Low humming, as he paced along, Some ancient Border gathering song. / III A distant trampling sound he hears; He looks abroad, and soon appears, O'er Horncliff-hill, a plump of spears Beneath a pennon gay; 30 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 warned the captain in the hall, For well the blast he knew; 40 And joyfully that knight did call To sewer, squire, and seneschal. ^ IV ' Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie, Bring pasties of the doe, 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 fire a noble salvo-shot; 50 Lord Marmion waits below ! ' Then to the castle's lower ward Sped forty yeomen tall, The iron-studded gates unbarred, Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, The lofty palisade unsparred, And let the drawbridge fall. Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode, Proudly his red-roan charger trode, His helm hung at the saddle bow; 60 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 revealed A token true of Bosworth field; His eyebrow dark and eye of fire Showed 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, 70 His thick moustache and curly hair, Coal-black, and grizzled here and there, But more through toil than age, His square-turned joints and strength of limb, Showed him no carpet knight so trim, But in close fight a champion grim, In camps a leader sage. Well was he armed from head to heel, In mail and plate of Milan steel; But his strong helm, of mighty cost, 80 Was all with burnished gold embossed. Amid the plumage of the crest A falcon hovered on her nest, With wings outspread and forward breast; E'en such a falcon, on his shield, Soared sable in an azure field: The golden legend bore aright, ' Who checks at me, to death is dight.' Blue was the charger's broidered rein; Blue ribbons decked his arching mane; 90 The knightly housing's ample fold Was velvet blue and trapped with gold. t; VII Behind him rode two gallant squires, Of noble name and knightly sires: They burned 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, 10 1 And sing them to a lady fair. VIII Four men-at-arms came at their backs, With halbert, bill, and battle-axe; They bore 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; no Like swallow's tail in shape and hue. Fluttered the streamer glossy blue, Where, blazoned sable, as before, The towering falcon seemed to soar. CANTO FIRST: THE CASTLE 93 Last, twenty yeomen, two and two In bosen black and jerkins blue, With falcons broidered on each breast, Attended on their lord's behest. Each, chosen for an archer good, Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood; 120 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 belts their quivers rung. Their dusty palfreys and array Showed they had marched a weary way. IX 'T is meet that I should tell you now, How fairly armed, and ordered how, The soldiers of the guard, With musket, pike, and morion, 130 To welcome noble Marmion, Stood in the castle-yard; Minstrels and trumpeters were there, The gunner held his linstock yare, For welcome-shot prepared : Entered the train, and such a clang As then through all his turrets rang Old Norham never heard. The guards their morrice-pikes advanced, The trumpets flourished brave, 140 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 crossed the court, He scattered angels round. ' Welcome to Norham, Marmion ! Stout heart and open hand ! Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan, Thou flower of English land ! ' 150 Two pursuivants, whom tabards deck, With silver scutcheon round their neck, Stood on the steps of stone By which you reach the donjon gate, And there, with herald pomp and state, They hailed Lord Marmion: They hailed him Lord of Fontenaye, Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye, Of Tarn worth tower and town; And he, their courtesy to requite, 160 Gave them a chain of twelve marks' weight, All as he lighted down. ' Now, largesse, largesse, Lord Marmion, Knight of the crest of gold ! A blazoned shield, in battle won, Ne'er guarded heart so bold.' XII They marshalled him to the castle-hall, Where the guests stood all aside, And loudly flourished the trumpet-call, And the heralds loudly cried, — i 70 ' Room, lordlings, room for Lord Marmion, With the crest and helm of gold ! Full well we know the trophies won In the lists at 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; ^o We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield, And saw his saddle bare; We saw the victor win the crest He wears with worthy pride, And on the gibbet-tree, reversed, His foeman's scutcheon tied. Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight ! Room, room, ye gentles gay, For him who conquered in the right, Marmion of Fontenaye ! ' I9 o XIII Then stepped, 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: The whiles a Northern harper rude Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud, 200 ' How the fierce Thir walls, and Ridleys all, Stout Willimondswick, And Hardriding Dick, And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o' the Wall, Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh, And taken his life at the Dead-man's- shaw.' Scantly Lord Marmion's ear could brook The harper's barbarous lay, Yet much he praised the pains he took, And well those pains did pay ; 2 10 94 MARMION For lady's suit and minstrel's strain By 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 rust, May breathe your war-horse well; Seldom hath passed a week but joust Or feat of arms befell. 221 The Scots can rein a mettled steed, And love to couch a spear; — Saint George ! a stirring life they lead That have such neighbors near ! Then stay with us a little space, Our Northern wars to learn; I pray you for your lady's grace P L, ord Marmion's brow grew stern. XV The captain marked his altered look, And gave the squire the sign; 230 A mighty wassail-bowl he took, And crowned it high with wine. 1 Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion; But first I pray thee fair, Where hast thou left that page of thine That used to serve thy cup of wine, Whose beauty was so rare ? When last in Baby-towers we met, The boy I closely eyed, And often marked his cheeks were wet 240 With 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 seemed for lady fair, To fan her cheek, or curl her hair, Or through embroidery, rich and rare, The slender silk to lead; His skin was fair, his ringlets gold, His bosom — when he sighed, 250 The russet doublet's rugged fold Could scarce repel its pride ! Say, hast thou given that lovely youth To serve in lady's bower ? Or was the gentle page, in sooth, A gentle paramour ? ' Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest; He rolled his kindling eye, With pain his rising wrath suppressed, Yet made a calm reply: 260 ' That boy thou thought so goodly fair, He might not brook the Northern air. More of his fate if thou wouldst learn, I left him sick in Lindisfarne. Enough of him. — But, Heron, say, Why does thy lovely lady gay Disdain to grace the hall to-day ? Or has that dame, so fair and sage, Gone on some pious pilgrimage ? ' — He spoke in covert scorn, for fame 270 Whispered light tales of Heron's dame. XVII Unmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt, Careless the knight replied: ' No bird whose feathers gayly flaunt Delights in cage to bide ; Norham is grim and grated close, Hemmed in by battlement and fosse, And many a darksome tower, And better loves my lady bright To sit in liberty and light 280 In fair Queen Margaret's bower. We hold our greyhound in our hand, Our falcon on our glove, But where shall we find leash or band For dame that loves to rove ? Let the wild falcon soar her swing, She '11 stoop when she has tired her wing.' — XVIII ' 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 and mine a trusty guide. I have not ridden in Scotland since James backed the cause of that mock prince Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit, Who on the gibbet paid the cheat. Then did I march with Surrey's power, 300 What time we razed old Ay ton tower.' - ' For such-like need, my lord, I trow, Norham can find you guides enow; For here be some have pricked as far On Scottish ground as to Dunbar, CANTO FIRST: THE CASTLE 95 Have drunk the monks of Saint Bothan's ale, And driven the beeves of Lauderdale, Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods, And given them light to set their hoods.' — 'Now, in good sooth,' Lord Marmion cried, 3 10 ' Were 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, Why, through all Scotland, near and far, Their king is mustering troops for war, The sight of plundering Border spears Might justify suspicious fears, And deadly feud or thirst of spoil 320 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 passed his hand across his face. — * Fain would I find the guide you want, But ill may spare a pursuivant, The only men that safe can ride 330 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 last siege 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 prayed for our success the while. Our Norham vicar, woe betide, 340 Is all too well in case to ride ; The priest of Shoreswood — he could rein 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, 350 'Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood. But that good man, as ill befalls, Hath seldom left our castle walls, Since, on the vigil of Saint Bede, In evil hour he crossed 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 360 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.' 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, 370 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 380 May end in worse than loss of hood. Let friar John in safety still In chimney-corner snore his fill, Roast 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; 390 One that hath kissed 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, 400 And shadows, mists, and darkness, given. He shows Saint James's cockle-shell, Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell; 9 6 MARMION And of that Grot where Olives nod, Where, darling of each heart and eye, From all the youth of Sicily, Saint Rosalie retired to God. XXIV ' To stout Saint George of Norwich merry, Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 410 For his sins' pardon hath he prayed. 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 quaffed his ale, As little as the wind that blows, And warms itself against his nose, Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.' — 420 * Gramercy ! ' quoth Lord Marmion, ' Full loath 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 '11 pay his meed, Instead of cockle-shell or bead, With angels fair and good. I love such holy ramblers; still 430 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.' — * 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, 440 And shrinks as at some unseen thing. Last night we listened at his cell; Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell, He murmured 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 450 Can rest awake and pray so long. Himself still sleeps before his beads Have marked ten aves and two creeds.' — XXVII * 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 summoned Palmer came in place : 460 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, Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore; The faded palm-branch in his hand 47 o Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land. XXVIII Whenas the Palmer came in hall, Nor lord nor knight was there more tall, Or had a statelier step withal, Or looked 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. 479 But his gaunt frame was worn with toil; His cheek was sunk, alas the while ! And when he struggled at a smile His eye looked haggard wild: Poor wretch, the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, In his wan face and sunburnt hair 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, 490 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 deeply than despair. Happy whom none of these befall, But this poor Palmer knew them all XXIX Lord Marmion then his boon did ask; The Palmer took on him the task, INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND 97 So he would march with morning tide, 500 To Scottish court to be his guide. 'But I have solemn vows to pay, And may not linger by the way, To fair Saint Andrew's bound, Within the ocean-cave to pray, Where good Saint Rule his holy lay, From midnight to the dawn of day, Sung to the billows' sound ; Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, 509 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 ! ' And now the midnight draught of sleep, Where wine and spices richly steep, In massive bowl of silver deep, The page presents on knee. Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, The captain pledged his noble guest, 520 The cup went through among the rest, Who drained it merrily; Alone the Palmer passed it by, Though Selby pressed him courteously. This was a sign the feast was o'er; It hushed the merry wassail roar, The minstrels ceased to sound. Soon in the castle nought was heard But the slow footstep of the guard Pacing his sober round. 530 XXXI With early dawn Lord Marmion 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 came the stirrup-cup in course: Between the baron and his host, No point of courtesy was lost; 540 High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid, Solemn excuse the captain made, Till, filing from the gate, had passed That noble train, their lord the last. Then loudly rung the trumpet call; Thundered 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, 550 Till they rolled forth upon the air, And met the river breezes there, Which gave again the prospect fair. INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND TO THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M. Ashestiely Ettrick Forest The scenes are desert now and bare, Where flourished once a forest fair, When these waste glens with copse were lined, And peopled with the hart and hind. Yon thorn — perchance whose prickly spears Have fenced him for three hundred years, While fell around his green compeers — Yon lonely thorn, would he could tell The changes of his parent dell, Since he, so gray and stubborn now, 10 Waved in each breeze a sapling bough ! Would he couid 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, 20 What alders shaded every brook ! ' Here, in my shade,' methinks he 'd say, 'The mighty stag at noontide lay; The wolf I 've seen, a fiercer game,— The neighboring 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, 30 Have bounded by through gay greenwood. Then oft from Newark's riven tower Sallied a Scottish monarch's power: A thousand vassals mustered round, With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound ; And I might see the youth intent Guard every pass with crossbow bent; And through the brake the rangers stalky 98 MARMION And falconers hold the ready hawk; And foresters, in Greenwood trim, 4 o Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim, Attentive, as the bratchet's bay From the dark covert drove the prey, To slip them as he broke away. The startled quarry bounds amain, As fast the gallant greyhounds strain; Whistles the arrow from the bow, Answers the harquebuss below; While all the rocking hills reply To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' cry, 50 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 arrow. But not more blithe that sylvan court, Than we have been at humbler sport; Though small our pomp and mean our game, Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same. Remember'st thou my greyhounds true ? O'er holt or hill there never flew, 61 From slip or leash there never sprang, More fleet of foot or sure of fang. Nor dull, between each merry chase, Passed by the intermitted space; For we had fair resource in store, In Classic and in Gothic lore: We marked each memorable scene, And held poetic talk between; Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 70 But had its legend or its song. All silent now — for now are still Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill ! No longer from thy mountains dun The yeoman hears the well-known gun, And while his honest heart glows warm At thought of his paternal farm, Round to his mates a brimmer fills, And drinks, ' The Chieftain of the Hills ! ' No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, 80 Trip o'er the walks or tend the flowers, Fair as the elves whom Janet saw By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh; No youthful Baron 's left to grace The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chace, 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; 89 Though if to Sylphid Queen 't were 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 deafened 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 orphans' meal, Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 100 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 age 'twixt boy and youth, no When thought is speech, and speech is truth. Close to my side with what delight They pressed to hear of Wallace wight, When, pointing to his airy mound, I called his ramparts holy ground ! Kindled their brows to hear 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, 120 They will not, cannot long endure ; Condemned 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, 130 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 impressed. 'T is silent amid worldly toils, 140 And stifled soon by mental broils; But, in a bosom thus prepared, Its still small voice is often heard, INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND 99 Whispering a mingled sentiment 'Twixt resignation and content. Oft in my mind such thoughts awake By lone Saint 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 150 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 scattered pine. Yet even this nakedness has power, 160 And aids the feeling of the hour: Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, Where living thing concealed 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, 170 The sound but lulls the ear asleep; Your horse's 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 chapel low, Yet still, beneath the hallowed soil, The peasant rests him from his toil, And dying bids his bones be laid 180 Where erst his simple fathers prayed. If age had tamed the passions' strife, And fate had cut my ties to life, Here have I thought 't were sweet to dwell, And rear again the chaplain's cell, Like that same peaceful hermitage, Where Milton longed to spend his age. 'T were sweet to mark the setting day On Bourhope's lonely top decay, And, as it faint and feeble died 190 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 gray;' Then gaze on Dryhope's ruined tower, And think on Yarrow's faded Flower; And when that mountain-sound I heard, Which bids us be for storm prepared, The distant rustling of his wings, As up his force the Tempest brings, 200 'T were 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 gale, Spread wide through mist their snowy sail, 210 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, 220 And thought the Wizard Priest was come To claim again his ancient home ! And bade my busy fancy range, To frame him fitting shape and strange, Till from the task my brow I cleared, And smiled to think that I had feared. But chief 't were sweet to think such life — Though but escape from fortune's strife — Something most matchless good and wise, A great and grateful sacrifice, 230 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 Loch- skene. There eagles scream from isle to shore; 240 Down all the rocks the torrents roar; O'er the black waves incessant driven, Dark mists infect the summer heaven: LofC. IOO MARMION Through the rude barriers of the lake, Away its hurrying waters break, Faster and whiter dash and 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 250 Some demon's subterranean cave, Who, prisoned by enchanter's spell, 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 deep down, and far within, Toils with the rocks the roaring linn; Then, issuing forth one foamy wave, 260 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 The breeze which swept away the smoke Round Norham Castle rolled, When all the loud artillery spoke With lightning-flash and thunder-stroke, As Marmion left the hold, — It curled not Tweed alone, that breeze, For, far upon Northumbrian seas, It freshly blew and strong, Where, from high Whitby's cloistered pile, Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle, 10 It bore a bark along. Upon the gale she stooped her side, And bounded o'er the swelling tide, As she were dancing home; The merry seamen laughed to see Their gallant ship so lustily Furrow the green sea-foam. Much joyed they in their honored freight; For on the deck, in chair of state, The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed, 20 With five fair nuns, the galley graced. 'T was sweet to see these holy maids, Like birds escaped to greenwood shades Their first flight from the cage, How timid, and how curious too, For all to them was strange and new, And all the common sights they view Their wonderment engage. One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail, With many a benedicite; One at the rippling surge grew pale, And would for terror pray, Then shrieked because the sea-dog nigh His round black head and sparkling eye Reared o'er the foaming spray; And one would still adjust her veil, Disordered by the summer gale, Perchance lest some more worldly eye Her dedicated charms might spy, Perchance because such action graced 4c Her fair-turned arm and slender waist. Light was each simple bosom there, Save two, who ill might pleasure share, — The Abbess and the Novice Clare. 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, 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 Saint Hilda's fame. For this she gave ber ample dower To raise the convent's eastern tower; For this, with carving rare and quaint, She decked the chapel of the saint, And gave the relic-shrine of cost, With ivory and gems embossed. The poor her convent's bounty blest, The pilgrim in its halls found rest. 30 5« IV Black was her garb, her rigid rule Reformed on Benedictine school; 70 CANTO SECOND: THE CONVENT IOI Her cheek was pale, her form was spare ; Vigils and penitence austere Had early quenched 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; Summoned to Lindisfarne, she came, 80 There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold A chapter of Saint Benedict, For inquisition stern and strict On two apostates from the faith, And, if need were, to doom to death. Nought say I here of Sister Clare, Save this, that she was young and fair; As yet a novice unprofessed, Lovely and gentle, but distressed. 90 She was betrothed to one now dead, Or worse, who had dishonored fled. Her kinsmen bade her give her hand To one who loved her for her land; Herself, almost heart-broken now, Was bent to take the vestal vow, And shroud within Saint Hilda's gloom Her blasted hopes and withered bloom. VI She sate upon the galley's prow, And seemed to mark the waves below; 100 Nay, seemed, so fixed her look and eye, To count them as they glided by. She saw them not — 't was seeming all — Far other scene her thoughts recall, — A sun-scorched desert, waste and bare, Nor waves nor breezes murmured there; There saw she where some careless hand O'er a dead corpse had heaped the sand, To hide it till the jackals come To tear it from the scanty tomb. — 1 10 See what a woful look was given, As she raised up her eyes to heaven ! Lovely, and gentle, and distressed — These charms might tame the fiercest breast: Harpers have sung and poets told That he, in fury uncontrolled, The shaggy monarch of the wood, Before a virgin, fair and good, Hath pacified his savage mood. But passions in the human frame 120 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 Prisoned in Cuthbert's islet gray. VIII And now the vessel skirts the strand Of mountainous Northumberland; Towns, towers, and halls successive rise, 130 And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay, And Tynemouth's priory and bay; They marked amid her trees the hall Of lofty Seaton-Delaval; They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods Rush to the sea through sounding woods; They passed the tower of Widderington, Mother of many a valiant son ; At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 140 To the good saint who owned the cell; Then did the Alne attention claim, And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name; And next they crossed themselves to hear The whitening breakers sound so near, Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar On Dunstanborough's caverned shore; Thy tower, proud Bamborough, marked they there, King Ida's castle, huge and square, From its tall rock look grimly down, 150 And on the swelling ocean frown ; Then from the coast they bore away, And reached 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 efface 160 Of staves and sandalled 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. 102 MARMION In Saxon strength that abbey frowned, With massive arches broad and round, That rose alternate, row and row, i 7 o On ponderous columns, short and low, Built ere the art was known, By pointed aisle and shafted stalk The arcades of an alleyed walk To emulate in stone. On the deep walls the heathen Dane Had poured his impious rage in vain; And needful was such strength to these, Exposed to the tempestuous seas, Scourged by the winds' eternal sway, 180 Open to rovers fierce as they, Which could twelve hundred years with- stand Winds, waves, aud northern pirates' hand. Not but that portions of the pile, Rebuilded in a later style, Showed where the spoiler's hand had been; Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen Had worn the pillar's carving quaint, And mouldered in his niche the saint, And rounded with consuming power 190 The pointed angles of each tower; Yet still entire the abbey stood, Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. XI Soon as they neared his turrets strong, The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, And with the sea-wave and the wind Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, And made harmonious close; Then, answering from the sandy shore, Half-drowned amid the breakers' roar, 200 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 Saint Hilda's maids, they bare; And, as they caught the sounds on air, They echoed back the hymn. The islanders in joyous mood Rushed emulously through the flood 210 To hale the bark to land; Conspicuous by her veil and hood, Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, And blessed them with her hand. Suppose we now the welcome said, Suppose the convent banquet made: an, 23 All through the holy dome, Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, Wherever vestal maid might pry, Nor risk to meet unhallowed eye, The stranger sisters roam; Till fell the evening damp with dew, And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, For there even summer night is chill. Then, having strayed and gazed their They closed around the fire; And all, in turn, essayed 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 honor 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, ' Fie upon your name ! In wrath, for loss of sylvan game, Saint Hilda's priest ye slew.' — ' This, on Ascension-day, each year While laboring on our harbor-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 prayed ; Themselves, within their holy bound, Their stony folds had often found. They told how sea-fowls' pinions fail, 250 As over Whitby's towers they sail, And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, They do their homage to the saint. Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail To vie with these in holy tale ; His body's resting-place, of old, How oft their patron changed, they told; How, when the rude Dane burned their pile, The monks fled forth from Holy Isle; 259 O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, From sea to sea, from shore to shore, Seven years 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 ! CANTO SECOND: THE CONVENT 103 In his stone coffin forth he rides, A ponderous bark for river tides, Yet light as gossamer it glides Downward to Tilmouth cell. 270 Nor long was his abiding there, For southward did the saint repair; Chester-le-Street and Ripon saw His holy corpse ere Wardilaw Hailed 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, 280 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. xv Who may his miracles declare ? Even Scotland's dauntless king and heir — Although with them they led Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale, 289 And Loden's knights, all sheathed in mail, And the bold men of Teviotdale — Before his standard fled. 'T was he, to vindicate his reign, Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, And turned the Conqueror back again, 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 300 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 deadened 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. While round the fire such legends go, 310 Far different was the scene of woe Where, in a secret aisle 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 penitence to dwell, When he for cowl and beads laid down The Saxon battle-axe and crown. This den, which, chilling every sense 320 Of feeling, hearing, sight, Was called the Vault of Penitence, Excluding air and light, Was by the prelate Sexhelm made A place of burial for such dead As, having died in mortal sin, Might not be laid the church within. 'T was now a place of punishment; Whence if so loud a shriek were sent As reached the upper air, 330 The hearers blessed themselves, and said The spirits of the sinful dead Bemoaned their torments there. XVIII 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. 340 Victim and executioner Were blindfold when transported there. In low dark rounds the arches hung, From the rude rock the side- walls sprung; The gravestones, rudely sculptured o'er, Half 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 chain, 350 Which served to light this drear domain, With damp and darkness seemed 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; 360 In long black dress, on seats of stone, Behind were these three judges shown By the pale cresset's ray. The Abbess of Saint Hilda's there Sat for a space with visage bare, 104 MARMION 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, 370 Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, And she with awe looks pale; And he, that ancient man, whose sight Has long been quenched by age's night, Upon whose wrinkled brow alone Nor ruth nor mercy's trace is shown, Whose look is hard and stern, — Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style, For sanctity called through the isle The Saint of Lindisfarne. 380 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; And, on her doublet breast, She tried to hide the badge of blue, Lord Marmion's falcou crest. 390 But, at the prioress' command, A monk undid the silken 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 professed of Fontevraud, Whom the Church numbered with the dead, For broken vows and convent fled. 400 XXI When thus her face was given to view, — Although so pallid 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 slight of eye and head, And of her bosom, warranted 410 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. XXII Her comrade was a sordid soul, Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, seared and foul, Feels not the import of his deed; One whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 420 Beyond his own more brute desires. Such tools the Tempter ever needs To do the savagest of deeds; For them no visioned 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, 43 o And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; While his mute partner, standing 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, 440 Of roots, of water, and of bread; By each, in Benedictine dress, Two haggard monks stood motionless, Who, holding high a blazing torch, Showed the grim entrance of the porch; Reflecting back the smoky beam, The dark-red walls and arches gleam. Hewn stones and cement were displayed, And building tools in order laid. XXIV These executioners were chose 450 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 joyed in doing ill, Or thought more grace to gain 460 If in her cause they wrestled down Feelings their nature strove to own. CANTO SECOND: THE CONVENT "5 By strange device were they brought there, They knew not how, and 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 stopped because that wof ul maid, Gathering her powers, to speak essayed; 470 Twice she essayed, and twice in vain, Her accents might no utterance gain; Nought but imperfect murmurs slip From her convulsed and quivering lip: 'Twixt each attempt all was so still, You seemed to hear a distant rill — 'Twas ocean's swells and falls; For though this vault of sin and fear Was to the sounding surge so near, 479 A tempest there you scarce could hear, So massive were the walls. At length, an effort sent apart The blood that curdled to her heart, And light came to her eye, And color dawned upon her cheek, A hectic and a fluttered 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 gathered strength, And armed herself to bear. 491 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, 500 Vain are your masses too. — I listened to a traitor's tale, I left the convent and the veil; For three long years I bowed 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, 510 Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, And Constance was beloved no more. 'T is an old tale, and often told; But did my fate and wish agree, Ne'er had been read, in story old, Of maiden true betrayed for gold, That loved, or was avenged, like me ! XXVIII ' The king approved his favorite's aim; In vain a rival barred his claim, Whose fate with Clare's was plight, 520 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 prayed, Their lances in the rest are laid, They meet in mortal shock; And hark ! the throng, with thundering cry, Shout " Marmion, Marmion ! to the sky, De Wilton to the block ! " 530 Say, ye who preach Heaven shall decide When in the lists two champions ride, Say, was Heaven's justice here ? When, loyal in his love and faith, Wilton found overthrow or death Beneath a traitor's spear ? How false the charge, how true he fell, This guilty packet best can tell.' Then drew a packet from her breast, Paused, gathered voice, and spoke the rest. 540 XXIX ' Still was false Marmion's bridal stayed; To Whitby's convent fled the maid, The hated match to shun. "Ho! shifts she thus?" King Henry cried, " Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride, If she were sworn a nun." One way remained — the king's command Sent Marmion to the Scottish land; I lingered here, and rescue planned For Clara and for me: 550 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 hath undone us both. io6 MARMION XXX * And now niy tongue the secret tells, Not that remorse my bosom swells, But to assure my soul that none Shall ever wed with Marmion. 560 Had fortune my last hope betrayed, This packet, to the king conveyed, 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 suffer, 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 ! 570 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; 580 Some traveller then shall find my bones Whitening amid disjointed stones, And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, Marvel such relics here should be.' XXXII Fixed was her look and stern her air: Back from her shoulders streamed her hair; The locks that wont her brow to shade Stared up erectly from her head; Her figure seemed to rise more high; Her voice despair's wild energy 590 Had given a tone of prophecy. Appalled the astonished conclave sate; With stupid eyes, the men of fate Gazed on the light inspired form, And listened for the avengiug storm ; The judges felt the victim's dread; No hand was moved, no word was said, Till thus the abbot's doom was given, Raising his sightless balls to heaven: * Sister, let thy sorrows cease; 600 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. XXXIII An hundred winding steps convey That conclave to the upper day; 610 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, — Such speed as age and fear can make, — And crossed themselves for terror's sake, As hurrying, tottering on, Even in the vesper's heavenly tone They seemed to hear a dying groan, And bade the passing knell to toll 620 For welfare of a parting soul. Slow O'er the midnight wave it swung, Northumbrian rocks in answer rung; To Wark worth cell the echoes rolled, 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, 630 Listed before, aside, behind, Then couched him down beside the hind, And quaked among the mountain fern, To hear that sound so dull and stern. INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ. Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest Like April morning clouds, that pass With varying shadow o'er the grass, And imitate on field and furrow Life's checkered 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. INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD 107 Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace Of Light and Shade's inconstant race ; Pleased, views the rivulet afar, Weaving its maze irregular; And pleased, we listen as the breeze Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees: 20 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 loftier rhyme To thy kind judgment seemed excuse For many an error of the muse, 30 Oft hast thou said, ' If, still misspent, 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 showed, Choose honored guide and practised road; 40 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 valor bleeds for liberty ? — Oh, hero of that glorious time, When, with unrivalled light sublime, — 50 Though martial Austria, and though all The might of Russia, and the Gaul, Though banded Europe stood her foes — The star of Brandenburg arose ! Thou couldst not live to see her beam Forever quenched 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. 60 Lamented chief ! — not thine the power To save in that presumptuous hour When Prussia hurried to the field, And snatched the spear, but left the shield ! Valor and skill 't was thine to try, And, tried in vain, 't was thine to die. Ill had it seemed thy silver hair The last, the bitterest pang to share, For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven, And birthrights to usurpers given; 70 Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel, And witness woes thou couldst not heal ! On thee relenting Heaven bestows For honored life an honored 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 Brunswick's tomb. 1 Or of the Red-Cross hero teach, 81 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 shattered walls Which the grim Turk, besmeared with blood, Against the Invincible made good; Or that whose thundering voice could wake The silence of the polar lake, 90 When stubborn Russ and mettled Swede On the warped wave their death-game played; Or that where Vengeance and Affright Howled round the father of the fight, Who snatched on Alexandria's sand The conqueror's wreath with dying hand. ' Or if to touch such chord be thine, Restore the ancient tragic line, And emulate the notes that rung From the wild harp which silent hung 100 By silver Avon's holy shore Till twice an hundred years rolled o'er; When she, the bold Enchantress, came, With fearless hand and heart on flame, From the pale willow snatched 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, Deemed their own Shakespeare lived again.' no Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging With praises not to me belonging, ■io8 MARMION In task more meet for mightiest powers Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. But say, my Erskine, hast thou weighed That secret power by all obeyed, Which warps not less the passive mind, Its source concealed or undefined; Whether an impulse, that has birth Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 120 One with our feelings and our powers, And rather part of us than ours ; Or whether fitlier termed the sway Of habit, formed in early day ? Howe'er derived, its force confessed Rules with despotic sway the breast, And drags us on by viewless chain, While taste and reason plead in vain. Look east, and ask the Belgian why, Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, 130 He seeks not eager to inhale The freshness of the mountain gale, Content to rear his whitened wall Beside the dank and dull canal ? He '11 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 tattered plaid and rugged cheek His northern clime and kindred speak; 140 Through England's laughing meads he goes, And England's wealth around him flows; Ask if it would content him well, At ease in those gay plains to dwell, Where hedge - rows spread a verdant screen, And spires and forests intervene, And the neat cottage peeps between ? No ! not for these will he exchange His dark Lochaber's boundless range, Not for fair Devon's meads forsake 150 Ben Nevis gray and Garry's lake. Thus while I ape the measure wild Of tales that charmed me yet a child, Rude though they be, still with the chime Return the thoughts of early time; And feelings, roused in life's first day, Glow in the line and prompt the lay. Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour. Though no broad river swept along, 160 To claim, perchance, heroic song, Though sighed no groves in summer gale, To prompt of love a softer tale, Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed Claimed 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 170 Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wall-flower grew, And honeysuckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruined wall. I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade The sun in all its round surveyed; And still I thought that shattered tower The mightiest work of human power, And marvelled as the aged hind 180 With some strange tale bewitched my mind Of forayers, who with headlong force Down from that strength had spurred their horse, Their southern rapine to renew Far in the distant Cheviots blue, And, home returning, filled the hall With revel, wassail-rout, and brawl. Me thought that still with trump and clang The gateway's broken arches rang; Methought grim features, seamed with scars, 190 Glared through the window's rusty bars, And ever, by the winter hearth, Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, Of lovers' sleights, 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 200 Had swept the scarlet ranks away. While stretched at length upon the floor, Again I fought each combat o'er, Pebbles and shells, in order laid, The mimic ranks of war displayed; And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, And still the scattered Southron fled be- fore. Still, with vain fondness, could I trace Anew each kind familiar face That brightened at our evening fire ! 210 From the thatched mansion's gray-haired sire, Wise without learning, plain and good, CANTO THIRD: THE HOSTEL, OR INN 09 And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood ; Whose eye in age, quick, clear, and keen, Showed what in youth its glance had been; Whose doom discording neighbors sought, Content with equity unbought; To him the venerable priest, Our frequent and familiar guest, 219 Whose life and manners well could paint Alike the student and the saint, Alas ! whose speech too oft I broke With gambol rude and timeless joke: For I was wayward, bold, and wild, A self-willed imp, a grandame's child, But half a plague, and half a jest, Was still endured, beloved, caressed. From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask The classic poet's well-conned task ? Nay, Erskine, nay — on the wild hill 230 Let the wild heath-bell flourish still; Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, But freely let the woodbine twine, And leave untrimmed the eglantine: Nay, my friend, nay — since oft thy praise Hath given fresh vigor to my lays, Since oft thy judgment could refine My flattened thought or cumbrous line, Still kind, as is thy wont, attend, And in the minstrel spare the friend. 240 Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale, Flow forth, flow unrestrained, my tale ! CANTO THIRD THE HOSTEL, OR INN The livelong day Lord Marmion rode; The mountain path the Palmer showed By glen and streamlet winded still, Where 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 failed to bar their way; Oft on the trampling band from crown Of some tall cliff the deer looked down; 10 On wing of jet from his repose In the deep heath the blackcock rose; Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, Nor 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 passed before They gained the height of Lammermoor; Thence winding down the northern way, 20 Before them at the close of day Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay. No summons calls them to the tower, To spend the 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. On through the hamlet as they paced, Before a porch whose front was graced, With bush and flagon trimly placed, 3 1 Lord Marmion drew his rein: The village inn seemed 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 clamor fills the hall: 40 Weighing the labor with the cost, Toils everywhere the bustling host. hi 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 savory haunch of deer. 50 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 viewed around the blazing hearth His followers mix in noisy mirth; 60 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; no MARMION And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid, And mingle in the inirth they made; For though, with men of high degree, The proudest of the proud was he, Yet, trained in camps, he knew the art 70 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 staff, 80 Right opposite the Palmer stood, His thin dark visage seen but half, Half hidden by his hood. Still fixed on Marmion was his look, Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, Strove by a frown to quell; But not for that, though more than once Full met their stern encountering glance, The Palmer's visage fell. VI By fits less frequent from the crowd 90 Was heard the burst of laughter loud; For still, as squire and archer stared On that dark face 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 whispered forth his mind: ' Saint Mary ! saw'st thou e'er such eight ? How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, 100 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 quelled their hearts who saw The ever-varying firelight show That figure stem and face of woe, Now called upon a squire: no * Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay, To speed the lingering night away ? We slumber by the fire.' ' So please you,' thus the youth rejoined, ' Our choicest minstrel 's left behind. Ill may we hope to please your ear, Accustomed Constant's strains to hear. The harp full deftly can he strike, And wake the lover's lute alike; To dear Saint Valentine no thrush 1 Sings livelier from a springtide bush, No nightingale her lovelorn tune More sweetly warbles to the moon. Woe to the cause, whate'er it be, Detains from us his melody, Lavished on rocks and billows stern, Or duller monks of Lindisfarne. Now must I venture as I may, To sing his favorite roundelay.' A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 130 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 ripened ear. Now oh 5 shrill voice the notes prolong, Now a wild chorus swells the song: Oft have I listened and stood still As it came softened up the hill, And deemed it the lament of men 140 Who languished for their native glen, And thought how sad would be such sound On Susquehanna's swampy ground, Kentucky's wood-encumbered brake, Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, Where heart-sick exiles in the strain Recalled fair Scotland's hills again ! x SONG Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, 150 Parted forever ? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow. CHORUS Eleu loro, etc. Soft shall be his pillow. There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving; CANTO THIRD: THE HOSTEL, OR INN in There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There thy rest shalt thou take, Parted forever, Never again to wake, Never, O never ! 160 Eleu loro, etc. CHORUS Never, O never ! XI Where shall the traitor rest, He the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin and leave her ? In the lost battle, 170 Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying. CHORUS Eleu loro, etc. 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. Shame and dishonor sit By his grave ever; 180 Blessing shall hallow it, — Never, O never ! Eleu loro, etc. CHORUS Never, O never ! 190 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 plained 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, The meanest groom in all the hall, That e'er tied courser to a stall, Would scarce have wished to be their prey, For Lutterward and Fontenaye. XIII High minds, of native pride and force, 200 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, 210 Seemed 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, 219 Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook Even from his king a haughty look, Whose accent of command controlled In camps the boldest of the bold — Thought, look, and utterance failed him now, Fallen was his glance and flushed 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 230 They shrink at sense of secret sin, A feather daunts the brave; A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, And proudest princes vail their eyes Before their meanest slave. Well might he falter ! — By his aid Was Constance Beverley betrayed. Not that he augured of the doom Which on the living closed the tomb: But, tired to hear the desperate maid 240 Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid, And wroth because in wild despair She practised on the life of Clare, Its fugitive the Church he gave, Though not a victim, but a slave, And deemed restraint in convent strange Would hide her wrongs and her revenge. Himself, proud Henry's favorite peer, Held Romish thunders idle fear; Secure his pardon he might hold 250 For some slight mulct of penance-gold. Thus judging, he gave secret way 112 MARMION When the stern priests surprised their prey. His train but deemed the favorite page Was left behind to spare his age; Or other if they deemed, none dared To mutter what he thought and heard: Woe to the vassal who durst pry Into Lord Marmion's privacy ! His conscience slept — he deemed her well, And safe secured in distant cell; 261 But, wakened by her favorite 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 ed throes, Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose ; And Constance, late betrayed and scorned, All lovely on his soul returned; Lovely as when at treacherous call 270 She left her convent's peaceful wall, Crimsoned with shame, with terror mute, Dreading alike escape, pursuit, Till love, victorious o'er alarms, Hid fears and blushes in his arms. ' Alas ! ' he thought, ' how changed that mien ! How changed these timid looks have been, Since years of guilt and of disguise Have steeled her brow and armed her eyes ! No more of virgin terror speaks 280 The blood that mantles in her cheeks; Fierce and unfeminine are there, Frenzy for joy, for grief despair; And I the 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 remove The very charms that wake his love ? — Her convent's peaceful solitude 290 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 ! — 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 ; 299 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 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 310 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, Not far from hence ; — if fathers old Aright our hamlet legend told.' These broken words the menials move, — 320 For marvels still the vulgar love, — And, Marmion giving license cold, His tale the host thus gladly told : — XIX THE HOST'S TALE ' A clerk could tell what years have flown Since Alexander filled our throne, — Third monarch of that warlike name, — And eke the time when here he came To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord: A braver never drew a sword; A wiser never, at the hour 330 Of midnight, spoke 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 toiled a mortal arm, 340 It all was wrought by word and charm; And I have heard my grandsire say That the wild clamor and affray Of those dread artisans of hell, Who labored under Hugo's spell, Sounded as loud as ocean's war Among the caverns of Dunbar. xx ' The king Lord Gilford's castle sought, Deep laboring with uncertain thought. CANTO THIRD: THE HOSTEL, OR INN "3 Even then he mustered all his host, 350 To meet upon the western coast; For Norse and Danish galleys plied Their oars within the Firth 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 Gilford, deep beneath the ground, Heard Alexander's bugle sound, 360 And tarried not his 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 marked with cross and spell, Upon his breast a pentacle ; His zone of virgin parchment thin, 370 Or, as some tell, 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 marked strange lines upon his face; Vigil and fast had worn him grim, His eyesight dazzled seemed and dim, As one unused to upper day; 380 Even his own menials with dismay Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly sire In this unwonted wild attire; Unwonted, for traditions run He seldom thus beheld the sun. 1 1 know," he said, — his voice was hoarse, And broken seemed its hollow force, — 1 1 know the cause, although untold, Why the king seeks his vassal's hold : Vainly from me my liege would know 390 His kingdom's future weal or woe ; But yet, if strong his arm and heart, His courage may do more than art. I " Of middle air the demons proud, Who ride upon the racking cloud, Can read in fixed or wandering star The issue of events afar, But still their sullen aid withhold, Save when by mightier force controlled. Such late I summoned to my hall; And though so potent was the call That scarce the deepest nook of hell I deemed 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 Proclaimed hell's empire overthrown, — With untaught valor shalt compel 410 Response denied to magic spell." " Gramercy," quoth our monarch free, " Place him but front to front with me, And, by this good and honored 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 viewed, And thus, well pleased, his speech renewed: "There spoke the blood of Malcolm ! — mark: 420 Forth pacing hence at midnight 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 Saint George to speed ! If he go down, thou soon shalt know 430 Whate'er these airy sprites can show; If thy heart fail thee in the strife, I am no warrant for thy life." XXIII ' Soon as the midnight bell did ring, Alone and armed, forth rode the king To that old camp's deserted round. Sir Knight, you 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, 440 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 are entrance given. The southernmost our monarch passed, 450 Halted, and blew a gallant blast; And on the north, within the ring, ii4 MARMION Appeared 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 460 Fell Edward was her deadliest foe. XXIV ' The vision made our monarch start, But soon he manned his noble heart, And in the first career they ran, The Elfin 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 470 Compelled 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 brandished war-axe wield And strike proud Haco from his car, While all around the shadowy kings Denmark's grim ravens cowered their wings. 'T is said that in that awful night 480 Remoter visions met his sight, Foreshowing future conquest far, When our sons' sons wage Northern war; A royal city, tower and spire, Reddened the midnight sky with fire, And shouting crews her navy bore Triumphant to the victor shore. Such signs may learned clerks explain, They pass the wit of simple swain. XXV 4 The joyful king turned home again, 490 Headed his host, and quelled the Dane; But yearly, when returned 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 Dunfermline's nave, King Alexander fills his grave, Our Lady give him rest ! 500 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 charmed ring to break a lance, But ail have foully sped; Save two, as legends tell, and they Were Wallace wight and Gilbert Hay. — Gentles, my tale is said.' 509 XXVI The quaighs were deep, the liquor strong, And on the tale the yeoman-throng Had made a comment sage and long, But Marmion gave a sign: And with their lord the squires retire, 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, Oppressed with toil and ale, they snore; 520 The dying flame, in fitful change, Threw on the group its shadows strange. 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, or ring or glove, Or, lighter yet, of lady's love. 53a 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 Marniion's voice he knew: ' 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, 540 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 Thou 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 they slid, INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH ii5 Eustace the stable door undid, 550 And, darkling, Marmion's steed arrayed, While, whispering, thus the baron said: — XXIX 5 Didst never, good my youth, hear tell That on the hour when I was born Saint George, who graced my sire's cha- pelle, Down from his steed of marble fell, A weary wight forlorn ? The flattering chaplains all agree The champion left his steed to me. I would, the omen's truth to show, 560 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. Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad, 570 And marked him pace the village road, And listened to his horse's tramp, Till, by the lessening sound, He judged that of the Pictish camp Lord Marmion sought the round. Wonder it seemed, in the squire's eyes, That one, so wary held and wise, — Of whom 't was said, he scarce received For gospel what the Church believed, — Should, stirred by idle tale, 580 Ride forth in silence of the night, As hoping half to meet a sprite, Arrayed 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, ' We welcome fond credulity, Guide confident, though blind. XXXI Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared, ! But patient waited till he heard At distance, pricked to utmost speed, The foot-tramp of a flying steed Come townward rushing on; First, dead, as if on turf it trode, Then, clattering on the village road, - 59° In other pace than forth he yode, Returned Lord Marmion. Down hastily he sprung from selle, And in his haste wellnigh he fell; 600 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 soiled 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, 610 Broken and short; for still between Would dreams of terror intervene: Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark The first notes of the morning lark. INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ. Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest An ancient Minstrel sagely said, ' Where is the life which late we led ? ' That motley clown in Arden wood, Whom humorous Jaques with envy viewed, Not even that clown could amplify On this trite text so long as I. Eleven years we now may tell Since we have known each other well, Since, riding side by side, our hand First drew the voluntary brand; 10 And sure, through many a varied scene, Unkindness never came between. Away these winged years have flown, To join the mass of ages gone; And though deep marked, like all below, With checkered shades of joy and woe, Though thou o'er realms and seas hast ranged, Marked cities lost and empires changed,. While here at home my narrower ken Somewhat of manners saw and men; 20 Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears Fevered 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. n6 MARMION 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, 30 That now November's dreary gale, Whose voice inspired my opening tale, That same November gale once more Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. Their vexed boughs streaming to the sky, Once more our naked birches sigh, And Blackhouse heights and Ettrick Pen Have donned their wintry shrouds again, And mountain dark and flooded mead Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 40 Earlier than wont along the sky, Mixed 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, outstretched the livelong day, At ease among the heath-flowers lay, Viewed the light clouds with vacant look, Or slumbered o'er his tattered book, 50 Or idly busied him to guide His angle o'er the lessened tide, — At midnight now the snowy plain Finds sterner labor for the swain. When red hath set the beamless sun Through heavy vapors dank and dun, When the tired ploughman, dry and warm, Hears, half asleep, the rising storm Hurling the hail and sleeted rain Against the casement's tinkling pane ; 60 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 sink 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, 70 To leave the hearth his dogs repine; Whistling and cheering them to aid, Around his back he wreathes the plaid: 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, 80 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 lagging sheep. If fails his heart, if his limbs fail, Benumbing death is in the gale; His paths, his landmarks, all unknown, Close to the hut, no more his own, Close to the aid he sought in vain, 90 The morn may find the stiffened 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, 100 His rustic kirn's loud revelry, His native hill-notes tuned on high To Marion of the blithesome eye, His 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 Dance by on wings of game and glee, While the dark storm reserves its rage no Against the winter of our age; As he, the ancient chief of Troy, His manhood spent in peace and joy, But Grecian fires and loud alarms Called 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; 120 Whose joys are chastened by their grief. And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, When thou of late wert doomed to twine — Just when thy bridal hour was by — The cypress with the myrtle tie. Just on thy bride her sire had smiled, And blessed the union of his child, When love must change its joyous cheer, And wipe affection's filial tear. Nor did the actions next his end 130 Speak more the father than the friend: Scarce had lamented Forbes paid CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP 117 The tribute to his minstrel's shade, The tale of friendship scarce was told, Ere the narrator's heart was cold — Far may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind ! But not around his honored urn Shall friends alone and kindred mourn ; The thousand eyes his care had dried 140 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, 150 * 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 : — 'T is little — but 't is 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 aught to do, — The wild unbounded hills we ranged, 160 While oft our talk its topic changed, And, desultory as our way, Ranged unconfined from grave to gay. Even when it flagged, as oft will chance, No effort made to break its trance, We could right pleasantly pursue Our sports in social silence too; Thou gravely laboring to portray The blighted oak's fantastic spray, I spelling o'er with much delight 170 The legend of that antique knight, Tirante by name, ycleped the White. At either's feet a trusty squire, Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire, Jealous each other's motions viewed, And scarce suppressed their ancient feud. The laverock whistled from the cloud; The stream was lively, but not loud; From the white thorn the May-flower shed Its dewy fragrance round our head: 180 Not Ariel lived more merrily Under the blossomed 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 beamed And ladies tuned the lovely lay, And he was held a laggard soul Who shunned to quaff the sparkling bowl. 190 Then he whose absence we deplore, Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, The longer missed, bewailed the more, And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae, 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 drowned the whistling wind. Mirth was within, and Care without 200 Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. Not but amid the buxom scene Some grave discourse might intervene — Of the good horse that bore him best, His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest; For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care Was horse to ride and weapon wear. Such nights we 've had ; and, though the game Of manhood be more sober tame, And though the field-day or the drill 210 Seem less important now, yet still Such may we hope to share again. The sprightly thought inspires my strain ! And mark how, like a horseman true, Lord Marmion's march I thus renew. CANTO FOURTH THE CAMP Eustace, I said, did blithely mark The first notes of the merry lark. The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew, And loudly Marmion's bugles blew, And with their light and lively call Brought groom and yeoman to the stall. Whistling they came and free of heart, But soon their mood was changed; Complaint was heard on every part Of something disarranged. 10 Some clamored loud for armor lost; Some brawled and wrangled with the host; ' By Becket's bones,' cried one, ' I fear That some false Scot has stolen my spear ! ' u8 MARMION Young Blount, Lord Marnaion's second squire, Found his steed wet with sweat and mire, Although the rated horseboy sware Last night he dressed him sleek and fair. While chafed the impatient squire like thunder, Old Hubert shouts in fear and wonder, — 20 1 Help, gentle Blount ! help, comrades all ! Be vis lies dying in his stall; To Marmion who the plight dare tell Of the good steed he loves 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 30 Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.' Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed, Nor wholly understood, His comrades' clamorous plaints sup- pressed; He knew Lord Marmion's mood. Him, ere he issued forth, he sought, And found deep plunged in gloomy thought, And did his tale display Simply, as if he knew of nought To cause such disarray. 40 Lord Marmion gave attention cold, Nor marvelled at the wonders told, — Passed them as accidents of course, And bade his clarions sound to horse. in Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost Had reckoned with their Scottish host; And, as the charge he cast and paid, ' 111 thoi: deserv'st thy hire,' he said; ' Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight ? Fairies have ridden him all the night, 50 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; For in this haunted den, I trow, All night they trampled to and fro.' The laughing host looked on the hire: ' Gramercy, gentle southern squire, And if thou com'st among the rest, 60 With Scottish broadsword to be blest, Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow, And short the pang to undergo.' Here stayed their talk, for Marmion Gave now the signal to set on. The Palmer showing forth the way, They journeyed all the morning-day. IV The greensward way was smooth and good, Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood; A forest glade, which, varying still, 70 Here gave a view of dale and hill, There narrower closed till overhead 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. 80 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 designed; For Eustace much had pored Upon a huge romantic tome, In the hall-window of his home, Imprinted at the antique dome 90 Of Caxton or de Worde. Therefore he spoke, — but spoke in vain, For Marmion answered nought again. Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill, In notes prolonged by wood and hill, Were heard to echo far ; Each ready archer grasped his bow, But by the flourish soon they know They breathed no point of war. Yet cautious, as in foeman's land, 100 Lord Marmion's order speeds the band Some opener ground to gain; And scarce a furlong had they rode, When thinner trees receding showed 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. icg First came the trumpets, at whose clang So late the forest echoes rang; On prancing steeds they forward pressed, CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP 119 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, Rothsay, came, In painted tabards, proudly showing Gules, argent, or, and azure glowing, Attendant on a king-at-arms, 120 Whose hand the armorial truncheon held That feudal strife had often quelled When wildest its alarms. VII He was a man of middle age, In aspect manly, grave, and sage, As on king's errand come; But in the glances of his eye A penetrating, keen, and sly Expression found its home; The flash of that satiric rage 130 Which, bursting on the early stage, Branded the vices of the age, And broke the keys of Rome. On milk-white palfrey forth he paced; His cap of maintenance was graced With the proud heron-plume. From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast, Silk housings swept the ground, With Scotland's arms, device, and crest, Embroidered round and round. 140 The double tressure 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 colors blazoned brave, The Lion, which his title gave; A train, which well beseemed his state, But all unarmed, around him wait. 150 Still is thy name in high account, And still thy verse has charms, Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, Lord Lion King-at-arms ! VIII 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 royal James himself had crowned, And on his temples placed the round 160 Of Scotland's ancient diadem, And wet his brow with hallowed wine, And on his finger given to shine The emblematic gem. Their mutual greetings duly made, The Lion thus his message said : — 'Though Scotland's King hath deeply- swore Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more, And strictly hath forbid resort From England to his royal court, 170 Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name And honors much his warlike fame, My liege hath deemed 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. 180 The Palmer, his mysterious guide, Beholding thus his place supplied, 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. 'England has here enow of spies In Lady Heron's witching eyes : ' To Marchmount thus apart he said, But fair pretext to Marmion made. 190 The right-hand path they now decline, And trace against the stream the Tyne. 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, 20c 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. XI Crichtoun ! though now thy miry court But pens the lazy steer and sheep, 21c Thy turrets rude and tottered keep 120 MARMION Have been the minstrel's loved resort. Oft have I traced, within thy fort, Of mouldering shields the mystic sense, Scutcheons of honor or pretence, Quartered in old armorial sort, Remains of rude magnificence. Nor wholly yet hath time defaced Thy lordly gallery fair, Nor yet the stony cord unbraced 220 Whose twisted knots, with roses laced, Adorn thy ruined stair. Still rises unimpaired below The court-yard'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, 230 Where oft whilom were captives pent, The darkness of thy Massy More, Or, from thy grass-grown battlement, May trace in undulating line The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. Another aspect Crichtoun showed As through its portal Marmion rode; But yet 't was melancholy state Received him at the outer gate, For none were in the castle then 240 But women, boys, or aged men. With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame To welcome noble Marmion came; Her son, a stripling twelve years old, Proffered the baron's rein to hold: For each man that could draw a sword Had marched 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 ! 250 She ne'er shall see his gallant train Come sweeping back through Crichtoun- Dean. 'T was a brave race before the name Of hated Bothwell stained their fame. XIII And here two days did Marmion rest, With every right that honor claims, Attended as the king's own guest; — Such the command of Royal James, Who marshalled then his land's array, Upon the Borough-moor that lay. 260 Perchance he would not foeman's eye Upon his gathering host should pry, Till full prepared was every band To march against the English land. Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit Oft cheer the baron's moodier fit; And, in his turn, he knew to prize Lord Marmion's powerful mind and wise, — Trained in the lore of Rome and Greece, And policies of war and peace. 270 XIV It chanced, as fell the second night, That on the battlements they walked, And by the slowly fading light Of varying 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; 280 And, closer questioned, thus he told A tale which chronicles of old In Scottish story have enrolled: — xv SLR 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, How blithe the blackbird's lay ! 290 The wild buck bells 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 father's overthrow. Woe to the traitors who could bring The princely boy against his king ! 30c Still in his conscience burns the sting. In offices as strict as Lent King James's June is ever spent. ' When last this ruthful month was come, And in Linlithgow's holy dome The king, as wont, was praying; CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP 121 While for his royal father's soul The chanters sung, the bells did toll, The bishop mass was saying — Tor now the year brought round again 310 The day the luckless king was slain — In Catherine'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, Bedeafened with the jangling knell, 319 Was watching where the sunbeams fell, Through the stained casement gleam- ing; But while I marked what next befell It seemed as I were dreaming. Stepped 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 you my knightly word That when I saw his placid grace, 330 His simple majesty of face, His solemn bearing, and his pace So stately gliding on, — Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint So just an image of the saint Who propped the Virgin in her faint, The loved Apostle John ! ' He stepped before the monarch's chair, And stood with rustic plainness there, And little reverence made; 340 Nor head, nor body, bowed, nor bent, But on the desk his arm he leant, And words like these hie said, In a low voice, — but never tone So thrilled 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, 350 James Stuart, doubly warned, beware: God keep thee as He may ! " — The wondering monarch seemed 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 passed; But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast, He vanished from our eyes, 3 6o Like sunbeam on the billow cast, That glances but, and dies.' XVIII While Lindesay told his marvel strange The twilight was so pale, He marked not Marmion's color change While listening to the tale; But, after a suspended pause, The baron spoke: ' Of Nature's laws So strong I held the force, That never superhuman cause 370 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 stayed, And seemed to wish his words unsaid, But, by that strong emotion pressed Which prompts us to unload our breast Even when discovery 's pain, 380 To Lindesay did at length unfold The tale his village host had told, At Gifford, to his train. Nought 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 1 In vain,' said he, ' to rest I spread My burning limbs, and couched my head; Fantastic thoughts returned, 390 And, by their wild dominion led, My heart within me burned. So sore was the delirious goad, I took my steed and forth I rode, And, as the moon shone bright and cold, Soon reached the camp upon the wold. The southern entrance I passed through, And halted, and my bugle blew. Methought an answer met my ear, — Yet was the blast so low and drear, 400 So hollow, and so faintly blown, It might be echo of my own. XX ' Thus judging, for a little space I listened ere I left the place, But scarce could trust my eyes, Nor yet can think they serve me true, 122 MARMION When sudden in the ring I view, In form distinct of shape and hue, A mounted champion rise. — I 've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, 410 In single tight and mixed affray, And ever, I myself may say, Have borne me as a knight; But -when this unexpected foe Seemed starting from the gulf below, — I care not though the truth I show, — I trembled with affright; And as I placed in rest my spear, My hand so shook for very fear, I scarce could couch it right. 420 * Why need my tongue the issue tell ? We ran our course, — my charger fell ; — What could he 'gainst the shock of hell ? I rolled 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 ! 430 Full on his face the moonbeam strook ! — A face could never be mistook ! I knew the stem 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. 440 Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade; But when to good Saint George I prayed, — The first time e'er I asked his aid, — He plunged it in the sheath, And, on his courser mounting light, He seemed to vanish from my sight: The moonbeam drooped, and deepest night Sunk down upon the heath. — 'T were long to tell what cause I have To know his face that met me there, 450 Called by his hatred from the grave To cumber upper air; Dead or alive, good cause had he To be my mortal enemy.' XXII Marvelled Sir David of the Mount; Then, learned in story, gan recount Such chance had happed of old, When once, near Norham, there did fight A spectre fell of fiendish might, In likeness of a Scottish knight, 460 With Brian Bulmer bold, And trained him nigh to disallow The aid of his baptismal vow. ' And such a phantom, too, 't is said, With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid, And fingers red with gore, Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, Or where the sable pine-trees shade Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, Dromouchty, or Glenmore. 470 And yet, whate'er such legends say Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay, On mountain, moor, or plain, Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, True son of chivalry should hold These midnight terrors vain; For seldom have such spirits power To harm, save in the evil hour When guilt we meditate within Or harbor unrepented sin.' — 480 Lord Marmion turned him half aside, And twice to clear his voice he tried, Then pressed Sir David's hand, — But nought, at length, in answer said; And here their further converse stayed, Each ordering that his band Should bowne them with the rising day, To Scotland's camp to take their way, — Such was the king's command. XXIII Early they took Dun-Edin's road, 490 And I could 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 their route was laid Across the furzy hills of Braid. They passed the glen and scanty rill, And climbed the opposing bank, until They gained the top of Blackford Hill. 500 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, While rose on breezes thin The murmur of the citv crowd, CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP 123 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; 5 And o'er the landscape as I look, Nought do I see unchanged remain, Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook. To me they make a heavy moan Of early friendships past and gone. But different far the change has been, Since Marmion from the crown Of Blackford saw that martial scene Upon the bent so brown: Thousand pavilions, white as snow, 520 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 checkered all the heath between The streamlet and the town, In crossing ranks extending far, Forming a camp irregular ; Oft giving way where still there stood Some relics of the old oak wood, 530 That darkly huge did intervene And tamed the glaring white with green : In these extended lines there lay A martial kingdom's vast array. For from Hebudes, dark with rain, To eastern Lodon's fertile plain, And from the southern Redswire edge To furthest Rosse's rocky ledge, From west to east, from south to north, Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 540 Marmion might hear the mingled hum Of myriads up the mountain come, — The horses' tramp and tinkling clank, Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank, And charger's shrilling neigh, — And see the shifting lines advance, While frequent flashed from shield and lance The sun's reflected ray. XXVII Thin curling in the morning air, The wreaths of failing smoke declare 550 To embers now the brands decayed, Where the night-watch their fires had made. They saw, slow rolling on the plain, Full many a baggage-eart and wain, And dire artillery's clumsy car, By sluggish oxen tugged to war; And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven, And culverins which France had given. Ill-omened gift ! the guns remain The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain. 560 XXVIII Nor marked they less where in the air A thousand streamers flaunted fair; Various in shape, device, and hue, Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue, Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square, Scroll, pennon, pencil, bandrol, there O'er the pavilions flew. Highest and midmost, was descried The royal banner floating wide ; The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight, 570 Pitched deeply in a massive stone, Which still in memory is shown, Yet bent beneath the standard's weight, Whene'er the western wind unrolled With toil the huge and cumbrous fold, And gave to view the dazzling field, Where in proud Scotland's royal shield The ruddy lion ramped in gold. XXIX Lord Marmion viewed the landscape bright, He viewed it with a chief's delight, 580 Until within him burned 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 king from warfare to dissuade Were but a vain essay; For, by Saint George, were that host mine, Not power infernal nor divine 590 Should once to peace my soul incline, Till I had dimmed their armor's shine In glorious battle-fray ! ' Answered the bard, of milder mood: ' Fair is the sight, — and yet 't were good That kings would think withal, When peace and wealth their land has blessed, 'T is better to sit still at rest Than rise, perchance to fall.' 124 MARMION XXX Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed, 600 For fairer scene he ne'er surveyed. 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 splendor red; For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow, That round her sable turrets flow, The morning beams were shed, And tinged them with a lustre proud, 610 Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. Such dusky grandeur clothed the height Where the huge castle holds its state, And all the steep 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, 620 It gleamed a purple amethyst. Yonder the shores of Fife you saw, Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law; And, broad between them rolled, The gallant Firth the eye might note, Whose islands on its bosom float, Like emeralds chased in gold. Fitz-Eustace's heart felt closely pent; As if to give his rapture vent, The spur he to his charger lent, 630 And raised his bridle hand, And making demi-volt in air, Cried, ' Where 's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land ! ' The Lindesay smiled his joy to see, Nor Marmion's frown repressed his glee. XXXI Thus while they looked, a flourish proud, Where mingled trump, and clarion loud, And fife, and kettle-drum, And sackbut deep, and psaltery, 640 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 tolled the hour of prime, And thus the Lindesay spoke: 4 Thus clamor still the war-notes when The king to mass his way has ta'en, Or to Saint Catherine's of Sienne, 650 Or Chapel of Saint Rocque. 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 repair To the downfall of the deer. ' Nor less,' he said, ' when looking forth I view yon Empress of the North 660 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, * 1 moan To think what woe mischance may bring, And how these merry bells may ring The death-dirge of our gallant king, Or with their larum call The burghers forth to watch and ward, 6 7 & 'Gainst Southern sack and fires to guard Dun-Edin's leaguered wall. — But not for my presaging thought, Dream conquest sure or cheaply bought ! Lord Marmion, 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, 679 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 Of Scotland's ancient court and king, 690 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 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH 125 A cold and profitless regard, Like patroii on a needy bard ; When sylvan occupation 's done, And o'er the chimney rests the gun, And hang in idle trophy near, The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; 10 When wiry terrier, rough and grim, And greyhound, with his length of limb, And pointer, now employed no more, Cumber our parlor's narrow floor; When in his stall the impatient steed Is long condemned 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 spring; 20 When wrinkled news-page, thrice conned o'er, Beguiles the dreary hour no more, And darkling politician, crossed, Inveighs against the lingering post, And answering housewife sore complains 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, 30 And welcome with renewed delight The busy day and social night. Not here need my desponding rhyme Lament the ravages of time, As erst by Newark's riven towers, And Ettrick stripped of forest bowers. True, Caledonia's Queen is changed Since on her dusky summit ranged, Within its steepy limits pent By bulwark, line, and battlement, 40 And flanking towers, and laky flood, Guarded and garrisoned she stood, Denying entrance or resort 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, 50 A wicket churlishly supplied. Stern then and steel-girt was thy brow, Dun-Edin ! Oh, how altered now, When safe amid thy mountain court Thou sitt'st, like empress at her sport, And liberal, unconfined, and free, Flinging thy white arms to the sea, For thy dark cloud, with umbered lower, That hung o'er cliff and lake and tower, Thou gleam'st against the western ray 60 Ten thousand lines of brighter day ! Not she, the championess of old, In Spenser's magic tale enrolled, She for the charmed spear renowned, Which forced each knight to kiss the ground, — Not she more changed, when, placed at rest, What time she was Malbecco's guest, She gave to flow her maiden vest; When, from the corselet's grasp relieved, Free to the sight her bosom heaved : 70. Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile, Erst hidden by the aventayle, And down her shoulders graceful rolled Her locks profuse of paly gold. They who whilom in midnight fight Had marvelled at her matchless might, No less her maiden charms approved, But looking liked, and liking loved. The sight could jealous pangs beguile, And charm Malbecco's cares awhile; 80- 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 Paridell advance, Bold as he was, a looser glance. She charmed, at once, and tamed the heart, Incomparable Britomart ! So thou, fair City ! disarrayed Of battled wall and rampart's aid, go 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; Still as of yore, Queen of the North ! Still canst thou send 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 line; 100 For fosse and turret proud to stand, Their breasts the bulwarks of the land. Thy thousands, trained 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, 26 MARMION Renowned for hospitable deed, 109 That virtue much with Heaven may plead, In patriarchal times whose care Descending angels deigned 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, To Henry meek she gave repose, Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe, Great Bourbon's relics sad she saw. 120 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, 130 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 the royal Henry's ear, 140 Famed Beauclerk called, for that he loved The minstrel and his lay approved ? Who shall these lingering notes redeem, Decaying on Oblivion's stream; Such notes as from the Breton tongue Marie translated, Blondel sung ? — Oh ! 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, 150 The weapon from his hand could ring, 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 honored and beloved, — 160 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, oh ! No more by thy example teach What few can practise, all can preach, — With even patience to endure 170 Lingering disease and painful cure, And boast affliction's pangs 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 180 With wonder heard the Northern strain. Come listen ! bold in thy applause, The bard shall scorn pedantic laws; And, as the ancient art could stain Achievements on the storied pane, Irregularly traced and planned, But yet so glowing and so grand, So shall he strive, in changeful hue, Field, feast, and combat to renew, And loves, and arms, and harpers' glee, 190 And all the pomp of chivalry. CANTO FIFTH THE COURT The train 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, ic 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 deemed their force to feel CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT 127 Through links of mail and plates of steel When, rattling upon Flodden vale, The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail. Nor less did Marmion's skilful view Glance every line and squadron through, 20 And much he marvelled 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, 30 Each warlike feat to show, To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain, And high curvet, that not in vain The sword-sway might descend amain On foeman's casque below. He saw the hardy burghers there March armed on foot with faces bare, For visor they wore none, Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight; But burnished were their corselets bright, 40 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. ill On foot the yeoman too, but dressed In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest, With iron quilted well; Each at his back — a slender store — 50 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 seemed and sad of cheer, As loath to leave his cottage dear And march to foreign strand, Or musing who would guide his steer To till the fallow land. 60 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 valor 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 joyed to hear it swell. 70 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-armed 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 Borderers' game. Their gain, their glory, their delight, 80 To sleep the day, maraud the night, O'er mountain, moss, and moor; Joyful to fight they took their way, Scarce caring who might win the day, Their booty was secure. These, as Lord Marmion's train passed by, Looked on at first with careless eye, Nor marvelled aught, well taught to know The form and force of English bow. But when they saw the lord arrayed 90 In splendid arms and rich brocade, Each Borderer to his kinsman said, — ' Hist, Ringan ! seest thou there ! Canst guess which road they '11 homeward ride? Oh ! 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 100 Could make a kirtle rare.' Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race, Of different language, form, and face, A various race of man; Just then the chiefs their tribes arrayed, And wild and garish semblance made The checkered trews and belted plaid, And varying notes the war-pipes brayed To every varying clan. Wild through their red or sable hair nc Looked out their eyes with savage stare On Marmion as he passed; Their legs above the knee were bare; Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare, And hardened to the blast; 128 MARMION Of taller race, the chiefs they own Were by the eagle's plumage known. The hunted red-deer's undressed hide Their hairy buskins well supplied; The graceful bonnet decked their head; 120 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, oh ! 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, 130 As with his guide rode Marmion by. Loud were their clamoring tongues, as when The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen, And, with their cries discordant mixed, Grumbled and yelled the pipes betwixt. Thus through the Scottish camp they passed, And reached the city gate at last, Where all around, a wakeful guard, Armed burghers kept their watch and ward. Well had they cause of jealous fear, 140 When lay encamped 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 armorer's anvil clashed and rang, Or toiled 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. 150 Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying pace, Through street and lane and market-place, Bore lance or casque or sword; While burghers, with important face, Described each new-come lord, Discussed his lineage, told his name, His following, and his warlike fame. The Lion led to lodging meet, Which high o'erlooked the crowded street; There must the baron rest 160 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 succeeds, The baron dons his peaceful weeds, And following Lindesay as he leads, The palace halls they gain. r 7 o VII Old Holy-Rood rung merrily That night with wassail, mirth, and glee: King James within her princely bower Feasted the chiefs of Scotland's power, Summoned 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 180 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 touched a softer string; With long-eared cap and motley vest, 190 The licensed fool retailed 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 200 To battle march a lover true — Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, Nor own her share of pain. VIII Through this mixed 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 doffed to Marmion bending low zto His broidered cap and plume. For royal were his garb and mien: , I CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT 129 His cloak of crimson velvet piled, Trimmed with the fur of marten wild, lis vest of changeful satin sheen, The dazzled eye beguiled; [is gorgeous collar hung adown, brought with the badge of Scotland's crown, 'he thistle brave of old renown; [is trusty blade, Toledo right, 220 •escended from a baldric bright; fhite were his buskins, on the heel is spurs inlaid of gold and steel; is bonnet, all of crimson fair, fas buttoned with a ruby rare: nd Marmion deemed he ne'er had seen prince of such a noble mien. IX he monarch's form was middle size, or feat of strength or exercise Shaped in proportion fair; 230 id hazel was his eagle eye, id auburn of the darkest dye His short curled beard and hair. * sjht was his footstep in the dance, And firm his stirrup in the lists; id, oil ! he had that merry glance That seldom lady's heart resists. I ghtly from fair to fair he flew, A id loved to plead, lament, and sue, — I it lightly won and short-lived pain, 240 !' r monarchs seldom sigh in vain. [ said he joyed in banquet bower; Riit, mid his mirth, 't was often strange w suddenly his cheer would change, lis look o'ercast and lower, ; |n a sudden turn he felt e pressure of his iron belt, I'.at bound his breast in penance pain, memory of his father slain, i en so 't was strange how evermore, 250 S< ours doubly swift o'er hill and plain. irtiers say, 260 held sway; •ame, To be a hostage for her lord, Who Cessford's 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 fair Queen of France Sent him a turquoise ring and glove, 270 And charged him, as her knight and love, For her to break a lance, And strike three strokes with Scottish 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 His manly limbs in mailed vest, And thus admitted English fair His inmost councils still to share, 280 And thus for both he madly planned The ruin of himself and land ! And yet, the sooth to tell, Nor England'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 Lith- gow's bower All lonely sat and wept the weary hour. XI The queen sits lone in Lithgow pile, And weeps the weary day 290 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 she touched and tuned them all, Ever her bosom's rise and fall Was plainer given to view; 300 For, all for heat, was laid aside Her wimple, and her hood untied. And first she pitched her voice to sing, Then glanced her dark eye on the king, And then around the silent ring, And laughed, and blushed, 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, 31a A soft yet lively air she rung, While thus the wily lady sung: — 130 MARMION XII LOCHINVAR LADY HERON'S SONG Oh ! 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 unarmed and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; 320 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 Loch- invar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and bro- thers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, — For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, — * Oh ! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ? ' — 330 * I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Sol way, 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 kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 34 o He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar, — ' Now tread we a measure ! ' said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, ' 'T were better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.' One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; 350 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 '11 have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fen wicks, 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 ? 360 XIII The monarch o'er the siren hung, And beat the measure as she sung; And, pressing closer and more near, CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT 131 He whispered praises in her ear. In loud applause the courtiers vied, And ladies winked and spoke aside. The witching dame to Marmion threw A glance, where seemed to reign The pride that claims applauses due, And of her royal conquest too 370 A real or feigned disdain: Familiar was the look, and told Marmion and she were friends of old. The king observed their meeting eyes With something like displeased surprise; 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 showed: I Our Borders sacked by many a raid, 380 Our peaceful liege-men robbed,' he said, * On day of truce our warden slain, Stout Barton killed, his vessels ta'en — 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 viewed; I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, 390 Who coronet of Angus bore, And, when his blood and heart were high, Did the third James in camp defy, And all his minions led to die On Lauder's dreary flat. Princes and favorites long grew tame, And trembled at the homely name Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat; The same who left the dusky vale Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, 400 Its dungeons and its towers, \ Where Bothwell's turrets brave the air, And Bothwell bank is blooming fair, To fix his princely bowers. 1 Though now in age he had laid down His armor 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; 410 And even that day at council board, Unapt to soothe his sovereign's mood, Against the war had Angus stood, And chafed his roval lord. XV His giant-form, like ruined tower, Though fallen its muscles' brawny vaunt, Huge - boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt, Seemed o'er the gaudy scene to lower; His locks and beard in silver grew, His eyebrows kept their sable hue. 420 Near Douglas when the monarch stood, His bitter speech he thus pursued : ' Lord Marmion, since these letters say That in the North you needs must stay While slightest hopes of peace remain, Uncourteous speech it were and stern To say — Return to Lindisfarne, Until my herald come again. Then rest you in Tantallon hold; Your host shall be the Douglas bold, — 430 A chief unlike his sires of old. He wears their motto on his blade, Their blazon o'er his towers displayed, Yet loves his sovereign to oppose More than to face his country's foes. And, I bethink me, by Saint 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. 44 o Under your guard these holy maids Shall safe return to cloister shades, And, while they at Tantallon stay, . Requiem for Cochran's soul may say.' And with the slaughtered favorite's name Across the monarch's brow there came A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame. In answer nought could Angus speak, His proud heart swelled well-nigh to break; He turned aside, and down his cheek 450 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 ! For 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, 460 More tender and more true; Forgive me, Douglas, once again.' — And, while the king his hand did strain, The old man's tears fell down like rain. To seize the moment Marmion tried, I 3 2 MARMION And whispered to the king aside: ' Oh ! let such tears unwonted plead For respite short from dubious deed ! A child will weep a bramble's smart, A maid to see her sparrow part, A stripling for a woman's heart; But woe awaits a country when She sees the tears of bearded men. Then, oh ! what omen, dark and high, When Douglas wets his manly eye ! ' Displeased was James that stranger viewed And tampered with his chauging mood. ' Laugh those that can, weep those that may,' Thus did the fiery monarch say, ' Southward I march by break of day; 480 And if within Tantallon strong The good Lord Marmion tarries long, Perchance our meeting next may fall At Tamworth in his castle-hall.' — The haughty Marmion felt the taunt, And answered grave the royal vaunt: ' Much honored were my humble home, If in its halls King James should come; But Nottingham has archers good, And Yorkshire men are stern of mood, 490 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 be borne, And many a sheaf of arrows spent, Ere Scotland's king shall cross the Trent: Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you may ! ' — The monarch lightly turned away, And to his nobles loud did call, 500 ' 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, Rung out ' Blue Bonnets o'er the Border.' Leave we these revels now to tell What to Saint Hilda's maids befell, Whose galley, as they sailed again To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en. Now at Dun-Edin did they bide 510 Till James should of their fate decide, And soon by his command Were gently summoned to prepare To journey under Marmion's care, As escort honored, 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 feared Lord Marmion's mood. 520 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, 530 Mid bustle of a war begun ? They deemed it hopeless to avoid The convoy of their dangerous guide. Their lodging, so the king assigned, To Marmion's, as their guardian, joined; And thus it fell that, passing nigh, The Palmer caught the abbess' eye, Who warned him by a scroll She had a secret to reveal That much concerned the Church's weal And health of sinner's soul; 54 i And, with deep charge of secrecy, She named 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. 550 The moon among the clouds rode high, 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, 560 Were here wrapt deep in shade; There on their brows the moonbeam broke, Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke, And on the casements played. CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT *33 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, 570 A solemn hour, her secret to disclose. XXI 1 O holy Palmer ! ' she began, — f For sure he must be sainted man, Whose blessed feet have trod the ground Where the Redeemer'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 wooed 580 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, Wilton 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, — 590 And down he threw his glove. The thing Was tried, as wont, before the king; Where frankly did De Wilton own That Swart in Guelders 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 returned, Judge how De Wilton's fury burned ! For in his packet there were laid 600 Letters that claimed disloyal aid And proved King Henry's cause betrayed. 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 unobserved, Perchance in prayer or faith he swerved, Else how could guiltless champion quail, Or how the blessed ordeal fail ? 610 ' His squire, who now De Wilton saw As recreant doomed to suffer law, Repentant, owned in vain That while he had the scrolls in care A stranger maiden, passing fair, Had drenched 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, 620 To give our house her livings fair And die a vestal votaress there. The impulse from the 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 stain, That for her lover's loss She cherishes a sorrow vain, 630 And murmurs at the cross. — And then her heritage : — it goes Along the banks 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 votaress here, Should do a deadly sin, 640 Her temple spoiled 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. XXIII ' Now, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed To evil power, I claim thine aid, By every step that thou hast trod 650 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 betrayed, And with his squire forged letters laid, She was, alas ! that sinful maid By whom the deed was done, — Oh ! shame and horror to be said ! She was — a perjured nun ! 660 No clerk in all the land like her Traced quaint and varying character. Perchance you may a marvel deem, That Marmion's paramour — For such vile thing she was — should scheme Her lover's nuptial hour; But o'er him thus she hoped to gain, 134 MARMION As privy to his honor's stain, Illimitable power. For this she secretly retained 670 Each proof that might the plot reveal, Instructions with his hand and seal; And thus Saint Hilda deigned, Through sinners' perfidy impure, Her house's glory to secure And Clare's immortal weal. XXIV ' 'T were long and needless here to tell How to my hand these papers fell; With me they must not stay. Saint Hilda keep her abbess true ! 680 Who knows what outrage he might do While journeying by the way ? — blessed Saint, if e'er again 1 venturous leave thy calm domain, To travel or by land or main, Deep penance may I pay ! — Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer: I give this packet to thy care, For thee to stop they will not dare; And oh ! with cautious speed 690 To Wolsey's hand the papers bring, That he may show them to the king: And for thy well-earned meed, Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine A weekly mass shall still be thine While priests can sing and read. — What ail'st thou ? — Speak ! ' — For as he took The charge a strong emotion shook His frame, and ere reply They heard a faint yet shrilly tone, 700 Like distant clarion feebly blown, That on the breeze did die; And loud the abbess shrieked 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 blazoned banners toss ! ' — XXV Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillared stone, Rose on a turret octagon ; — 710 But now is razed that monument, Whence royal edict rang, And voice of Scotland's law was sent In glorious trumpet-clang. Oh ! 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; 720 Figures that seemed to rise and die, Gibber and sign, advance and fly, While nought confirmed could ear or eye Discern of sound or mien. Yet darkly did 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 730 When 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 : — XXVI ' Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer, Whose names I now shall call, Scottish or foreigner, give ear ! Subjects of him who sent me here, At his tribunal to appear 74 o I summon one and all: I cite you by each deadly sin That e'er hath soiled your hearts within; I cite you by each brutal lust That e'er defiled your earthly dust, — By wrath, by pride, by fear, By each o'ermastering passion's tone, By the dark grave and dying groan ! When forty days are passed and gone, I cite you, at your monarch's throne 750 To answer and appear.' — Then thundered forth a roll of names : — The first was thine, unhappy James ! Then all thy nobles came; Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, Ross, Both well, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle, — Why should I tell their separate style ? Each chief of birth and fame, Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, Foredoomed to Flodden's carnage pile, 760 Was cited there by name; And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye; De Wilton, erst of Aberley, The self-same thundering voice did say. — But then another spoke: 'Thy fatal summons I deny And thine infernal lord defy, Appealing me to Him on high Who burst the sinner's yoke.' 770 CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT *35 At that dread accent, with a scream, Parted the pageant like a dream, The summoner was gone. Prone on her face the abbess fell, And fast, and fast, her beads did tell; Her nuns came, startled by the yell, And found her there alone. She marked not, at the scene aghast, What time or how the Palmer passed. XXVII Shift we the scene. — The camp doth move ; 780 Dun-Edin's streets are empty now, Save when, for weal of those they love, To pray the prayer and vow the vow, The tottering child, the anxious fair, The gray-haired sire, with pious care, To chapels and to shrines repair. — Where is the Palmer now ? and where The abbess, Marmion, and Clare ? — Bold Douglas ! to Tantallon fair They journey in thy charge: 790 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 A wondrous change might now be seen; Freely he spoke of war, Of marvels wrought by single hand When lifted for a native land, And still looked high, as if he planned 800 Some desperate deed afar. His courser would he feed and stroke, And, tucking up his sable frock, Would first his mettle bold provoke, Then soothe or quell his pride. Old Hubert said that never one He saw, except Lord Marmion, A steed so fairly ride. XXVIII Some half-hour's march behind there came, By Eustace governed fair, 810 A troop escorting Hilda's dame, With all her nuns and Clare. No audience had Lord Marmion sought; Ever he feared to aggravate Clara de Clare's suspicious hate; And safer 't was, he thought, To wait till, from the nuns removed, The influence of kinsmen loved, And suit by Henry's self approved, Her slow consent had wrought. 820 His was no flickering flame, that dies Unless when fanned by looks and sighs And lighted oft at lady's eyes; He longed to stretch his wide command O'er luckless Clara's ample land: Besides, when Wilton with him vied, Although the pang of humbled pride The place of jealousy supplied, Yet conquest, by that meanness won He almost loathed to think upon, 830 Led him, at times, to hate the cause Which made him burst through honor's laws. If e'er he loved, 't was her alone Who died within that vault of stone. 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 viewed afar The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 840 The ocean's peace or war. At tolling of a bell, forth came The convent's venerable dame, And prayed Saint Hilda's abbess rest With her, a loved and honored guest, Till Douglas should a bark prepare To waft her back to Whitby fair. Glad was the abbess, you may guess, And thanked the Scottish prioress; And tedious were to tell, I ween, 850 The courteous speech that passed be- tween. O'erjoyed 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 obeyed, And Marmion and the Douglas said 860 That you must wend with me. Lord Marmion hath a letter broad, Which to the Scottish earl he showed, Commanding that beneath his care Without delay you shall repair To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.' XXX The startled abbess loud exclaimed; But she at whom the blow was aimed Grew pale as death and cold as lead, — 136 MARMION She deemed she heard her death -doom read. 870 ' Cheer thee, my child ! ' the abbess said, * They dare not tear thee from my hand, To ride alone with armed band.' — ' Nay, holy mother, nay,' Fitz-Eustace said, ' the lovely Clare Will be in Lady Angus' care, In Scotland while we stay; And when we move an easy ride AVill bring us to the English side, Female attendance to provide 880 Befitting Gloster's heir; Nor thinks nor dreams my noble lord, By slightest look, or act, or word, To harass Lady Clare. 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.' 889 He spoke, and blushed with earnest grace ; His faith was painted on his face, And Clare's worst fear relieved. The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed On Henry, and the Douglas blamed, Entreated, threatened, grieved, To martyr, saint, and prophet prayed Against Lord Marmion inveighed, And called the prioress to aid, To curse with candle, bell, and book. Her head the grave Cistertian shook: 900 * The Douglas and the king,' she said, 'In their commands will be obeyed; 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, gj 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 Coventry, Bid him his fate explore ! Prancing in pride of earthly trust, His charger hurled him to the dust, And, by a base plebeian thrust, He died his band before. God judge 'twixt Marmion and me: 920 He is a chief 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 Jael thus, and Deborah' — Here hasty Blount broke in: 929 'Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band; Saint 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 perforce.' XXXII ' Submit we then to force,' said Clare, ' But let this barbarous lord despair 940 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 find no sanctuary In that inviolable dome Where even a homicide might come And safely rest his head, Though at its open portals stood, 950 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, Where kings have little power. One victim is before me there. — Mother, your blessing, and in prayer Remember your unhappy Clare ! ' Loud weeps the abbess, and bestows 960 Kind blessings many a one; Weeping and wailing loud arose, Bound 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. 070 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH 137 XXXIII But scant three miles the band had rode, When o'er a height they passed, And, sudden, close before them showed 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. 980 |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, 990 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 had won 1000 Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then, That Norham Castle strong was ta'en. At that sore marvelled Marmion, And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand Would soon subdue Northumberland; But whispered news there came, That while his host inactive lay, And melted by degrees away, King James was dallying off the day With Heron's wily dame. 1010 Such acts to chronicles I yield; Go seek them there and see: Mine is a tale of Flodden Field, And not a history. — At length they heard the Scottish host 1 On that high ridge had made their post Which frowns o'er Miilfield Plain; And that brave Surrey many a band Had gathered in the Southern land, And marched into Northumberland, 1020 And camp at Wooler ta'en. Marmion, like charger in the stall, That hears, without, the trumpet-call, Began to chafe and swear: — 1 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 Marmion away ! The Douglas, too, I wot not why, Hath bated of his courtesy; No longer in his halls I '11 stay: ' Then bade his band they should array For march against the dawning day. INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ. Mertoun House, Christmas Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We '11 keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deemed the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer: Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane At Iol 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, 10 Where shields and axes decked the wall, They gorged upon the half-dressed steer, Caroused in seas of sable beer, While round in brutal jest were thrown The half-gnawed rib and marrowbone, Or listened all in grim delight While scalds yelled out the joys of fight. Then forth in frenzy would they hie, While wildly loose their red locks fly, And dancing round the blazing pile, 20 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 its course had rolled, And brought blithe Christmas back again With all his hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honor to the holy night; On Christmas eve the bells were rung, 30 On Christmas eve the mass was sung: 138 MARMION That only night in all the year Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; The hall was dressed with holly green; Forth to the wood did nierrymen go, To gather in the mistletoe. Then opened wide the baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside, 40 And Ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose; The lord, undelegating, share The vulgar game of ' post and pair.' All hailed, with uncontrolled delight And general voice, the happy night That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down. The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 50 Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn By old blue-coated serving-man; Then the grim boar's -head frowned on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garbed ranger tell 60 How, when, and where, the monster fell, What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar. The wassail round, in good brown bowls Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. There the huge sirloin reeked ; hard by Plum-porridge stood and Christmas pie; Nor failed old Scotland to produce At such high tide her savory goose. Then came the merry maskers in, 70 And carols roared with blithesome din; If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery; White shirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made; But oh ! what maskers, richly dight, Can boast of bosoms half so light ! England was merry England when 80 Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'T was Christmas broached the mightiest 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 - fetche claim s 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 Where my great-grandsire came of old, With amber beard and flaxen hair And reverent apostolic air, The feast and holy-tide to share, And mix sobriety with wine, And honest mirth with thoughts divine: 10c Small thought was his, in after time E'er to be hitched into a rhyme. The simple sire could only boast That he was loyal to his cost, The banished race of kings revered, And lost his land, — but kept his beard In these dear halls, where welcome kinc Is with fair liberty combined, Where cordial friendship gives the hand, And flies constraint the magic wand 1 Of the fair dame that rules the land, Little we 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 leave the sweet domain, And holds his mirror to her face, And clips her with a close embrace: — 12 Gladly as he we seek the dome, And as reluctant turn us home. How just that at 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 and of Grecian lore Sure mortal brain can hold no more. 130 These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say ' Were pretty fellows in their day,' But time and tide o'er all prevail — INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH J 39 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, 140 Goblin and witch ! ' — Nay, Heber dear, Before you touch my charter, hear; Though Ley den aids, alas! no more, My cause with many-languaged lore, This may I say : — in realms of death Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith, iEneas upon Thracia's shore The ghost of murdered Polydore; For omens, we in Livy cross At every turn locutus Bos. 150 As grave and duly speaks that ox As if he told the price of stocks, Or held in Rome 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 160 The battle turned on Maida's shore, Will on a Friday morn look pale, If asked to tell a fairy tale: 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, 170 Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair ? Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, A mighty treasure buried lay, Amassed through rapine and through wrong By the last Lord of Franchdmont. The iron chest is bolted hard, A huntsman sits its constant guard; Around his neck his horn is hung, His hanger in his belt is slung; Before his feet his bloodhounds lie: 180 An 't were not for his gloomy eye, Whose withering glance no heart can brook, As true a huntsman doth he look As bugle e'er in brake did sound, Or ever hallooed 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 begun, 190 And neither yet has lost nor won. And oft the conjurer's words will make The stubborn demon groan and quake; And oft the bands of iron break, Or bursts one lock that still amain Fast as 't is opened, 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 clenched the spell 200 When Franch'mont locked the treasure cell. An hundred years are passed 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 That warned, in Lithgow, Scotland's king, Nor less the infernal summoning; May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, 210 Whose demon fought in Gothic mail; May pardon plead for Fordun grave, Who told of Giffofd'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 volumes rest Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest, While gripple owners still refuse 220 To others what they cannot use; Give them the priest's whole century, They shall not spell you letters three, — Their pleasure in the books the same The magpie takes in pilfered gem. Thy volumes, open as thy heart, Delight, amusement, science, art, To every ear and eye impart; Yet who, of all who thus employ them, Can like the owner's self enjoy them ? — 230 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. 140 MARMION CANTO SIXTH THE BATTLE While great events were on the gale, And each hour brought a varying tale, And the demeanor, changed and cold, Of Douglas fretted Marmion bold, And, like the impatient steed of war, He snuffed 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, — 10 While these things were, the mournful Clare Did in the dame's devotions share; For the good countess ceaseless prayed 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 pressed Upon her intervals of rest, 20 Dejected Clara well could bear The formal state, the lengthened prayer, Though dearest to her wounded heart The hours that she might spend apart. I said Tantallon's dizzy steep Hung o'er the margin of the deep. Many a rude tower and rampart there Repelled the insult of the air, Which, when the tempest vexed the sky, Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by. 30 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. 40 Sometimes in dizzy steps descending, Sometimes in narrow circuit bending, Sometimes in platform broad extending, 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. so Where'er Tantallon faced the land, Gate - works and walls were strongly manned ; No need upon the sea-girt side: The steepy rock and frantic tide Approach of human step denied, And thus these lines and ramparts rude Were left in deepest solitude. Hi And, for they were so lonely, Clare Would to these battlements repair, And muse upon her sorrows there, 60 And list the sea-bird's cry, Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide Along the dark-gray bulwarks' side, And ever on the heaving tide Look down with weary eye. Oft did the cliff and swelling main Recall 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, 70 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 adorned 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 Remained a cross with ruby stone; And often did she look On that which in her hand she bore, With velvet bound and broidered o'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 richly dressed, With book in hand, and cross on breast, 90 And such" a woful mien. Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow, To practise on the gull and crow, Saw her at distance gliding slow, And did by Mary swear Some lovelorn fay she might have been, Or in romance some spell-bound queen, CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE 141 For ne'er in work-day world was seen A form so witching fair. Once walking thus at evening tide 100 It chanced a gliding sail she spied, And sighing thought — ' The abbess there Perchance does to her home repair; Her peaceful rule, where Duty free 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, no Hovering upon the sunny air And smiling on her votaries' prayer. Oh ! wherefore to my duller eye Did still the Saint her form deny ? Was it that, seared 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, 120 And well could brook the mild command That ruled thy simple maiden band. How different now, condemned to bide My doom from this dark tyrant's pride ! — But Marmion 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. 130 [ But see ! — what makes this armor here ? ' — For in her path there lay Targe, corselet, helm; she viewed them near. — [ The breastplate pierced ! — Ay, much I fear, Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's spear, That hath made fatal entrance here, As these dark blood-gouts say. — Thus Wilton ! — Oh ! not corselet's ward, Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, Could be thy manly bosom's guard 140 On yon disastrous day ! ' — She raised her eyes in mournful mood, — Wilton himself before her stood ! It might have seemed 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 words: What skilful limner e'er would choose 150 To paint the rainbow'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 angelic air, And hope that paints the future fair, Their varying hues displayed; 160 Each o'er its rival's ground extending, Alternate conquering, shifting, blending, Till all fatigued the conflict yield, And mighty love retains the field. Shortly I tell what then he said, By many a tender word delayed, 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 Hay. 170 Thence dragged, — but how I cannot know, For sense and recollection fled, — I found me on a pallet low Within 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 80 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 While wounds and fever held their sway. But far more needful was his care When sense returned 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, 190 With him I left my native strand, And, in a palmer's weeds arrayed, My hated name and form to shade, I journeyed many a land, 142 MARMION No more a lord of rank and birth, But mingled with the dregs of earth. Oft Austin for my reason feared, When I would sit, and deeply brood On dark revenge and deeds of blood, Or wild mad schemes upreared. : My friend at length fell sick, and said God would remove him soon; And while upon his dying bed He begged of me a boon — If e'er my deadliest enemy Beneath my brand should conquered lie, Even then my mercy should awake And spare his life for Austin's sake. ' Still restless as a second Cain, To Scotland next my route was ta'en, 210 Full well the paths I knew: Fame of my fate made various sound, That death in pilgrimage I found, That I had perished of my wound, — None cared which tale was true; And living eye could never guess De Wilton in his palmer's dress, For now that sable slough is shed, And trimmed my shaggy beard and head, I scarcely know me in the glass. 220 A chance most wondrous did provide That I should be that baron's guide — I will not name his name ! — Vengeance to God alone belongs; But, when I think on all my wrongs, My blood is liquid flame ! And ne'er the time shall I forget When, in a Scottish hostel set, Dark looks we did exchange: What were his thoughts I cannot tell, 230 But in my bosom mustered Hell Its plans of dark revenge. 1 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. I borrowed steed and mail And weapons from his sleeping band; And, passing from a postern door, 240 We met and 'countered, hand to hand, — He fell on Gifrord-moor. For the death-stroke my brand I drew, — Oh ! 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 stayed; I left him there alone. — O good old man ! even from the grave 250 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, 260 Or featly was some juggle played, 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 270 The tide of fight on Otterburne, And Harry Hotspur forced to yield When the Dead Douglas won the field. These Angus gave — his armorer's care Ere morn shall every breach repair; For nought, he said, was in his halls But ancient armor on the walls, And aged chargers in the stalls, And women, priests, and gray - haired men; The rest were all in Twisel glen. 280 And now I watch my armor here, By law of arms, till midnight 's near; Then, once again a belted knight, Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of light. ' 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. 290 Now meeter far for martial broil, Firmer my limbs and strung by toil, Once more ' — ' O Wilton ! must we then Risk new-found happiness again, Trust fate of arms once more ? : CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE J 43 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 ? — 300 That reddening brow ! — too well I know Not even thy Clare can peace bestow While falsehood stains thy name: Go then to fight ! Clare bids thee go ! Clare can a warrior's feelings know And weep a warrior's shame, Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel, Buckle the spurs upon thy heel And belt thee with thy brand of steel, And send thee forth to fame ! ' 310 That night upon the rocks and bay The midnight moonbeam slumbering lay, And poured its silver light and pure Through loophole and through embra- sure Upon Tantallon tower and hall; But chief where arched windows wide Illuminate the chapel's pride The sober glances fall. Much was there need; though seamed with scars, Two veterans of the Douglas' wars, 320 Though two gray priests were there, And each a blazing torch held high, You could not by their blaze descry The chapel's carving fair. Amid that dim and smoky light, Checkering the silvery moonshine bright, A bishop by the altar stood, A noble lord of Douglas blood, With mitre sheen and rochet white. 329 Yet showed his meek and thoughtful eye But little pride of prelacy; More pleased that in a barbarous age He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page Than that beneath his rule he held The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. B-side him ancient Angus stood, Doffed his furred gown and sable hood; O'er his huge form and visage pale He wore a cap and shirt of mail, 339 And leaned his large and wrinkled hand Upon the huge and sweeping brand Which wont of yore in battle fray His foeman's limbs to shred away, As wood-knife lops the sapling spray. He seemed as, from the tombs around Rising at judgment-day, Some giant Douglas may be found In all his old array; So pale his face, so huge his limb, So old his arms, his look so grim. 350 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: ' Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid, 360 I dub thee knight. Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir ! For king, 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 honor best bestows May give thee double.' De Wilton sobbed, for sob he must: 370 ' Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust That Douglas is my brother ! ' ' Nay, nay,' old Angus said, ' not so; To Surrey's camp 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 380 Not far advanced was morning day When Marmion did his troop array To Surrey's camp to ride; He had safe-conduct for 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 whispered in an undertone, * Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.' The train from out the castle drew, 390 But Marmion stopped 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 stayed, Part we in friendship from your land, 144 MARMION And, noble earl, receive my hand.' — But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : — 399 * My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open at my sovereign's will To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are 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 Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire And shook his very frame for ire, 410 And — ' This to me ! ' he said, * An 't were 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 tbe meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate; And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, 420 Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, — Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword, — I tell thee, thou 'rt defied ! And if thou saidst I 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'ercame the ashen hue of age: 430 Fierce he broke forth, — ' And darest thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall ? And hopest thou hence unscathed to go ? — No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! Up drawbridge, grooms — what, warder, ho ! Let the portcullis fall.' — Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need, — Aud dashed the rowels in his steed, 439 Like arrow through the archway sprung, The ponderous grate behind him rung; To pass there was such scanty room, The bars descending razed his plume. XV The steed along the drawbridge flies Just as it trembled on the rise: Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim: And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, 450 And shook his gauntlet at the towers. ' Horse ! horse ! ' the Douglas cried, ' and chase ! ' But soon he reined his fury's pace: ' A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name. — A letter forged ! Saint Jude to speed ! 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, 460 Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line; 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. 'T is pity of him too,' he cried: ' Bold can he speak and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried.' With this his mandate he recalls, 47 o And slowly seeks his castle halls. The day in Marmion's journey wore; Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er, They crossed the heights of Stanrig-moor. His troop more closely there he scanned, And missed the Palmer from the band. ' Palmer or not,' young Blount did say, ' He parted at the peep of day; Good sooth, it was in strange array.' ' In what array ? ' said Marmion quick. 480 ' My lord, I ill can spell the trick; But all night long with clink and bang Close to my couch did hammers clang; At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, And from a loophole 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, 490 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, the earl's best steed, CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE 145 A matchless horse, though something old, Prompt in his paces, cool and bold. I heard the Sheriff Sholto say The earl did much the Master pray 500 To use him on the battle-day, But he preferred ' — ' Nay, Henry, cease ! Thou sworn horse - courser, hold thy peace. — Eustace, thou bear'st a brain — I pray, What did Blount see at break of day ? ' — ' In brief, my lord, we both descried — For then I stood by Henry's side — The Palmer mount and outwards ride Upon the earl's own favorite steed. All sheathed he was in armor bright, 510 And much resembled that same knight 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 ! ' He muttered; ' 'T was nor fay nor ghost I met upon the moonlight wold, But living man of earthly mould. O dotage blind and gross ! 520 Had I but fought as wont, one thrust Had laid De Wilton in the dust, My path no more to cross. — How stand we now ? — he told his tale To Douglas, and with some avail; 'T was therefore gloomed his rugged brow. — Will Surrey dare to entertain 'Gainst Marmion charge disproved and vain ? Small risk of that, I trow. 529 Yet Clare's sharp questions must I sh«n, Must separate Constance from the nun — Oh ! 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 known there was but one Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.' XVIII Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed His troop, and reached at eve the Tweed, Where Lennel's convent closed their march. S4 o 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, Well worth the whole Bernardine brood That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood. — Yet did Saint Bernard's abbot there Give Marmion entertainment fair, And lodging for his train and Clare. 550 Next morn the baron climbed the tower, To view afar the Scottish power, Encamped on Flodden edge; The white pavilions made a show Like remnants of the winter snow Along the dusky ridge. Long Marmion looked: — at length his eye Unusual movement might descry Amid the shifting lines; The Scottish host drawn out appears, 560 For, flashing on the hedge of spears, The eastern sunbeam shines. Their front now deepening, now extending, Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, Now drawing back, and now descending, The skilful Marmion well could know They watched 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 570 Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, And heedful watched them as they crossed The Till by Twisel Bridge. High sight it is and haughty, while They dive into the deep defile; Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, Beneath the castle's airy wall. By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree, Troop after troop are disappearing; Troop after troop their banners rear- ing 580 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, 590 Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang, And many a chief of birth and rank, Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. 146 MARMION Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see In spring-tide 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 airy brow, Since England gains, the pass the while, 600 And struggles through the deep defile ? 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, His host Lord Surrey lead ? What vails the vain knight - errant's brand ? — O Douglas, for thy leading wand ! Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! 610 Oh ! for one hour of Wallace wight, Or well-skilled 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 Bannockbourne ! — The precious hour has passed in vain, And England's host has gained the plain, Wheeling their march and circling still Around the base of Flodden hill. 620 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 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 fair arrayed They file from out the hawthorn shade, 630 And sweep so gallant by ! With all their banners bravely spread, And all their armor flashing high, Saint 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 arrayed; The river must be quickly crossed, 640 That we may join Lord Surrey's host. If fight King James, — as well 1 trust That fight he will, and fight he must, — The Lady Clare behind our lines Shall tarry while the battle joins.' XXII Himself he swift on horseback threw, Scarce to the abbot bade adieu, Far less would listen to his prayer To leave behind the helpless Clare. Down to the Tweed his band he drew, 650 And muttered as the flood they view, ' The pheasant in the falcon's claw, He 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 Leat's eddies creep, He ventured desperately: And not a moment will he bide Till squire or groom before him ride; 660 Headmost of all 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 perforce, 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, 670 A caution not in vain; Deep need that day that every string, By wet unharmed, should sharply ring. A moment then Lord Marmion stayed, And breathed his steed, his men arrayed, Then forward moved his band, Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, He halted by a cross of stone, That on a hillock standing lone Did all the field command. 680 XXIII Hence might they see the full array Of either host for deadly fray; Their marshalled lines stretched east and west, And fronted north and south, And distant salutation passed From the loud cannon mouth; Not in the close successive rattle That breathes the voice of modern battle, But slow and far between. The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed: 'Here, by this cross,' he gently said, 691 ' You well may view the scene. CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE 147 Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare: Oh ! think of Marmion in thy prayer I — Thou wilt not ? — well, no less my care Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare. — You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard, With ten picked archers of my train; With England if the day go hard, To Berwick speed amain. — 700 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, And would not mark the maid's despair, Nor heed the discontented look From either squire, but spurred amain, And, dashing through the battle-plain, His way to Surrey took. XXIV i The good Lord Marmion, by my life ! 710 Welcome to danger's hour ! — Short greeting serves in time of strife. — Thus have I ranged my power: Myself will rule this central host, Stout Stanley fronts their right, My sons command the vaward post, With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight; Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light, Shall be in rearward of the fight, And succor those that need it most. 720 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 further greeting there he paid, But, parting like a thunderbolt, First in the vanguard made a halt, 730 Where such a shout there rose Of ' Marmion ! Marmion ! ' that the cry, Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, Startled the Scottish foes. Blount and Fitz-Enstace 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: 740 Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, jj Unworthy office here to stay ! No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — But see ! look up — on Flodden bent The Scottish foe has fired his tent.' And sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and vast, and rolling far, 750 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. — 760 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: Oh ! life and death were in the shout, Recoil and rally, charge and rout, And triumph and despair. 769 Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry. 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 seamew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far, The broken billows of the war, And plumed crests of chieftains brave 780 Floating like foam upon the wave; But nought distinct they see: Wide raged the battle on the plain; Spears shook and falchions flashed amain; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; Crests rose, and stooped, 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, 790 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 Badenoch-man, 148 MARMION And many a rugged Border clan, With Huntly and with Home. — Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Leunox and Argyle, Though there the western mountaineer 800 Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, And flung the feeble targe aside, And with both hands the broadsword plied. 'T was vain. — But Fortune, on the right, With fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight. Then fell that sp*otless banner white, The Howard's lion fell; Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Arouud the battle-yell. 810 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, W T hen rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It wavered mid the foes. No longer Blount the view could bear: ' By heaven and all its saints ! I swear 820 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, Followed 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, 830 Like pine-tree rooted from the ground It sank among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too, — yet stayed, As loath to leave the helpless maid, When, fast as shaft can fly, Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle bloody red, Lord Marmion's steed rushed by; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 840 A look and sign to Clara cast To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight. XXVIII 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 scattered van of England wheels; — She only said, as loud in air 850 The tumult roared, ' Is Wilton there ? ' — They fly, or, maddened by despair, Fight but to die, — ' Is Wilton there ? ' With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand; His arms were smeared with blood and sand. Dragged from among the horses' feet, 860 With dinted shield and helmet beat, The falcon-crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . Young Blount his armor did unlace, And, gazing on his ghastly face, Said, ' By Saint George, he 's gone ! That spear-wound has our master sped, And see the deep cut on his head ! Good-night to Marmion.' — 869 'Unnurtured Blount ! thy brawling cease: He opes his eyes,' said Eustace; 'peace ! ' XXIX When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Around gan Marmion wildly stare: ' Where 's Harry Blount ? Fitz - Eustace where ? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! Redeem 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, 880 To Dacre bear my signet-ring; Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie: Tunsta.ll lies dead upon the field, His lifeblood 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 Lancashire, Full upou Scotland's central host, 890 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, CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE 149 And half he murmured, ' Is there none Of all my halls have nurst, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water from the spring, 900 To slake my dying thirst ! ' O Woman ! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou ! — Scarce were the piteous accents said, When with the baron's casque the maid To the nigh streamlet ran: 910 Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; The plaintive voice alone she hears, Sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain's side Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn ? — behold her mark A little fountain cell, 920 Where water, clear as diamond spark, In a stone basin fell. Above, some half-worn letters say, SBrmfc. ttiraro. pilgrim, ortnft. ano. prap. ifor. tte fcmb. sou*, of. ^ib^Tt. JBrep. i©fto. built, tfoe. cro£5. antr. ttjeft. She filled the helm and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied A monk supporting Marmion's head; A pious man, whom duty brought 930 To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrive the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave — ' Is it the hand of Clare,' he said, 'Or injured Constance, bathes my head?' Then, as remembrance rose, — ' Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! I must redress her woes. 939 Short space, few words, are mine to spare; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! ' — ' Alas ! ' she said, ' the while, — Oh ! think of your immortal weal f 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. 949 ' 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 ! 960 A sinful heart makes feeble hand.' Then fainting down on earth he sunk, Supported by the trembling monk. With fruitless labor Clara bound And strove to stanch 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; 97 o For that she ever sung, 1 In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying ! ' So the notes rung. — ' Avoid thee, Fiend ! — with cruel hand Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — Oh ! look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine; Oh ! think on faith and bliss ! — By many a death-bed I have been, 980 And many a sinner's parting seen, But never aught like this.' — The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering swelled the gale, And ' Stanley ! ' was 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 ! — 990 Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on ! ' Were the last words of Marmion. XXXIII 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. i5° MARMION Where 's now their victor vaward wing, Where Huntley, and where Home ? — Oh ! for a blast of that dread horn, On Fontarabian echoes borne, iooo That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer, On Roncesvalles died ! Such blasts 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 Royal Standard flies, And round it toils and bleeds and dies ioio Our Caledonian pride ! In vain the wish — for far away, While spoil and havoc mark their way, Near Sibyl's Cross the plunderers stray. — * O lady,' cried the monk, ' away ! ' And placed her on her steed, And led her to the chapel fair Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. There all the night they spent in prayer, And at the dawn of morning there 1020 She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. But as they left the darkening heath More desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in volleys hailed, In headlong charge their horse assailed; 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 whirlwinds gO, 1030 Though billmen ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spearmen 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; Linked in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well, 1040 Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded king. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shattered 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 mightiest low, They melted from the field, as snow, 1050 When streams are swoln and southwinds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band Disordered through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish laud; 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 1060 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 shivered was fair Scotland's spear And broken was her shield ! Day dawns upon the mountain's side. — There, Scotland ! lay thy bravest pride, Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one; The sad survivors all are gone. — i< View not that corpse mistrustfully, Defaced and mangled though it be; Nor to yon Border castle high Look northward with upbraiding eye; Nor cherish hope in vain That, journeying far on foreign strand, The Royal Pilgrim to his land May yet return again. He saw the wreck his rashness wrought; Reckless of life, he desperate fought, 1080 And fell on Flodden plain: And well in death his trusty brand, Firm clenched within his manly hand, Beseemed the monarch slain. But oh ! how changed since yon blithe night ! — Gladly I turn me from the sight Unto my tale again. XXXVI Short is my tale: — Fitz-Eustace' care A pierced and mangled body bare To moated Lichfield's lofty pile; 1090 And there, beneath the southern aisle, A tomb with Gothic sculpture fair Did long Lord Marmion's image bear. — Now vainly for its site you look; 'T was levelled when fanatic Brook The fair cathedral stormed and took, L'ENVOY 5* But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint Chad, A guerdon meet the spoiler had ! — There erst was martial Marmion found, His feet upon a eouehant hound, noo His hands to heaven upraised; And all around, on 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 Followed his lord to Flodden plain, — One of those flowers whom plaintive lay mo In Scotland mourns as ' wede away:' Sore wounded, Sibyl's Cross he spied, And dragged him to its foot, and died Close by the noble Marmion's side. The spoilers stripped and gashed the slain, And thus their corpses were mista'en; And thus in the proud baron's tomb The lowly woodsman took the room. Less easy task it were to show Lord Marmion's nameless grave and low. They dug his grave e'en where he lay, 1121 But every mark is gone : Time's wasting hand has done away The simple Cross of Sibyl 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; 1130 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 be still. If ever in temptation strong Thou left'st the right path for the wrong, 1 140 If every devious step thus trod Still led thee further from the road, Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom On noble Marmion's lowly tomb; But say, * He died a gallant knight, With sword in hand, for England's right.' XXXVIII 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, 1150 That when brave Surrey's steed was slain 'T was Wilton mounted him again; 'T was Wilton's brand that deepest hewed Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood: Unnamed by Holinshed 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. 1160 Nor sing I to that simple maid To whom it must in terms be said That king and kinsmen did agree To bless fair Clara's constancy; Who cannot, unless I relate, Paint to her mind the bridal's state, — That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke; That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, 1169 And Katherine's hand the stocking threw; And afterwards, for many a day, That it was held enough to say, In blessing to a wedded pair, 1 Love they like Wilton and like Clare ! ' L'ENVOY TO THE READER 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 wit> And patriotic heart — as Pitt ! A garland for the hero's crest, And twined by her he loves the best ! To every lovely lady 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 soft to 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 I THE LADY OF THE LAKE INTRODUCTORY NOTE The Lady of the Lake, Scott says, was a very sudden thought. It was begun in the fall of 1809, when Marmion had enjoyed a year and a half of popularity. ' The first hundred lines,' he writes to Lady Abercorn, ' were written, I think, in October, 1809, and the first canto was sent to your Ladyship in Ireland so soon as it was complete, and you were the first who saw them, excepting one friend and the printer, Mr. Ballantyne, who is a great critic as well as an excellent printer. I have been always, God help me, too poor and too impatient to let my poems lie by me for years, or for months either ; on the contrary, they have hitherto been always sent to the press before they were a third part finished. This is, to be sure, a very reprehensible practice in many respects, and I hope I shall get the better of it the next time.' He had by this time separated from Consta- ble and made Ballantyne's interests his own. In his ' Introduction ' given below, Scott details in lively fashion the effect which the reading of the poem, while in course of composition, had upon the friend who started in to ' heeze up his hope.' Lockhart quotes also from the recollection of Robert Cadell an account of the interest excited by the poem before it was published. ' James Ballantyne read the cantos from time to time to select coteries, as they advanced at press. Common fame was loud in their favor ; a great poem was on all hands anticipated. I do not recollect that any of all the author's works was ever looked for with more intense anxiety, or that any one of them excited a more extraordinary sensation when it did appear. The whole country rang with the praises of the poet — crowds set off to view the scenery of Loch Katrine, till then comparatively unknown ; and as the book came out just before the season for excursions, every house and inn in that neighborhood was crammed with a constant succession of visitors.' ' I have tried,' writes Scott to Lady Abercorn, 'according to promise, to make " a knight of love who never broke a vow." But welladay, though I have succeeded tolerably with the damsel, my lover, spite of my best exertions, is like to turn out what the players call a walking gentleman. It is incredible the pains it has cost me to give him a little dignity.' And then follows this curious and rueful re- flection. 'Notwithstanding this, I have had in my time melancholy cause to paint f] experience, for I gained no advantage from three years' constancy, except the said experi- ence and some advantage to my conversation and manners. Mrs. Scott's match and mine was of our own making, and proceeded from the most sincere affection on both sides, which has rather increased than diminished during twelve years' marriage. But it was something short of love in all its forms, which I suspect people only feel once in their lives ; folks who have been nearly drowned in bathing rarely venturing a second time out of their depth.' In a later letter written to the same lady, he returns to the subject, which plainly gave him some uneasiness. ' As for my lover, I find with deep regret that, however interesting lovers are to each other, it is no easy matter to render them generally interesting. There was, however, another reason for keeping Malcolm Grseme's character a little under, as the painters say, for it must otherwise have interfered with that of the king, which I was more anxious to bring forward in splendor, or something like it.' Once again, in a letter to Miss Smith, who took the part of Ellen in a dramatization of the poem, he wrote : ' You must know this Mal- colm Graeme was a great plague to me from the beginning. You ladies can hardly com- prehend how very stupid lovers are to every- body but mistresses. I gave him that dip in the lake by way of making him do something ; but wet or dry I could make nothing of him. His insignificance is the greatest defect among many others in the poem ; but the canvas was not broad enough to include him, considering I had to group the king, Roderick, and Doug- las.' On another point, Scott had been criticised by his vigilant friend Morritt. ' The only dis- appointment,' writes Morritt, 'I felt in the poem is your own fault. The character and terrific birth of Brian is so highly wrought that I expected him to appear again in the di- nouement, and wanted to hear something more of him ; but as we do not hear of his death, it is your own fault for introducing us to an acquaintance of so much promise and not tell- ing us how he was afterwards disposed of.' To this Scott replied : ' Your criticism is quite just as to the Son of the dry bone, Brian. Truth is, I had intended the battle should •52 AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 53 have been more detailed, and that some of the persons mentioned in the third canto, and Brian in particular, should have been commem- orated. I intended he should have been shot like a corbie on a craig as he was excommu- nicating and anathematizing the Saxons from some of the predominant peaks in the Trosachs. But I found the battle in itself too much dis- placed to admit of being prolonged by any de- tails which could be spared. For it was in the first place episodical, and then all the princi- pal characters had been disposed of before it came on, and were absent at the time of action, and nothing hinged upon the issue of conse- quence to the fable. So I e'en left it to the judgment of my reader whether Brian was worried in the Trosachs, or escaped to take earth in his old retreat in Benharrow, near Ardkinlas.' The Lady of the Lake came out early in May, 1810, and its popularity is shown by the haste with which the dramatists laid hold of it, three separate versions being attempted. i That Mr. Siddons is bringing it out,' Scott writes to the actress, Miss Smith, ' is very cer- tain, but it is equally so that I have not seen and do not intend to see a line of it, because I would not willingly have the public of this place [Edinburgh] suppose that I was in any degree responsible for the success of the piece ; it would be like submitting to be twice tried for the same offence. My utmost knowledge has been derived from chatting with Mrs. Sid- dons and Mrs. Young in the green-room, where I have been an occasional lounger since our company has been put on a respectable foot- ing. . . . Whether the dialogue is in verse or prose I really do not know. There is a third Lady of the Lake on the tapis at Covent Gar- den, dramatized by no less genius than the united firm of Reynolds and Morton. But though I have these theatrical grandchildren, as I may call them, I have seen none of them. I shall go to the Edinburgh piece when it is rehearsed with lights and scenes, and if I see anything that I think worth your adopting I will write to you. The strength will probably lie in the dumb show, music and decorations, for I have no idea that the language can be rendered very dramatic. If any person can make aught of it, I am sure you will. The mad Lowland captive if well played, should, I think, answer. I wish I could give you an idea of the original, whom I really saw in the Pass of Gleneoe many years ago. It is one of the wildest and most tremendous passes in the Highlands, winding through huge masses of rock without a pile of verdure, and between mountains that seem rent asunder by an earthquake. This poor woman had placed herself in the wildest attitude imaginable, upon the very top of one of these huge frag- ments ; she had scarce any covering but a tat- tered plaid, which left her arms, legs, and neck bare to the weather. Her long shaggy black hair was streaming backwards in the wind, and exposed a face rather wild and wasted than ugly, and bearing a very peculiar expression of frenzy. She had a handful of eagle's feathers in her hand. . . . The lady who plays this part should beware of singing with too stiff regularity ; even her music, or rather her style of singing it, should be a little mad.' Scott summed up his own analysis of the three long poems thus far published, when he wrote in 1812 : ' The force in the Lay is thrown on style ; in Marmion, on description, and in The Lady of the Lake, on incident.' When reissuing the poem in the collective edition of 1830, he prefixed the following INTRODUCTION. After the success of Marmion, I felt inclined to exclaim with Ulysses in the Odyssey : — Outos ftev Si] ae#Ao? aaaro; e/CTereAea-Tai' Nvv avre ctkottou aAAoi\ Odys. x. 5. 4 One venturous game my hand has won to-day — Another, gallants, yet remains to play. ' The ancient manners, the habits and cus- toms of the aboriginal race by whom the High- lands of Scotland were inhabited, had always appeared to me peculiarly adapted to poetry. The change in their manners, too, had taken place almost within my own time, or at least I had learned many particulars concerning the ancient state of the Highlands from the old men of the last generation. I had always thought the old Scottish Gael highly adapted for poetical composition. The feuds and politi- cal dissensions which, half a century earlier, would have rendered the richer and wealthier part of the kingdom indisposed to countenance a poem, the scene of which was laid in the Highlands, were now sunk in the generous compassion which the English, more than any other nation, feel for the misfortunes of an honorable foe. The Poems of Ossian had by their popularity sufficiently shown that if writ- ings on Highland subjects were qualified to interest the reader, mere national prejudices were, in the present day, very unlikely to inter- fere with their success. 154 THE LADY OF THE LAKE I had also read a great deal, seen much, and heard more, of that romantic country where I was in the habit of spending some time every autumn ; and the scenery of Loch Katrine was connected with the recollection of many a dear friend and merry expedition of former days. This poem, the action of which lay among scenes so beautiful and so deeply imprinted on my recollections, was a labor of love, and it was no less so to recall the manners and in- cidents introduced. The frequent custom of James IV., and particularly of James V., to walk through their kingdom in disguise, af- forded me the hint of an incident which never fails to be interesting if managed with the slightest address or dexterity. I may now confess, however, that the employ- ment, though attended with great pleasure, was not without its doubts and anxieties. A lady, to whom I was nearly related, and with whom I lived, daring her whole life, on the most brotherly terms of affection, was residing with me at the time when the work was in progress, and used to ask me what I could possibly do to rise so early in the morning (that happening to be the most convenient to me for composition). At last I told her the subject of my meditations ; and I can never forget the anxiety and affection expressed in her reply. ' Do not be so rash,' she said, ' my dearest cousin. You are already popular, — more so, perhaps, than you yourself will believe, or than even I, or other partial friends, can fairly allow to your merit. You stand high, — do not rashly attempt to climb higher, and incur the risk of a fall ; for, de- pend upon it, a favorite will not be permitted even to stumble with impunity.' I replied to this affectionate expostulation in the words of Montrose, — ' " He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all." 1 If I fail,' I said, for the dialogue is strong in my recollection, 'it is a sign that I ought never to have succeeded, and I will write prose for life : you shall see no change in my temper, nor will I eat a single meal the worse. But if I succeed, — ' " Up with the bonnie blue bonnet, The dirk, and the feather, and a' ! " Afterwards I showed my affectionate and anxious critic the first canto of the poem, which reconciled her to my imprudence. Neverthe- less, although I answered thus confidently, with the obstinacy often said to be proper to those who bear my surname, I acknowledge that my confidence was considerably shaken by the warning 1 of her excellent taste and unbiassed friendship. Nor was I much comforted by her retractation of the unfavorable judgment, when I recollected how likely a natural partiality was to effect that change of opinion. In such cases affection rises like a light on the canvas, im- proves any favorable tints which it formerly exhibited, and throws its defects into the shade. I remember that about the same time a friend started in to ' heeze up my hope,' like the ' sportsman with his cutty gun,' in the old song. He was bred a farmer, but a man of powerful understanding, natural good taste, and warm poetical f eeling, perfectly competent to supply the wants of an imperfect or irregu- lar education. He was a passionate admirer of field-sports, which we often pursued together. As this friend happened to dine with me at Ashestiel one day, I took the opportunity of reading to him the first canto of The Lady of the Lake, in order to ascertain the effect the poem was likely to produce upon a person who was but too favorable a representative of readers at large. It is of course to be sup- posed that I determined rather to guide my opinion by what my friend might appear to feel, than by what he might think fit to say. His reception of my recitation, or prelection, was rather singular. He placed his hand across his brow, and listened with great atten- tion, through the whole account of the stag- hunt, till the dogs threw themselves into the lake to follow their master, who embarks with Ellen Douglas. He then started up with a sudden exclamation, struck his hand on the table, and declared, in a voice of censure cal- culated for the occasion, that the dogs must have been totally ruined by being permitted to take the water after such a severe chase. I own I was much encouraged by the species of revery which had possessed so zealous a follower of the sports of the ancient Nimrod, who had been completely surprised out of all doubts of the reality of the tale. Another of his remarks gave me less pleasure. He de- tected the identity of the king with the wan- dering knight, Fitz-James, when he winds his bugle to summon his attendants. He was probably thinking of the lively, but somewhat licentious, old ballad, in which the denouement of a royal intrigue takes place as follows : — ' He took a bugle frae his side, He blew both loud and shrill, And four and twenty belted knights Came skipping ower the hill ; Then he took out a little knife, Let a' his duddies fa', And he was the brawest gentleman That was aniang them a'. And we '11 go no more a roving, * etc. This discovery, as Mr. Pepys says of the rent in his camlet cloak, was but a trifle, yet it AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION *55 troubled me ; and I was at a good deal of pains to efface any marks by wbieh I thought my secret could be traced before the conclusion, when I relied on it with the same hope of pro- ducing effect, with which the Irish post-boy is said to reserve a ' trot for the avenue.' I took uncommon pains to verify the accu- racy of the local circumstances of this story. I recollect, in particular, that to ascertain whether I was telling a probable tale I went into Perthshire, to see whether King James could actually have ridden from the banks of Loch Vennachar to Stirling Castle within the time supposed in the poem, and had the plea- sure to satisfy myself that it was quite prac- ticable. After a considerable delay, The Lady of the Lake appeared in June, 1810 ; and its suc- cess was certainly so extraordinary as to induce me for the moment to conclude that I had at last fixed a nail in the proverbially inconstant wheel of Fortune, whose stability in behalf of an individual who had so boldly courted her favors for three successive times had not as yet been shaken. I had attained, perhaps, that degree of reputation at which prudence, or certainly timidity, would have made a halt, and discontinued efforts by which I was far more likely to diminish my fame than to in- crease it. But, as the celebrated John Wilkes is said to have explained to his late Majesty, that he himself, amid his full tide of popular- ity, was never a Wilkite, so I can, with honest truth, exculpate myself from having been at any time a partisan of my own poetry, even when it was in the highest fashion with the million. It must not be supposed that I was either so ungrateful or so superabundantly candid as to despise or scorn the value of those whose voice had elevated me so much higher than my own opinion told me I deserved. I felt, on the contrary, the more grateful to the public, as receiving that from partiality to me, which I could not have claimed from merit ; and I endeavored to deserve the partiality by continuing such exertions as I was capable of for their amusement. It may be that I did not, in this continued course of scribbling, consult either the interest of the public or my own. But the former had effectual means of defending themselves, and could, by their coldness, sufficiently check any approach to intrusion ; and for myself, I had now for several years dedicated my hours so much to literary labor that I should have felt difficulty in employing myself otherwise ; and so, like Dogberry, I generously bestowed all my tediousness on the public, comforting my- self with the reflection that, if posterity should think me undeserving of the favor with which I was regarded by my contemporaries, ' they could not but say I had the crown,' and had. enjoyed for a time that popularity which is so much coveted. I conceived, however, that I held the dis- tinguished situation I had obtained, however unworthily, rather like the champion of pugi- lism, on the condition of being always ready to show proofs of my skill, than in the manner of the champion of chivalry, who performs his duties only on rare and solemn occasions. I was in any case conscious that I could not long hold a situation which the caprice rather than the judgment of the public had bestowed upon me, and preferred being deprived of my pre- cedence by some more worthy rival, to sinking into contempt for my indolence, and losing my reputation by what Scottish lawyers call the negative prescription. Accordingly, those who choose to look at the Introduction to Eokeby, will be able to trace the steps by which I de- clined as a poet to figure as a novelist ; as the ballad says, Queen Eleanor sunk at Charing Cross to rise again at Queenhithe. It only remains for me to say that, during my short preeminence of popularity, I faith- fully observed the rules of moderation which I had resolved to follow before I began my course as a man of letters. If a man is deter- mined to make a noise in the world, he is as sure to encounter abuse and ridicule, as he who gallops furiously through a village must reckon on being followed by the curs in full cry. Experienced persons know that in stretch- ing to flog the latter, the rider is very apt to catch a bad fall ; nor is an attempt to chastise a malignant critic attended with less danger to the author. On this principle, I let parody, burlesque, and squibs find their own level ; and while the latter hissed most fiercely, I was cautious never to catch them up, as schoolboys do, to throw them back against the naughty boy who fired them off, wisely remembering that they are in such cases apt to explode in the handling. Let me add that my reign (since Byron has so called it) was marked by some instances of good-nature as well as pa- tience. I never refused a literary person of merit such services in smoothing his way to the public as were in my power; and I had the advantage — rather an uncommon one with our irritable race — to enjoy general favor without incurring permanent ill-will, so far as is known to me, among any of my contempo- raries. Abbotsfoed, April, 1830. i5* THE LADY OF THE LAKE THE LADY OF THE LAKE TO THE MOST NOBLE JOHN JAMES, MARQUIS OF ABERCORN &c, &c, &c, THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. ARGUMENT The scene of the following Poem is laid chiefly in the vicinity of Loch Katrine, in the Western Highlands of Perthshire. The time of Action includes Six Days, and the transactions of each Day occupy a Canto. CANTO FIRST THE CHASE Harp of the North ! that mouldering long hast hung On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fil- lan's spring, And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung, Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Muffling with verdant ringlet every string, — O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep ? Mid rustling leaves and fountains mur- muring, Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, id a wan to weep ? Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 10 Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud. At each according pause was heard aloud Thine ardent symphony sublime and high ! Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed; 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 the hand That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray; 20 O, wake once more ! though scarce my skill command Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away, And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway, The wizard note has not been touched in vain. Then silent be no more ! Enchantress, wake again ! The stag at eve had drunk his fill, Where danced the moon on Monan's rill, And deep his midnight lair had made 30 In lone Gleuartney's hazel shade; But when the sun his beacon red Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head, The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay Resounded up the rocky way, And faint, from farther distance borne, Were heard the clanging hoof and horn. As Chief, who hears his warder call, ' To arms ! the foe men storm the wall/ The antlered monarch of the waste 40 Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. But ere his fleet career he took, The dew-drops from his flanks he shook; CANTO FIRST: THE CHASE 157 Like crested leader proud and high Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky; A moment gazed adown the dale, A moment snuffed the tainted gale, A moment listened to the cry, That thickened as the chase drew nigh; Then, as the headmost foes appeared, 50 With one brave bound the copse he cleared, And, stretching forward free and far, Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var. Yelled on the view the opening pack; Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back; To many a mingled sound at once The awakened mountain gave response. A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, Clattered a hundred steeds along, Their peal the merry horns rung out, 60 A hundred voices joined the shout; With hark and whoop and wild halloo, No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. Far from the tumult fled the roe, Close iu her covert cowered 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 70 Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn, And silence settled, wide and still, On the lone wood and mighty hill. Less loud the sounds of sylvan war Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, And roused the cavern where, 't is 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, stayed perforce, 80 Was 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. The noble stag was pausing now Upon the mountain's southern brow, Where broad extended, far beneath, The varied realms of fair Menteith. With anxious eye he wandered o'er 90 Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, And pondered refuge from his toil, By far Lochard or Aberfovle. But nearer was the copse wood gray That waved and wept on Loch Achray, And mingled with the pine-trees blue On the bold cliffs of Benvenue. Fresh vigor with the hope returned, With flying foot the heath he spurned, Held westward with unwearied race, 100 And left behind the panting chase. VI 'T were long to tell what steeds gave o'er, As swept the hunt through Cambusmore; What reins were tightened in despair, When rose Benledi's ridge in air; Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath, Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith, — For twice that day, from shore to shore, The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. Few were the stragglers, following far, no That reached the lake of Vennachar; And when the Brigg of Turk was won, The headmost horseman rode alone. VII Alone, but with unbated zeal, That horseman plied the scourge and steel; For jaded now, and spent with toil, Embossed with foam, and dark with soil, While every gasp with sobs he drew, The laboring stag strained full in view. Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 120 Unmatched 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 toiled the bloodhounds stanch; 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. 130 VIII The Hunter marked that mountain high, The lone lake's western boundary, And deemed the stag must turn to bay, Where that huge rampart barred the way; Already glorying in the prize, Measured his antlers with his eyes; For the death-wound and death-halloo Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew: — But thundering as he came prepared, i5» THE LADY OF THE LAKE With ready arm and weapon bared, 140 The wily quarry shunned the shock, And turned him from the opposing rock; Then, dashing down a darksome glen, Soon lost to hound and Hunter's ken, In the deep Trosachs' wildest nook His solitary refuge took. There, while close couched the thicket shed Cold dews and wild flowers on his head, He heard the baffled dogs in vain Rave through the hollow pass amain, 150 Chiding the rocks that yelled again. Close on the hounds the Hunter came, To cheer them on the vanished 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 labors o'er, Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more; Then, touched with pity and remorse, 160 He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. ' I little thought, when first thy rein I slacked 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 gray ! ' Then through the dell his horn resounds, From vain pursuit to call the hounds. 169 Back limped, with slow and crippled pace, The sulky leaders of the chase; Close to their master's side they pressed, With drooping tail and humbled crest; But still the dingle's hollow throat Prolonged the swelling bugle-note. The owlets started from their dream, The eagles answered with their scream, Round and around the sounds were cast, Till echo seemed an answering blast; And on the Hunter hied his way, 180 To join some comrades of the day, Yet often paused, so strange the road, So wondrous were the scenes it showed. XI The western waves of ebbing day Rolled 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, 190 Round many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; Round 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, Formed turret, dome, or battlement, Or seemed fantastically set 200 With cupola or minaret, Wild crests as pagod ever decked, Or mosque of Eastern architect. Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Nor lacked they many a banner fair; For, from their shivered brows displayed, Far o'er the unfathomable glade, All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen, The brier-rose fell in streamers green, And creeping shrubs of thousand dyes 210 Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. XII Boon nature scattered, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. Here eglantine embalmed the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale and violet flower Found in each clift a narrow bower; Foxglove and nightshade, side by side, Emblems of punishment and pride, 219 Grouped their dark hues with every stain The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath, Gray 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 shattered trunk, and frequent flung, Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high, His boughs athwart the narrowed sky. 229 Highest of all, where white peaks glanced, Where glistening 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. Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep A narrow inlet, still and deep, Affording scarce such breadth of brim CANTO FIRST: THE CHASE As served the wild duck's brood to swim. 239 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 strayed, Still broader sweep its channels made. The shaggy mounds no longer stood, Emerging from entangled wood, But, wave-encircled, seemed to float, Like castle girdled with its moat; Yet broader floods extending still 250 Divide them from their parent hill, Till each, 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 far-projecting precipice. The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid; And thus an airy point he won, 260 "Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnished sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled, In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light, And mountains that like giants stand To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue 270 Down to the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feathered o'er His ruined 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; 279 And, ' What 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 yonder meadow far away, The turrets of a cloister gray; How blithely might the bugle-horn Chide on the lake the lingering morn ! 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, 29 r 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 bewildered stranger call To friendly feast and lighted hall. 30a XVI ' Blithe were it then to wander here ! But now — beshrew yon nimble deer — Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, The copse must give my evening fare; Some mossy bank my couch must be, Some rustling oak my canopy. Yet pass we that; the war and chase Give little choice of resting-place; — A summer night in greenwood spent Were but to-morrow's merriment: 310 But hosts may in these wilds abound, Such as are better missed 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 worst that may betide, Ere now this falchion has been tried.' XVII But scarce again his horn he wound, When lo ! forth starting at the sound, 320 From underneath 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, And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, The beach of pebbles bright as snow. 330. The boat had touched this silver strand Just as the Hunter left his stand ^~~~ And stood concealed 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 upraised, and look intent, And eye and ear attentive bent, THE LADY OF THE LAKE ,nd lips apart, cian art, 340 >eemed to stand,' the strand. XVIII 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 350 Short glimpses of a breast of snow: What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace, — A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; E'en the slight harebell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread: What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue, — Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, 360 The listener held his breath to hear ! XIX A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid; Her satin snood, her silken plaid, Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed. 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, 370 And never brooch the folds combined 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 confessed The guileless movements of her breast; Whether joy danced in her dark eye, Or woe or pity claimed a sigh, 380 Or filial love was glowing there, Or meek devotion poured a prayer, Or tale of injury called forth The indignant spirit of the North. One only passion unrevealed With maiden pride the maid concealed, Yet not less purely felt the flame ; — O, need I tell that passion's name ? Impatient of the silent horn, Now on the gale her voice was borne: — 390 ' 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 uttered fell, The echoes could not catch the swell. ' A stranger I,' the Huntsman said, Advancing from the hazel shade. The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar Pushed her light shallop from the shore, 400 And when a space was gained between, Closer she drew her bosom's screen; — So forth the startled swan would swing, So turn to prune his ruffled wing. Then safe, though fluttered and amazed, She paused, and on the stranger gazed. Not his the form, nor his the eye, That youthful maidens wont to fly. On his bold visage middle age Had slightly pressed its signet sage, 410 Yet had not quenched the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth; Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare, The sparkling 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 peaceful garb arrayed, And weaponless except his blade, 420 His stately mien as well implied A high-born heart, a martial pride, As if a baron's crest he wore, And sheathed in armor trode the shore. Slighting the petty need lie showed, He told of his benighted road; His ready speech flowed fair and free, In phrase of gentlest courtesy, Yet seemed that tone and gesture bland Less used to sue than to command. 430 XXII Awhile the maid the stranger eyed, And, reassured, at length replied, That Highland halls were open still To wildered wanderers of the hill. ' Nor think you unexpected c To yon lone isle, our desert Before the heath had lost th This morn, a couch was pull Y OF THE LAKE ng ■ 54° or tne am, a ua,.a.Gu. u^uv pped from the sheath, that careless flung Upon a stag's huge antlers swung; For all around, the walls to grace, Hung 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 tusked trophies of the boar. Here grins the wolf as when he died, 550 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 stained, That blackening streaks of blood retained, And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white, With otter's fur and seal's unite, In rude and uncouth tapestry all, To garnish forth the sylvan hall. 559 XXVIII The wondering stranger round him gazed, And next the fallen weapon raised: — Few were the arms whose sinewy strength Sufficed to stretch it forth at length. And as the brand he poised and swayed, f I never knew but one,' he said, f Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield A blade like this in battle-field.' She sighed, then smiled and took the word : * You see the guardian champion's sword; As light it trembles in his hand 570 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, Whose easy step and stately port Had well become a princely court, To whom, though more than kindred knew, 580 Young Ellen gave a mother's due. Meet welcome to her guest she made, And every courteous rite was paid, That hospitality could claim, Though all unasked his birth ai Such then the reverence to a gi That fellest foe might join the And from his deadliest foeman Unquestioned turn, the banque At length his rank the strange: ' The Knight of Snowdoun, t James ; Lord of a barren heritage, Which his brave sires, from ag By their good swords had held His sire had fallen in such tun And he, God wot, was forced t Oft for his right with blade in This morning with Lord Mora He chased a stalwart stag in v Outstripped his comrades, mis; Lost his good steed, and wand< 1 Fain would the Knight in turn E The name and state of Ellen's Well showed the elder lady's ] That courts and cities she had Ellen, though more her looks < The simple grace of sylvan mj In speech and gesture, form ai Showed she was come of gentl 'T were strange in ruder rank Such looks, such manners, and Each hint the Knight of Snow Dame Margaret heard with siJ Or Ellen, innocently gay, Turned all inquiry light away: - ' Weird women we ! by dale a We dwell, afar from tower an We stem the flood, we ride thi On wandering knights our spe While viewless minstrels toue 'T is thus our charmed rhyme; She sung, and still a harp uns< Filled up the symphony betwe ' Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o' Sleep the sleep that know ing; Dream of battled fields no mc Days of danger, nights of \s In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch arc Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber de\A Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'e CANTO FIRST: THE CHASK lountain's purple head gan and heath-cock bled, 440 id nets have swept the mere, )rth your evening cheer.' — 3 rood, my lovely maid, .y has erred,' he said; ,ve I to claim, misplaced, t of expected guest. here by fortune tost, friends, my courser lost, e, believe me, fair, ?awn your mountain air, 450 ake's romantic strand t in fairy land ! ' — ve,' the maid replied, skiff approached the side, — re, that ne'er before s trod Loch Katrine's shore; ir as yesternight, ne foretold your plight, — 1 sire, whose eye intent dsioned future bent. 460 steed, a dappled gray, eath the birchen way; fc your form and mien, f-suit of Lincoln green, d horn so gayly gilt, l's crooked blade and hilt, h heron plumage trim, hounds so dark and grim. all should ready be aest of fair degree ; 470 eld his prophecy, it was my father's horn s o'er the lake were borne.' r smiled: — 'Since to your ^rant-knight I come, y prophet sooth and old, btless, for achievement bold, :ont each high emprise glance of those bright eyes. rst the task to guide 480 igate o'er the tide.' th smile suppressed and sly, Dnted saw him try; ;ure, if e'er before, id had grasped an oar: ain strength his strokes he lake the shallop flew: With heads erect and wl The hounds behind their pa, Nor free The dark Until tht And mo< The stra: 'T was al Nor traa That hue Until the . A clambe That winded through the tangled screen, And opened on a narrow green, Where weeping birch and willow round With their long fibres swept the ground. Here, for retreat in dangerous hour, Some chief had framed a rustic bower. XXVI It was a lodge of ample size, But strange of structure and device; Of such materials as around The workman's hand had readiest found. Lopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared, 5I0 And by the hatchet rudely squared, To give the walls their destined height, The sturdy oak and ash unite; While moss and clay and leaves combined To fence each crevice from the wind. The lighter pine-trees overhead Their slender length for rafters spread, And withered heath and rushes dry Supplied a russet canopy. Due westward, fronting to the green, 520 A rural portico was seen, Aloft on native pillars borne, Of mountain fir with bark unshorn, Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine The ivy and Idsean vine, The clematis, the favored 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 stayed, 530 And gayly to the stranger said: ' On heaven and on thy lady call, And enter the enchanted hall ! ' ' My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, My gentle guide, in following thee ! ' — CANTO FIRST: THE CHASE 163 Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. ' No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang of war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 640 At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champ- ing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.' XXXII She paused, — then, blushing, led the lay, To grace the stranger of the day. Her mellow notes awhile prolong 650 The cadence of the flowing song, Till to her lips in measured frame The minstrel verse spontaneous came. SONG CONTINUED 1 Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done ; While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille'. Sleep ! the deer is in his den; Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying: Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen 660 How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done; Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye Here no bugles sound reveille'.' The hall was cleared, — the stranger's bed Was there of mountain heather spread, Where oft a hundred guests had lain, And dreamed their forest sports again. But vainly did the heath-flower shed 670 Its moorland fragrance round his head; Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest The fever of his tronl ] }1 st. In broken dream ose Of varied perils, jes: His steed now flc j brake, Now sinks his bs lake ; Now leader of a His standard fal s lost. Then, — from my couch may heavenly might 680 Chase that worst phantom of the night ! — Again returned the scenes of youth, Of confident, undoubting truth; Again his soul he interchanged With friends whose hearts were long es- tranged. They come, in dim procession led, 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, — 690 O were his senses false or true ? Dreamed he of death or broken vow, Or is it all a vision now ? XXXIV At length, with Ellen in a grove He seemed to walk and speak of love; She listened 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, 700 Upon its head a helmet shone; Slowly enlarged to giant size, With darkened cheek and threatening eyes, The grisly visage, stern and hoar, To Ellen still a likeness bore. — He woke, and, panting with affright, Recalled the vision of the night. The hearth's decaying brands were red, And deep and dusky lustre shed, Half showing, half concealing, all 710 The uncouth trophies of the hall. Mid those the stranger fixed his eye Where that huge falchion hung on high, And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng, Rushed, chasing 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 their rich perfume; The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm ; 720 The aspens slept beneath the calm; The silver light, with quivering glance, Played on the water's still expanse^ — Wild were the heart whose passion's sway Could rage beneath the sober ray ! He felt its calm, that warrior guest, 164 THE LADY OF THE LAKE While thus he communed with his breast: — ' Why is it, at each turn I trace Some memory of that exiled race ? Can I not mountain maiden spy, 730 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 fevered dream, But still the Douglas is the theme ? I '11 dream no more, — by manly mind Not even in sleep is will resigned. My midnight orisons said o'er, I '11 turn to rest, and dream no more.' His midnight orisons he told, 740 A prayer with every bead of gold, Consigned to heaven his cares and woes, And sunk in undisturbed repose, Until the heath-cock shrilly crew, And morning dawned on Benvenue. CANTO SECOND THE ISLAND I At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing, 'T is morning prompts the linnet's blith- est lay, All Nature's children feel the matin spring Of life reviving, with reviving day; And while yon little bark glides down the bay, Wafting the stranger on his way again, Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel gray, And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain, Mixed with the sounding harp, O white- haired Allan-bane ! SONG ' Not faster yonder rowers' might i< Flings from their oars the spray, Not faster yonder rippling bright, That tracks the shallop's course in light, Melts in the lake away, Than men from memory erase The benefits of former days; Then, stranger, go ! good speed the while, Nor think again of the lonely isle. ' High place to thee in royal court, High place in battled line, Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport ! Where beauty sees the brave resort, The honored meed be thine ! True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, Thy lady constant, kind, and dear, And lost in love's and friendship's smile Be memory of the lonely isle ! HI SONG CONTINUED ' But if beneath yon southern sky A plaided stranger roam, Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, And sunken cheek and heavy eye, Pine for his Highland home ; Then, warrior, then be thine to show The care that soothes a wanderer's woe; Remember then thy hap erewhile, A stranger in the lonely isle. ' Or if on life's uncertain main Mishap shall mar thy sail; If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, Woe, want, and exile thou sustain 40 Beneath the fickle gale ; Waste not a sigh on fortune changed, On thankless courts, or friends estranged, But come where kindred worth shall smile, To greet thee in the lonely isle.' IV As died the stfunds upon the tide, The shallop reached the mainland side, And ere his onward way he took, The stranger cast a lingering look, Where easily his eye might reach 50 The Harper on the islet beach, Reclined against a blighted tree, As wasted, gray, 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 flame. His hand, reclined upon the wire, Seemed watching the awakening fire ; So still he sat as those who wait 60 Till judgment speak the doom of fate; So still, as if no breeze might dare To lift one lock of hoary hair; So still, as life itself were fled In the last sound his harp had sped. CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND 165 Upon a rock with lichens wild, Beside him Ellen sat and smiled. — Smiled she to see the stately drake Lead forth his fleet upon the lake, While her vexed spaniel from the beach 70 Bayed at the prize beyond his reach ? Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows, Why deepened 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 ire Condemn the heroine of my lyre, Show me the fair would scorn to spy 80 And prize such conquest of her eye ! VI While yet he loitered on the spot, It seemed as Ellen marked him not; But when he turned 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 90 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, Watched 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 ! ' 'T was thus upbraiding conscience said, — I Not so had Malcolm idly hung 100 On the smooth phrase of Southern tongue; Not so had Malcolm strained his eye Another step than thine to spy.' — ' Wake, Allan-bane,' aloud she cried To the old minstrel b}^ her side, — ' Arouse thee from thy moody dream ! I '11 give thy harp heroic theme, And warm thee with a noble name ; Pour forth the glory of the Grseme ! ' Scarce from her lip the word had rushed, no When deep the conscious maiden blushed; For of his clan, in hall and bower, Young Malcolm Graeme was held the flower. The minstrel waked his harp, — three times Arose the well-known martial chimes, And thrice their high heroic pride In melancholy murmurs died. ' Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,' Clasping his withered hands, he said, * Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain, 120 Though all unwont to bid in vain. Alas ! than mine a mightier hand Has tuned my harp, my strings has spanned ! 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 fathers said, 130 This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed, Can thus its master's fate foretell, Then welcome be the minstrel's knell ! VIII ' But ah ! dear lady, thus it sighed , 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, 140 Wailed loud through Bothwell's bannered hall, Ere Douglases, to ruin driven, Were exiled from their native heaven. — O ! if yet worse mishap and woe My master's house must 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 shall flow, 150 Fraught with unutterable woe, Then shivered shall thy fragments lie, Thy master cast him down and die ! ' IX Soothing she answered him : ' Assuage, Mine honored 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, 160 i66 THE LADY OF THE LAKE 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. My sire, in native virtue great, Resigning lordship, lands, and state, Not then to fortune more resigned Than yonder oak might give the wind; The graceful foliage storms may reave, 170 The noble stem they cannot grieve. For me ' — she stooped, and, looking round, Plucked a blue harebell from the ground, — ' For me, whose memory scarce conveys 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, 180 Allan, a bard is bound to swear He ne'er saw coronet so fair.' Then playfully the chaplet wild She wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled. 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 gazed, till fond regret and pride Thrilled to a tear, then thus replied: 190 ' Loveliest and best ! thou little know'st The rank, the honors, thou hast lost ! O, might I live to see thee grace, In Scotland's court, thy birthright place, To see my favorite'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 ! ' 200 XI 'Fair dreams are these,' the maiden cried, — Light was her accent, yet she sighed, — ' Yet is this mossy rock to me Worth splendid chair and canopy; Nor would my footstep spring more gay In courtly dance than blithe strathspey, 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, — 2x0 Thou, flattering bard ! thyself wilt say, That grim Sir Roderick 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.' — The ancient bard her glee repressed: ' 111 hast thou chosen theme for jest ! For who, through all this western wild, Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled ? 220 In Holy-Rood 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 outlawed, 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, Disowned by every noble peer, 230 Even the rude refuge we have here ? Alas, this wild marauding Chief Alone might hazard our relief, And now thy maiden charms expand, Looks for his guerdon in thy hand; Full soon may dispensation sought, To back his suit, from Rome be brought. Then, though an exile on the hill, Thy father, as the Douglas, still Be held in reverence and fear; 240 And though to Roderick thou 'rt so dear That thou mightst guide with silken thread, Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread, Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain ! Thy hand is on a lion's mane.' — ' Minstrel,' the maid replied, and high Her father's soul glanced from her eye, ' My debts to Roderick'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 sorrowed 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 Roderick should command My blood, my life, — but not my hand. CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND 167 Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell A votaress in Maronnan's cell; 260 Rather 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. 'Thou shak'st, good friend, thy tresses gray, — That pleading look, what can it say But what I own ? — I grant him brave, 269 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 More mercy for a foe would feel: I grant him liberal, to fling Among his clan the wealth they bring, When back by lake and glen they wind, And in the Lowland leave behind, 280 Where once some pleasant hamlet stood, A mass of ashes slaked with blood. The hand that for my father fought I honor, as his daughter ought; But can I clasp it reeking red From peasants slaughtered in their shed ? No ! wildly while his virtues gleam, They make his passions darker seem, And flash along his spirit high, Like lightning o'er the midnight sky. 290 While yet a child, — and children know, Instinctive taught, the friend and foe, — I shuddered at his brow of gloom, His shadowy plaid and sable plume; A maiden grown, I ill could bear His haughty mien and lordly air: But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim, In serious mood, to Roderick's name, I thrill with anguish ! or, if e'er A Douglas knew the word, with fear. 300 To change such odious theme were best, — What think'st thou of our stranger guest ? ' — XV I What think I of him ? — woe the while That brought such wanderer to our isle ! Thy father's battle-brand, of yore For Tine-man forged by fairy lore, What time he leagued, no longer foes, His Border spears with Hotspur's bows, Did, self-uuscabbarded, foreshow The footstep of a secret foe. 310 If courtly spy hath harbored here, What may we for the Douglas fear ? W T hat for this island, deemed 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 Grseme; Still, though thy sire the peace renewed, 321 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; Still is the canna's hoary beard, Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard — And hark again ! some pipe of war Sends the bold pibroch from afar.' 330 Far up the lengthened lake were spied Four darkening specks upon the tide, That, slow enlarging on the view, Four manned and masted barges grew, And, bearing downwards from Glengyle, Steered full upon the lonely isle; The point of Brianchoil they passed, And, to the windward as they cast, Against the sun they gave to shine The bold Sir Roderick's bannered Pine. 340 Nearer and nearer as they bear, Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air. Now might you see the tartans brave, 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 into smoke; See the proud pipers on the bow, And mark the gaudy streamers flow 350 From their loud chanters down, and sweep The furrowed bosom of the deep, As, rushing through the lake amain, They plied the ancient Highland strain. XVII Ever, as on they bore, more loud And louder rung the pibroch proud. At first the sounds, by distance tame, i68 THE LADY OF THE LAKE Mellowed along the waters came, And, lingering long by cape and bay, Wailed every harsher note away, 360 Then bursting bolder on the ear, The clan's shrill Gathering they could hear, Those thrilling sounds that call the might Of old Clan- Alpine to the fight. Thick beat the rapid notes, as when The mustering hundreds shake the glen, And hurrying at the signal dread, The battered earth returns their tread. Then prelude light, of livelier tone, Expressed their merry marching on, 370 Ere peal of closing battle rose, With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows; And mimic din of stroke and ward, As broadsword upon target jarred; And groaning pause, ere yet again, Condensed, the battle yelled amain: The rapid charge, the rallying shout, Retreat borne headlong into rout, And bursts of triumph, to declare Clan-Alpine's conquest — all were there. 380 Nor ended thus the strain, but slow Sunk in a moan prolonged and low, And changed the conquering clarion swell For wild lament o'er those that fell. XVIII The war-pipes ceased, but lake and hill Were busy with their echoes still; And, when they slept, a vocal strain Bade their hoarse chorus wake again, While loud a hundred clansmen raise Their voices in their Chieftain's praise. 390 Each boatman, bending to his oar, With measured sweep the burden bore, In such wild cadence as the breeze Makes through December's leafless trees. The chorus first could Allan know, ' Roderick Vich Alpine, ho ! iro ! ' And near, and nearer as they rowed, Distinct the martial ditty flowed. XIX BOAT SONG Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances ! Honored and blessed be the ever-green Pine ! 400 Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line ! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back again, * Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! ' Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; 4 i When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan- Alpine exult in her shade. Moored in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise again, * Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! ' Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied; 420 Glen-Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dej on her side. Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan- Alpine with fear and witl woe; Lennox and Leven-glen Shake when they hear again, ' Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! >ad Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands ! Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine ! 430 that the rosebud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine ! O that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow ! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from her deepmost glen, * Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! ' XXI With all her joyful female band Had Lady Margaret sought the strand. 44 o CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND 169 Loose on the breeze their tresses flew, And high their snowy arms they threw, As echoing back with shrill acclaim, And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name; While, prompt to please, with mother's art, The darling passion of his heart, The Dame called Ellen to the strand, To greet her kinsman ere he land: j Come, loiterer, come ! a Douglas thou, And shun to wreathe a victor's brow ? ' 450 Reluctantly and slow, the maid The unwelcome summoning obeyed, And when a distant bugle rung, In the mid-path aside she sprung: — * List, Allan-bane ! From mainland cast I hear my father's signal blast. Be ours,' she cried, 'the skiff to guide, And waft him from the mountain-side.' Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright, She darted to her shallop light, 460 And, eagerly while Roderick scanned, For her dear form, his mother's band, The islet far behind her lay, And she had landed in the bay. 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, 470 'T is that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head ! And as the Douglas to his breast His darling Ellen closely pressed, Such holy drops her tresses steeped, Though 't was an hero's eye that weeped. Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue Her filial welcomes crowded hung, Marked she that fear — affection's proof — Still held a graceful youth aloof; 480 No ! not till Douglas named his name, Although the youth was Malcom Graeme. XXIII Allan, with wistful look the while, Marked Roderick landing on the isle; His master piteously he eyed, Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride, Then dashed with hasty hand away From his dimmed eye the gathering spray; And Douglas, as his hand he laid On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said: 490 ' Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy In my poor follower's glistening eye ? I '11 tell thee : — he recalls the day When in my praise he led the lay O'er the arched gate of Bothwell proud, While many a minstrel answered 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, 500 Gracing my pomp, behind me came. Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud Was I of all that marshalled crowd, Though the waned crescent owned my might, And in my train trooped lord and knight, Though Blantyre hymned 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 510 Than aught my better fortunes knew. Forgive, my friend, a father's boast, — O, it out-beggars all I lost ! ' XXIV Delightful praise ! — like summer rose, That brighter in the dew-drop glows, The bashful maiden's cheek appeared, 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 520 The dogs with crouch and whimper paid; And, at her whistle, on her hand The falcon took his favorite stand, Closed his dark wing, relaxed 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'erweighed her worth and beauty aught, Well might the lover's judgment fail 530 To balance with a juster scale ; For with each secret glance he stole, The fond enthusiast sent his soul. XXV Of stature fair, and slender frame, But firmly knit, was Malcolm Graeme. The belted plaid and tartan hose Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose ; His flaxen hair, of sunny hue, Curled closely round his bonnet blue. Trained to the chase, his eagle eye 540 The ptarmigan in snow could spy; 170 THE LADY OF THE LAKE Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath, He knew, through Lennox and Menteith; Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe When Malcolm bent his sounding bow, And scarce that doe, though winged with fear, Outstripped in speed the mountaineer: Right up Ben Lomond could he press, And not a sob his toil confess. His form accorded with a mind 550 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 played 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, 560 Not long should Roderick Dhu's renown Be foremost voiced by mountain fame, But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme. XXVI Now back they wend their watery way, And, * O my sire ! ' did Ellen say, ' Why urge thy chase so far astray ? And why so late returned ? And why ' — The rest was in her speaking eye. ' My child, the chase I follow far, 'T is mimicry of noble war; 570 And with that gallant pastime reft Were all of Douglas I have left. I met young Malcolm as I strayed Far eastward, in Glenfinlas' shade ; Nor strayed I safe, for all around Hunters and horsemen scoured the ground. This youth, though still a royal ward, Risked life and land to be my guard, And through the passes of the wood Guided my steps, not unpursued; 580 And Roderick shall his welcome make, Despite old spleen, for Douglas' sake. Then must he seek Strath-Endrick glen, Nor peril aught for me again.' XXVII Sir Roderick, who to meet them came, Reddened at sight of Malcolm Grseme, Yet, not in action, word, or eye, Failed aught in hospitality. In talk and sport they whiled away The morning of that summer day; 590 But at high noon a courier light Held secret parley with the knight, Whose moody aspect soon declared That evil were the news he heard. Deep thought seemed 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 fixed them on the ground, 600 As studying phrase that might avail Best to convey unpleasant tale. Long with his dagger's hilt he played, Then raised his haughty brow, and said : — XXVIII ' Short be my speech ; — nor time affords, Nor my plain temper, glozing words. Kinsman and father, — if such name Douglas vouchsafe to Roderick's claim; Mine honored mother; — Ellen, — why, My cousin, turn away thine eye ? — 610 And Grseme, in whom I hope to know Full soon a noble friend or foe, When age shall give thee thy command, And leading in thy native land, — List all ! — The 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, 620 And 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 Ettrick 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, 630 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 streight I show.' XXIX Ellen and Margaret fearfully Sought comfort in each other's eye, 640 CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND 171 Then turned their ghastly look, each one, This to her sire, that to her son. The hasty color went and came In the bold cheek of Malcolm Graeme, But from his glance it well appeared 'T was but for Ellen that he feared ; While, sorrowful, but undismayed, The Douglas thus his counsel said: ' Brave Roderick, though the tempest roar, It may but thunder and pass o'er; 650 Nor will I here remain an hour, To draw the lightning on thy bower; For well thou know'st, at this gray head The royal bolt were fiercest sped. For thee, who, at thy King's command, Canst aid him with a gallant band, Submission, homage, humbled pride, Shall turn the Monarch's wrath aside. Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart, Ellen and I will seek apart 660 The refuge of some forest cell; There, like the hunted quarry, dwell, Till on the mountain and the moor The stern pursuit be passed and o'er. ' — I No, by mine honor,' Roderick said, ' So help me Heaven, and my good blade ! No, never ! Blasted be yon Pine, My father's ancient crest and mine, If from its shade in danger part The lineage of the Bleeding Heart ! 670 Hear my blunt speech: grant me this maid To wife, thy counsel to mine aid ; To Douglas, leagued with Rhoderick Dhu, Will friends and allies flock enow; Like cause of doubt, distrust, and grief, Will bind to us each Western Chief. When the loud pipes my bridal tell, The Links of Forth shall hear the knell, The guards shall start in Stirling's porch; And when I light the nuptial torch, 680 A thousand villages in flames Shall scare the slumbers of King James ! — Nay, Ellen, blench not thus away, And, mother, cease these signs, I pray; I meant not all my heat might say. — Small need of inroad or of fight, When the sage Douglas may unite Each mountain clan in friendly band, To guard the passes of their land, Till the foiled King from pathless glen 690 Shall bootless turn him home again.' XXXI There are who have, at midnight hour, In slumber scaled a dizzy tower, And, on the verge that beetled o'er The ocean tide's incessant roar, Dreamed calmly out their dangerous dream, Till wakened by the morning beam; When, dazzled by the eastern glow, Such startler cast his glance below, And saw unmeasured depth around, 700 And heard unintermitted sound, And thought the battled fence so frail, It waved like cobweb in the gale ; — Amid his senses' giddy wheel, Did he not desperate impulse feel, Headlong to plunge himself below, And meet the worst his fears foreshow ? — Thus Ellen, dizzy and astound, As sudden ruin yawned around, By crossing terrors wildly tossed, 710 Still for the Douglas fearing most, Could scarce the desperate thought with- stand, To buy his safety with her hand. XXXII 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, Had Douglas marked the hectic strife, Where death seemed combating with life ; For to her cheek, in feverish flood, 720 One instant rushed the throbbing blood, Then ebbing back, with sudden sway, Left its domain as wan as clay. ' Roderick, enough ! enough ! ' he cried, ' My daughter cannot be thy bride ; Not that the blush to wooer dear, Nor paleness that of maiden fear. It may not be, — forgive her, Chief, Nor hazard aught for our relief. Against his sovereign, Douglas ne'er 73 o Will level a rebellious spear. 'T was I that taught his youthful hand To rein a steed and wield a brand; I see him yet, the princely boy ! Not Ellen more my pride and joy; I love him still, despite my wrongs By hasty wrath and slanderous tongues. O, seek the grace you well may find, Without a cause to mine combined ! ' 172 THE LADY OF THE LAKE XXXIII Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode ; 740 The waving of his tartans broad, And darkened brow, where wounded pride With ire and disappointment vied, Seemed, by the torch's gloomy light, Like the ill Demon of the night, Stooping his pinions' shadowy sway Upon the nighted pilgrim's way: But, unrequited Love ! thy dart Plunged deepest its envenomed smart, 749 And Roderick, with thine anguish stung, At length the hand of Douglas wrung, While eyes that mocked at tears before With bitter drops were running o'er. The death-pangs of long-cherished hope Scarce in that ample breast had scope, But, struggling with his spirit proud, Convulsive heaved its checkered shroud, While every sob — so mute were all — Was heard distinctly through the hall. The son's despair, the mother's look, 760 111 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 770 On Malcolm's breast and belted plaid: ' Back, beardless boy ! ' he sternly said, ' Back, minion ! holdst thou thus at nought The lesson I so lately taught ? This roof, the Douglas, and that maid, Thank thou for punishment delayed.' Eager as greyhound on his game, Fiercely with Roderick grappled Graeme. ' Perish my name, if aught afford Its Chieftain safety save his sword ! ' 780 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 foes His giant strength: — ' Chieftains, forego ! I hold the first who strikes my foe. — Madmen, forbear your frantic jar ! What ! is the Douglas fallen so far, His daughter's hand is deemed the spoil Of such dishonorable broil ? ' 790 Sullen and slowly they unclasp, As struck with shame, their desperate grasp, And each upon his rival glared, With foot advanced and blade half bared. xxxv Ere yet the brands aloft were flung, Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung, And Malcolm heard his Ellen's scream, As faltered through terrific dream. Then Roderick plunged in sheath his sword, And veiled his wrath in scornful word: 800 ' Rest safe till morning; pity 't were Such cheek should feel the midnight air ! Then mayst thou to James Stuart tell, Roderick will keep the lake and fell, Nor lackey with his freeborn clan The pageant pomp of earthly man. More would he of Clan-Alpine know, Thou canst our strength and passes show. — Malise, what ho ! ' — his henchman came : ' Give our safe-conduct to the Graeme.' 810 Young Malcolm answered, calm and bold: ' Fear nothing for thy favorite hold ; The spot an angel deigned to grace Is blessed, though 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. — 820 Brave Douglas, — lovely Ellen, — nay, Nought here of parting will I say. Earth does not hold a lonesome glen So secret but we meet again. — Chieftain ! we too shall find an hour,' — He said, and left the sylvan bower. xxxvi Old Allan followed to the strand — Such was the Douglas's command — And anxious told, how, on the morn, 829 The stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn, The Fiery Cross should circle o'er Dale, glen, and valley, down and moor. Much were the peril to the Graeme From those who to the signal came; Far up the lake 't were 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 broadsword rolled, CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING i73 His ample plaid in tightened fold, 840 And stripped his limbs to such array As best might suit the watery way, — XXXVII Then spoke abrupt: ' Farewell to thee, Pattern of old fidelity ! ' The Minstrel's hand he kindly pressed, — ' 0, could I point a place of rest ! My sovereign holds in ward my land, My uncle leads my vassal band; To tame his foes, his friends to aid, Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade. 850 Yet, if there be one faithful Graeme Who loves the chieftain of his name, Not long shall honored Douglas dwell Like hunted stag in mountain cell; Nor, ere yon pride-swollen robber dare, — I may not give the rest to air ! 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. 860 Bold o'er the flood his head he bore, And stoutly steered him from the shore; And Allan strained 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 landing in the moonlight dell, Loud shouted of his weal to tell. 870 The Minstrel heard the far halloo, And joyful from the shore withdrew. CANTO THIRD THE GATHERING Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore, Who danced our infancy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boyhood legends store Of their strange ventures happed by land or sea, How are they blotted from the things that be! How few, all weak and withered of their force, Wait on the verge of dark eternity, Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, To sweep them from our sight ! Time rolls his ceaseless course. Yet live there still who can remember well, 10 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 yelled the gathering sound, And while the Fiery Cross glanced, like a meteor, round. The Summer dawn's reflected hue To purple changed Loch Katrine blue; 20 Mildly and soft the western breeze Just kissed the lake, just stirred the trees, And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, Trembled but dimpled not for joy: The mountain-shadows 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 reared of silver bright; 30 The doe awoke, and to the lawn, Begemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn; The gray mist left the mountain-side, The torrent showed its glistening pride; Invisible in flecked sky The lark sent down her revelry; The blackbird and the speckled thrush Good-morrow gave from brake and bush; In answer cooed the cushat dove Her notes of peace and rest and love. 40 ill No thought of peace, no thought of rest, Assuaged the storm in Roderick'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; 174 THE LADY OF THE LAKE For such Antiquity had taught 50 Was preface 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 her dark sails on the^wind, And, high in middle heaven reclined, With her broad shadow on the lake, Silenced the warblers of the brake. 60 IV A heap of withered boughs was piled, Of juniper and rowan wild, Mingled with shivers from the oak, Rent by the lightning's recent stroke. Brian the Hermit by it stood, Barefooted, in his frock and hood. His grizzled beard and matted hair Obscured a visage of despair; His naked arms and legs, seamed o'er, The scars of frantic penance bore. 70 That monk, of savage form and face, The impending 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 hardened heart and eye might brook On human sacrifice to look; And much, 't was said, of heathen lore Mixed in the charms he muttered o'er. 80 The hallowed creed gave only worse And deadlier emphasis of curse. No peasant sought that Hermit's prayer, His cave the pilgrim shunned with care ; The eager huntsman knew his bound, And in mid chase called off his hound; Or if, in lonely glen or strath, The desert-dweller met his path, He prayed, and signed the cross between, While terror took devotion's mien. 90 Of Brian's birth strange tales were told. His mother watched a midnight fold, Built deep within a dreary glen, Where scattered lay the bones of men In some forgotten battle slain, And bleached by drifting wind and rain. It might have tamed a warrior's heart To view such mockery of his art ! The knot-grass fettered there the hand Which once could burst an iron band; Beneath the broad and ample bone, That bucklered heart to fear unknown, A feeble and a timorous guest, The fieldfare framed her lowly nest; There the slow blindworm left his slime On the fleet limbs that mocked at time; And there, too, lay the leader's skull, Still wreathed with chaplet, flushed and full, For heath-bell with her purple bloom Supplied the bonnet and the plume. no All night, in this sad glen, the maid Sat 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, 120 But locked her secret in her breast, And died in travail, unconfessed. Alone, among his young compeers, Was Brian from bis 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, 130 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 Unclasped the sable-lettered page; Even in its treasures he could find Food for the fever of his mind. 140 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'erstrung, 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. 150 CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING i7S Where with black cliffs the torrents toil, He watched the wheeling eddies boil, Till from their foam his dazzled eyes Beheld the River Demon rise : The mountain mist took form and limb Of noontide hag or goblin grim; The midnight wind came wild and dread, Swelled with the voices of the dead; Far on the future battle-heath His eye beheld the ranks of death; 160 Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurled, 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 he heard, in prophet's dream, The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream; Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast Of charging steeds, careering fast 170 Along Benharrow's shingly side, Where mortal horseman ne'er might ride; The thunderbolt had split the pine, — All augured 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.. 'T was all prepared ; — and from the rock A goat, the patriarch of the flock, 180 Before the kindling pile was laid, And pierced by Roderick's ready blade. Patient the sickening victim eyed The life-blood ebb in crimson tide Down his clogged beard and shaggy limb, Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, A slender crosslet framed with care, A cubit's length in measure due; The shaft and limbs were rods of yew, 190 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 formed he held on high, With wasted hand and haggard eye, And strange and mingled feelings woke, While his anathema he spoke : — IX 4 Woe to the clansman who shall view This symbol of sepulchral yew, 200 Forgetful that its branches grew Where weep the heavens their holiest 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, 2 10 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 mustered force, Burst with loud roar their answer hoarse, ' Woe to the traitor, woe ! ' Ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew, The joyous wolf from covert drew, 220 The exulting eagle screamed afar, — They knew the voice of Alpine's war. The shout was hushed on lake and fell, The Monk resumed his muttered spell: Dismal and low its accents came, The while he scathed the Cross with flame ; And the few words that reached the air, Although the holiest name was there, Had more of blasphemy than prayer. But when he shook above the crowd 230 Its kindled points, he spoke aloud : — ' Woe to the wretch who fails to rear At this dread sign the ready spear ! - ,, For, as the flames this symbol sear, His home, the refuge of his fear, A kindred fate shall know; Far o'er its roof the volumed flame Clan- Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim, While maids and matrons on his name Shall call down wretchedness and shame, 240 And infamy and woe.' Then rose the cry of females, shrill As goshawk's whistle on the hill, Denouncing misery and ill, Mingled with childhood's babbling trill Of curses stammered slow; Answering with imprecation dread, ' Sunk be his home in embers red ! And cursed be the meanest shed That e'er shall hide the houseless head 250 We doom to want and woe ! ' A sharp and shrieking echo gave, Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave ! 176 THE LADY OF THE LAKE And the gray pass where birches wave On Beala-nam-bo. XI Then deeper paused the priest anew, And hard his laboring breath he drew, While, with set teeth and clenched hand, And eyes that glowed like fiery brand, He meditated curse more dread, 260 And deadlier, on the clansman's head Who, summoned to his chieftain's aid, The signal saw and disobeyed. The crosslet's points of sparkling wood He quenched among the bubbling blood, And, as again the sign he reared, 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 ! 270 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 again 280 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; 290 So rapidly the barge-men row, The bubbles, where they launched the boat, Were all unbroken and afloat, Dancing in foam and ripple still, When it had neared 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. 299 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, 310 Yet shrink not from the desperate leap: Parched are thy burning lips and 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 greenwood bough, Nor pliest thou now thy flying pace With rivals in the mountain race; But danger, death, and warrior deed 320 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 poured each hardy tenant down. Nor slacked the messenger his pace; He showed the sign, he named the place, And, pressing forward like the wind, Left clamor and surprise behind. The fisherman forsook the strand, 330 The swarthy smith took dirk and brand; With changed cheer, the mower blithe Left in the half-cut swath his scythe; The herds without a keeper strayed, The plough was in mid-furrow stayed, The falconer tossed his hawk away, The hunter left the stag at bay; Prompt at the signal of alarms, Each son of Alpine rushed 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 gayly loud. XV Speed, Malise, speed ! The lake is past, Duncraggan's huts appear at last, And peep, like moss-grown rocks, hal: seen, 35* Half hidden in the copse so green; CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING 177 370 There inayst thou rest, thy labor done, Their lord shall speed the signal on. — As stoops the hawk upon his prey, The henchman shot 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. Who, in the battle or the chase, 360 At Roderick's side shall fill his place ! — Within the hall, where torch's ray Supplies the excluded beams of day, Lies Duncan on his lowly bier, And o'er him streams his 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 hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red 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 forever ! XVII See Stumah, 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, 380 39° As if some stranger step he hears. 'T is not a mourner's muffled tread, 400 Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead, But headlong baste or deadly fear Urge the precipitate career. All stand aghast : — unheeding all, The henchman bursts into the hall; Before the dead man's bier he stood, Held forth the Cross besmeared with blood; ' The muster-place is Lanrick mead ; Speed forth the signal ! clansmen, speed ! ' Angus, the heir of Duncan's line, 410 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 opened arms he flew, Pressed on her lips a fond adieu, — ' Alas !' she sobbed, — ' and yet be gone, And speed thee forth, like Duncan's son ! * One look he cast upon the bier, 420 Dashed from his eye the gathering tear, Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast, And tossed aloft his bonnet crest, Then, like the high-bred colt when, freed, First he essays his fire and speed, He vanished, and o'er moor 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 henchman's eye 430 Wet with unwonted sympathy, i Kinsman, ' she said, ' his race is run That should have sped thine errand on; The oak has fallen, — 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 best your blades that drew, To arms, and guard that orphan's head ! Let babes and women wail the dead.' 441 Then weapon-clang and martial call Resounded through the funeral hall, While from the walls the attendant band Snatched sword and targe with hurried hand; And short and flitting energy Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye, As if the sounds to warrior dear 178 THE LADY OF THE LAKE Might rouse her Duncan from his bier. But faded soon that borrowed force ; 450 Grief claimed his right, and tears their 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 gathered in his eye He left the mountain-breeze to dry; Until, where Teith's young waters roll Betwixt him and a wooded knoll 459 That graced the sable strath with green, The chapel of Saint Bride was seen. Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge, But Angus paused not on the edge; Though the dark waves danced dizzily, Though reeled his sympathetic eye, He dashed amid the torrent's roar: His right hand high the crosslet bore, His left the pole-axe grasped, to guide And stay his footing in the tide. $ He stumbled twice, — the foam splashed high, 470 With hoarser swell the stream raced by; And had he fallen, — forever there, Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir ! But still, as if in parting life, Firmer he grasped the Cross of strife, Until the opposing bank he gained, And up the chapel pathway strained. XX A blithesome rout that morning-tide Had sought the chapel of Saint Bride. Her troth Tombea's Mary gave 480 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 490 Before the young and bonny bride, Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose The tear and blush of morning rose. With virgin step and bashful hand She held the kerchief's snowy band. The gallant bridegroom by her side Beheld his prize with victor's pride, And the glad mother in her ear Was closely whispering word of cheer. 499 XXI Who meets them at the churchyard gate ? The messenger of fear and fate ! Haste in his hurried accent lies, And grief is swimming in his eyes. All dripping from the recent flood, Panting and travel-soiled 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 5 10 Just linked to his by holy band, For the fell Cross of blood and brand ? And must the day so blithe that rose, And promised rapture in the close, Before its setting hour, divide The bridegroom from the plighted bride ? O 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 ! 520 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 Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith. — What in the racer's bosom stirred ? The sickening pang of hope deferred, 5; 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 burning, And hope, from well-fought field return- ing? With war's red honors on his crest, To clasp his Mary to his breast. Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank brae, Like fire from flint he glanced away, While high resolve and feeling strong Burst into voluntary song. CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING 179 XXIII SONG The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My 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, 550 My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid ! It will not waken me, Mary ! I may not, dare not, 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 foot like arrow free, Mary. 560 A time will come with feeling fraught, For, if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. And if returned from conquered foes, How blithely will the evening close, 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, 570 Rushing in conflagration strong Thy deep ravines and dells along, Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow, And reddening the dark lakes below; Nor faster speeds it, nor so far, As o'er thy heaths the voice of war. The signal roused to martial coil The sullen margin of Loch Voil, Waked still Loch Doine, and to the source Alarmed, Balvaig, thy swampy course; 580 Thence southward turned 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 gray sire, whose trembling hand Could hardly buckle on his brand, To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow Were yet scarce terror to the crow. Each valley, each sequestered glen, Mustered its little horde of men, 590 That met as torrents from the height In highland dales their streams unite, Still gathering, as they pour along, A voice more loud, a tide more strong, Till at the rendezvous they stood By hundreds prompt for blows and blood, Each trained to arms since life began, Owning no tie but to his clan, No oath but by his chieftain's hand, No law but Roderick Dhu's command. 600 XXV That summer morn had Roderick Dhu Surveyed the skirts of Benvenue, And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath, To view the frontiers of Menteith. All backward came with news of truce; Still lay each martial Grseme and Bruce, In Rednock courts no horsemen wait, No banner waved on Cardross gate, On Duchray's towers no beacon shone, Nor scared the herons from Loch Con; 610 All seemed at peace. — Now wot ye why The Chieftain with such anxious eye, Ere to the muster he repair, This western frontier scanned with care ? — In Benvenue'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 sequestered dell Had sought a low and lonely cell. 620 By many a bard in Celtic tongue Has Coir-nan -Uriskin been sung; A softer name the Saxons gave, And called the grot the Goblin Cave. XXVI It was a wild and strange retreat, As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. The dell, upon the mountain's crest, Yawned like a gash on warrior's breast; Its trench had stayed full many a rock, Hurled by primeval earthquake shock 630 From Benvenue's gray summit wild, And here, in random ruin piled, They frowned incumbent o'er the spot, And formed the rugged sylvan 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. 640 No murmur waked the solemn still, Save tinkling of a fountain rill; But when the wind chafed with the lake, i8o THE LADY OF THE LAKE A sullen sound would upward break, With dashing hollow voice, that spoke The incessant war of wave and rock. Suspended cliffs with hideous sway Seemed nodding o'er the cavern gray. From such a den the wolf had sprung, In such the wild-cat leaves her young; 650 Yet Douglas and his daughter fair Sought for a space their safety there. Gray Superstition's whisper dread Debarred the spot to vulgar tread ; For there, she said, did fays resort, And satyrs hold their sylvan court, By 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, 660 When Roderick with a chosen few Repassed 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, 670 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 neighboring height, By the low-levelled sunbeam's light ! For strength and stature, from the clan Each warrior was a chosen man, 680 As even afar might well be seen, 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 turned apart the road To Douglas's obscure abode. 690 It was but with that dawning morn That Roderick 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; 700 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. 710 What melting voice attends the strings ? 'T is Ellen, or an angel, sings. XXIX HYMN TO THE VIRGIN Ave Maria I 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 banished, outcast, and reviled — Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer; Mother, hear a suppliant child ! 720 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 prayer, Mother, list a suppliant child ! Ave Maria ! A ve Maria ! stainless styled ! Foul demons of the earth and air, 730 From this their wonted haunt exiled, Shall flee 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, CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY 181 As listening still, Clan-Alpine's lord Stood leaning on his heavy sword, 740 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 — 't is the last,' He muttered 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, An instant 'cross the lake it shot. 750 They landed in that silvery bay, And eastward held their hasty way, Till, with the latest beams of light, The band arrived on Lanrick height, Where mustered in the vale below Clan- Alpine's men in martial show. XXXI A various scene the clansmen made : Some sat, some stood, some slowly strayed ; But most', with mantles folded round, Were couched to rest upon the ground, 760 Scarce to be known by curious eye From the deep heather where they lie, So well was matched 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, 770 Shook the steep mountain's steady side. Thrice it arose, and lake and fell Three times returned the martial yell; It died upon Bochastle's plain, And Silence claimed her evening reign. CANTO FOURTH THE PROPHECY I * The rose is fairest when 't is budding new, And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears. O wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears, I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave, Emblem of hope and love through future years ! ' Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Ar- mandave, What time the sun arose on Vennachar's broad wave. Such fond conceit, half said, half sung, 10 Love prompted to the bridegroom's tongue. All while he stripped the wild-rose spray, His axe and bow beside him lay, For on a pass 'twixt lake and wood A wakeful sentinel he stood. Hark ! — on the rock a footstep rung, And instant to his arms he sprung. ' Stand, or thou diest ! — What, Malise ? — soon Art thou returned from Braes of Doune. By thy keen step and glance I know, 20 Thou bring'st us tidings of the foe.' — For while the Fiery Cross hied on, On distant scout had Malise gone. — ' Where sleeps the Chief ? ' the henchman said. ' Apart, in yonder misty glade ; To his lone couch I '11 be your guide.' — Then called a slumberer by his side, And stirred him with his slackened bow, — ' Up, up, Glentarkin ! rouse thee, ho ! We seek the Chieftain; on the track 30 Keep eagle watch till I come back.' Together up the pass they sped: 4 What of the foeman ? ' Norman said. — 'Varying reports from near and far; This 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 40 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 Roderick's care To the lone isle hath caused repair Each maid and matron of the clan, l82 THE LADY OF THE LAKE And every child and aged man Unfit for arms; and given his charge, 50 Nor skiff nor shallop, boat nor barge, Upon these lakes shall float at large, But all beside the islet moor, That such dear pledge may rest se- IV ' 'T is well advised, — the Chieftain's plan Bespeaks the father of his clan. But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu Apart from all his followers true ? ' ' It is because last evening-tide Brian an augury hath tried, 60 Of that dread kind which must not be Unless in dread extremity, The Taghairm called; by which, afar, Our sires foresaw the events of war. Duncraggan's milk-white bull they slew.' — ' Ah ! well the gallant brute I knew ! The choicest of the prey we had When swept our merrymen Gallangad. His hide was snow, his horns were dark, His red eye glowed like fiery spark ; 70 So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet, Sore did he cumber our retreat, And kept our stoutest kerns in awe, Even at the pass of Beal 'maha. But steep and flinty was the road, And sharp the hurrying pikeman's goad, And when we came to Dennan's Bow A child might scathless stroke his brow.' NORMAN ' That bull was slain ; his reeking hide They stretched the cataract beside, 80 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. Couched on a shelf beneath its brink, Close where the thundering torrents sink, Rocking beneath their headlong sway, And drizzled by the ceaseless spray, Midst groan of rock and roar of stream, The wizard waits prophetic dream. 90 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 slaughtered host ? Or raven on the blasted oak, That, watching while the deer is broke, His morsel claims with sullen croak ? ' 1 Peace ! peace ! to other than to me 100 Thy words were evil augury; But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade Clan- Alpine's omen and her aid, Not aught that, gleaned 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 they came, with Alpine's Lord The Hermit Monk held solemn word: — ' Roderick ! it is a fearful strife, no For man endowed 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, — 'T is hard for such to view, unfurled, The curtain of the future world. Yet, witness every quaking limb, My sunken pulse, mine eyeballs dim, My soul with harrowing anguish torn, 120 This for my Chieftain have I borne ! — The shapes that sought my fearful couch A human tongue may ne'er avouch; No mortal man — save he, who, bred Between the living and the dead, Is gifted beyond nature's law — Had e'er survived to say he saw. At length the fateful answer came In characters of living flame ! Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll, 130 But borne and branded on my soul : — Which spills the foremost foeman's LIFE, That party conquers in the strife.' ' 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-offered to the auspicious blow: A spy has sought my land this morn, — 140 No eve shall witness his return ! , CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY 183 My followers guard each pass's mouth, To east, to westward, and to south; Red Murdoch, bribed to be his guide, Has charge to lead his steps aside, Till in deep path or dingle brown He light on those shall bring him down. — But see, who comes his news to show ! Malise ! what tidings of the foe ? ' 149 VIII ' At Doune, o'er many a spear and glaive, Two Barons proud their banners wave. I saw the Moray's silver star, And marked the sable pale of Mar.' * By Alpine's soul, high tidings those ! I love to hear of worthy foes. When 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 ? 160 Strengthened by them, we well might bide The battle on Benledi's side. Thou couldst not ? — well ! Clan- Alpine's men Shall man the Trosachs' shaggy glen ; Within Loch Katrine's gorge we '11 fight, All in our maids' and matrons' sight, Each for his hearth and household fire, Father for child, and son for sire, Lover for maid beloved ! — But why — Is it the breeze affects mine eye ? 170 Or dost thou come, ill-omened 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 Roderick Dhu ! 'Tis stubborn as his trusty targe. Each to his post ! — all know their charge.' The pibroch sounds, the bands advance, The broadswords gleam, the banners dance, 180 Obedient to the Chieftain's glance. — I turn me from the martial roar, And seek Coir-Uriskin once more. IX Where is the Douglas ? — he is gone ; And Ellen sits on the gray stone Fast by the cave, and makes her moan, While vainly Allan's words of cheer Are poured on her unheeding ear. * He will return — dear lady, trust ! — With joy return; — he will — he must. 190 Well was it time to seek afar Some refuge from impending war, When e'en Clan-Alpine's rugged swarm Are cowed by the approaching storm. I saw their boats with many a light, Floating the livelong yesternight, Shifting like flashes darted forth By the red streamers of the north; I marked at morn how close they ride, Thick moored by the lone islet's side, 200 Like wild ducks couching in the fen When stoops the hawk upon the glen. Since 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 ? ' ELLEN ' No, Allan, no ! Pretext so kind My wakeful terrors could not blind. When in such tender tone, yet grave, Douglas a parting blessing gave, 210 The tear that glistened in his eye Drowned not his purpose fixed and high. My soul, though feminine and weak, Can image his; e'en as the lake, Itself disturbed 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 Turned, Allan, on thine idle dream 220 Of Malcolm Grseme in fetters bound, Which I, thou saidst, about him wound. Think'st thou he trowed thine omen aught ? O no ! 't was 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. Why else that solemn warning given, " If not on earth, we meet in heaven ! " 230 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 friends' safety with his own; He goes to do — what I had done, Had Douglas' daughter been his son ! ' ' Nay, lovely Ellen ! — dearest, nay ! If aught should his return delay, 184 THE LADY OF THE LAKE He only named yon holy fane 240 As fitting place to meet again. Be sure he 's safe, and for the Graeme, — Heaven's blessing on his gallant name ! — My visioned 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 harpiugs slow That presaged this approaching woe ! Sooth was my prophecy of fear; 250 Believe it when it augurs cheer. Would we had left this dismal spot ! Ill 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.' * 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. 260 XII BALLAD ALICE BRAND Merry it is in the good greenwood, When the mavis and merle 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, 't was all for thy locks so bright, And 't was all for thine eyes so blue, 270 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, 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 slaughtered deer, To keep the cold away.' 280 * O Richard ! if my brother died, 'T was but a fatal chance; For darkling was the battle tried, And fortune sped the lance. 1 If pall and vair no more I wear, Nor thou the crimson sheen, As warm, we '11 say, is the russet gray, 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 'T is merry, 't is merry, in good greenwood; 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 woned within the hill, — Like wind in the porch of a ruined church, His voice was ghostly shrill. 300 ' Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, Our moonlight circle's screen ? Or who comes here to chase the deer, Beloved of our Elfin Queen ? Or who may dare on wold to wear The fairies' fatal green ? ' Up, Urgan, up ! to yon mortal hie, For thou wert christened man; For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, For muttered word or ban. 310 ' Lay on him the curse of the withered heart, The curse of the sleepless eye; Till he wish and pray that his life would part, Nor yet find leave to die.' BALLAD CONTINUED 'T is merry, 't is merry, in good green- wood, Though the birds have stilled their sing- ing; The evening blaze doth Alice raise, And Richard is fagots bringing. CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY 185 Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf, Before Lord Richard stands, 320 And, as he crossed and blessed himself, 1 1 fear not sign,' quoth the grisly elf, ' That is made with bloody hands.' But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, That woman void of fear, — I And if there 's blood upon his hand, 'T is but the blood of deer.' 4 Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood ! It cleaves unto his hand, The stain of thine own kindly blood, 330 The blood of Ethert Brand.' Then forward stepped she, Alice Brand, And made the holy sign, — * And if there 's blood on Richard's hand, A spotless hand is mine. * And I conjure thee, demon elf, By Him whom demons fear, To show us whence thou art thyself, And what thine errand here ? ' BALLAD CONTINUED 1 'T is merry, 't is merry, in Fairy-land, 340 When fairy birds are singing, When the court doth ride by their monarch's side, With bit and bridle ringing: * And gayly 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, 350 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 snatched away To the joyless Elfin bower. ' But wist I of a woman bold, Who thrice my brow durst sign, I might regain my mortal mould, As fair a form as thine.' 360 She crossed him once — she crossed him twice — That lady was so brave; The fouler grew his goblin hue, The darker grew the cave. She crossed him thrice, that lady bold; He rose beneath her hand The fairest knight on Scottish mould, Her brother, Ethert Brand ! Merry it is in good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are sing- ing, 370 But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray, When all the bells were ringing. XVI Just as the minstrel sounds were stayed, A stranger climbed the steepy glade; His martial step, his stately mien, His hunting-suit of Lincoln green, His eagle glance, remembrance claims — 'T is Snowdoun's Knight, 't is James Fitz- James. Ellen beheld as in a dream, Then, starting, scarce suppressed a scream: 380 ' 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 marshalled over bank and bourne The happy path of my return.' ' The happy path ! — what ! said he nought Of war, of battle to be fought, 390 Of guarded pass ? ' ' No, by my faith ! Nor saw I aught could augur scathe.' 'O haste thee, Allan, to the 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.' 400 XVII ' Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, Since it is worthy care from thee; Yet life I hold but idle breath When love or honor 's weighed with death. i86 THE LADY OF THE LAKE 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. 410 Near Bochastle my horses wait; They bear us soon to Stirling gate. I '11 place thee in a lovely bower, I '11 guard thee like a tender flower — ' * O hush, Sir Knight ! "t were female art, To say I do not read thy heart; Too much, before, my selfish ear Was idly soothed my praise to hear. That fatal bait hath lured thee back, In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track; 420 And how, O how, can I atone The wreck my vanity brought on ! — One way remains — I '11 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 Outlawed and exiled, under ban; The price of blood is on his head, With me, 't were infamy to wed. 430 Still wouldst thou speak ? — then hear the truth ! Fitz-James, there is a noble youth If yet he is ! — exposed for me And mine to dread extremity — Thou hast the secret of my heart; Forgive, be generous, and depart ! ' XVIII 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, 440 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 sealed her Malcolm's doom And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. Hope vanished from Fitz-James's eye, But not with hope fled sympathy. He proffered to attend her side, 450 As brother would a sister guide. 1 O little know'st thou Roderick's heart ! Safer for both we go apart. O haste thee, and from Allan learn If thou mayst 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 crossed his brain, He paused, and turned, and came again. 460 XIX ' Hear, lady, yet a parting word ! — It chanced in fight that my poor sword 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, 470 His lordship the embattled field. What from a prince can I demand, Who neither reck of state nor land ? Ellen, thy hand — the ring is 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, 480 Paused — kissed her hand — and then was gone. The aged Minstrel stood aghast. So hastily Fitz-James shot past. He joined his guide, and wending down The ridges of the mountain brown, Across the stream they took their way That joins Loch Katrine to Achray. All in the Trosachs' glen was still, Noontide was sleeping on the hill: 489 Sudden his guide whooped loud and high — ' Murdoch ! was that a signal cry ? ' — He stammered forth, ' I shout to scare Yon raven from his dainty fare.' He looked — he knew the raven's prey, His own brave steed: ' Ah ! gallant gray ! For thee — for me, perchance — 't were well We ne'er had seen the Trosachs' dell. — Murdoch, move first — but silently; Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die ! ' Jealous and sullen on they fared, 500 Each silent, each upon his guard. XXI Now wound the path its dizzy ledge Around a precipice's edge, CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY 187 When lo ! a wasted female form, Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, In tattered weeds and wild array, Stood on a cliff beside the way, And glancing round her restless eye, Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, Seemed nought to mark, yet all to spy. 510 Her brow was wreathed with gaudy broom; With gesture wild she waved a plume Of feathers, which the eagles fling 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 shrieked till all the rocks replied; As loud she laughed when near they drew, For then the Lowland garb she knew; 520 And then her hands she wildly wrung, 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 strained and roughened, still Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill. XXII They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, They say my brain is warped and wrung — I cannot sleep on Highland brae, I cannot pray in Highland tongue. 530 But were I now where Allan glides, Or heard my native Devan's tides, So sweetly would I rest, and pray That Heaven would close my wintry day ! 'T was thus my hair they bade me braid, They made me to the church repair; It was my bridal morn, they said, And my true love would meet me there. But woe betide the cruel guile 539 That drowned in blood the morning smile ! And woe betide the fairy dream ! I only waked to sob and scream. XXIII * Who is this maid ? what means her lay ? She hovers o'er the hollow way, And flutters wide her mantle gray, As the lone heron spreads his wing, By twilight, o'er a haunted spring.' * "T is Blanche of Devan,' Murdoch said. ' A crazed and captive Lowland maid, Ta'en on the morn she was a bride, 550 When Roderick forayed Devan-side. The gay bridegroom resistance made, And felt our Chief's unconquered 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 strik'st her but one blow, I '11 pitch thee from the cliff as far As ever peasant pitched a bar ! ' ' Thanks, champion, thanks ! ' the Maniac cried, 560 And pressed her to Fitz-James's side. ' See the gray 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 brier in mid-air stayed, Wave forth a banner fair and free, 570 Meet signal for their revelry.' XXIV ' Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still ! ' ' O ! thou look'st kindly, and I will. Mine eye has dried and wasted been, But still it loves the Lincoln green; And, though mine ear is all unstrung, Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue. ' For O my sweet William was forester true, He stole poor Blanche's heart away ! 579 His coat it was all of the greenwood hue, And so blithely he trilled the Lowland ' 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 fixed her apprehensive eye, Then turned it on the Knight, and then Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen. xxv ' The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set, — 590 Ever sing merrily, merrily; i88 THE LADY OF THE LAKE The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, Hunters live so cheerily. * 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 warned him of the toils below, 600 O, 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.' XXVI Fitz-James's mind was passion-tossed, "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, 610 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 thrilled in Blanche's faded breast. — Murdoch of Alpine ! prove thy speed, For ne'er had Alpine's son such need; With heart of fire, and foot of wind, 620 The fierce avenger is behind ! Fate judges of the rapid strife — The forfeit death — the prize is life; Thy kindred ambush lies before, Close couched upon the heathery moor; Them couldst thou reach ! — it may not be — Thine ambushed kin thou ne'er shalt see, The fiery Saxon gains on thee ! — Resistless speeds the deadly thrust, As lightning strikes the pine to dust; 630 With foot and hand Fitz - James must strain Ere he can win his blade again. Bent o'er the fallen with falcon eye, He grimly smiled to see him die, Then slower wended back his way, Where the poor maiden bleeding lay. XXVII She sat beneath the birchen tree, Her elbow resting on her knee; She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, And gazed on it, and feebly laughed; 640 Her wreath of broom and feathers gray, Daggled with blood, beside her lay. 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 650 That thou wert mine avenger born. Seest thou this tress ? — O, still I 've worn This little tress of yellow hair, Through danger, frenzy, and despair ! It once was bright and clear as thine, But blood and tears have dimmed its shine. I will not tell thee when 't was shred, Nor from what guiltless victim's head, — My brain would turn ! — but it shall wave Like plumage on thy helmet brave, 660 Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain, And thou wilt bring it me again. I waver still. — O God ! more bright Let reason beam her parting light ! — O, by thy knighthood's honored 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, 670 Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's wrong ! — They watch for thee by pass and fell . . . Avoid the path . . . O God ! . . . fare- well ! ' A kindly heart had brave Fitz- James; Fast poured his eyes at pity's claims; And now, with mingled grief and ire, He saw the murdered maid expire. 1 God, in my need, be my relief, As I wreak this on yonder Chief ! 3 680 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: CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY 189 \ By Him whose word is truth, I swear, No other favor will I wear, Till this sad token I imbrue In the best blood of Roderick Dhu ! — But hark ! what means yon faint halloo ? The chase is up, — but they shall know, 690 The stag at bay 's a dangerous foe.' Barred 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 turned back. Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length, From lack of food and loss of strength, He couched him in a thicket hoar, And thought his toils and perils o'er: — Of all my rash adventures past, 700 This frantic feat must prove the last ! Who e'er so mad but might have guessed That all this Highland hornet's nest Would 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 '11 couch me here till evening gray, 710 Then darkling try my dangerous way.' XXIX The shades of eve come slowly down, The woods are wrapt in deeper brown, The owl awakens from her dell, The fox is heard upon the fell; Enough remains of glimmering light To guide the wanderer's steps aright, Yet not enough from far to show His figure to the watchful foe. With cautious step and ear awake, 720 He climbs the crag and threads the brake; And not the summer solstice there Tempered the midnight mountain air, But every breeze that swept the wold Benumbed his drenched limbs with cold. In dread, in danger, and alone, Famished and chilled, through ways un- known, Tangled and steep, he journeyed on; Till, as a rock's huge point he turned, A watch-fire close before him burned. 730 xxx Beside its embers red and clear, Basked in his plaid a mountaineer; And up he sprung with sword in hand, — ' Thy name and purpose ! Saxon, stand ! ' ' ' A stranger.' ' What dost thou require ? ' ' Rest and a guide, and food and fire. My life 's beset, my path is lost, The gale has chilled my limbs with frost.' ' Art thou a friend to Roderick ? ' ' No.' ' Thou dar'st not call thyself a foe ? ' 740 ' I dare ! to him and all the band He 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, Who ever recked, where, how, or when, The prowling fox was trapped or slain ? Thus treacherous scouts, — yet sure they lie, Who say thou cam'st a secret spy ! ' — 750 ' They do, by heaven ! — come Roderick Dhu, And of his clan the boldest two, And let me but till morning rest, I write 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 mayst thou know Each proud oppressor's mortal foe.' ' Enough, enough; sit down and share A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare.' 760 He gave him of his Highland cheer, The hardened flesh of mountain deer; Dry fuel on the fire he laid, And bade the Saxon share his plaid. He tended him like welcome guest, Then thus his further speech addressed: — ' Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu A clansman born, a kinsman true: Each word against his honor spoke Demands of me avenging stroke; 770 Yet more, — upon thy fate, 't is said, A mighty augury is laid. It rests with me to wind my horn, — Thou art with numbers overborne; It rests with me, here, brand to brand, Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand: But, not for clan, nor kindred's cause, Will I depart from honor's laws; To assail a wearied man were shame, And stranger is a holy name; 780 Guidance and rest, and food and fire, In vain he never must require. 190 THE LADY OF THE LAKE Then rest thee here till dawn of day; Myself will guide thee on the way, O'er 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 't is nobly given ! ' 79 o ' Well, rest thee ; for the bittern's cry Sings us the lake's wild lullaby.' With that he shook the gathered heath, And spread his plaid upon the wreath; And the brave foemen, side by side, Lay peaceful down like brothers tried, And slept until the dawning beam Purpled the mountain and the stream. CANTO FIFTH THE COMBAT Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light, When first, by the bewildered pilgrim spied, It smiles upon the dreary brow of night, And silvers o'er the torrent's foaming tide, And lights the fearful path on mountain- 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 the wreckf ul storms that cloud the brow of War. That early beam, so fair and sheen, Was twinkling through the hazel screen, When, rousing at its glimmer red, The warriors left their lowly bed, Looked out upon the dappled sky, Muttered 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 gray. A wildering path ! — they winded now Along the precipice's brow, Commanding the rich scenes beneath, The windings of the Forth and Teith, And all the vales between that lie, Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky; Then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance Gained not the length of horseman's lance. 'T was 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 ! HI At length they came where, stern and steep, The hill sinks down upon the deep. Here Vennachar in silver flows, There, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose ; Ever the hollow path twined on, 4 Beneath steep bank and threatening stone A 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 cliffs between, And patches bright of bracken green, And heather black, that waved so high, It held the copse in rivalry. But where the lake slept deep and still, 5 Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill; And oft both path and hill were torn, Where wintry torrent down had borne, And heaped upon the cumbered 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 asked Fitz-James by what strange cause He sought these wilds, traversed by few, Without a pass from Roderick Dhu. IV ' Brave Gael, my pass, in danger tried, Hangs in my belt and by my side; Yet, sooth to tell,' the Saxon said, ' I dreamt not now to claim its aid. When here, but three days since, I came, Bewildered in pursuit of game, All seemed as peaceful and as still As the mist slumbering on yon hill; Thy dangerous Chief was then afar, Nor soon expected back from war. CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT 191 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 ! — Moves our free course by such fixed 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 8c A Knight's free footsteps far and wide, — A falcon flown, a greyhound strayed, 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 ? ' ' No, by my word ; — of bands prepared 90 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 loath 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, 100 Bewildered in the mountain-game, Whence the bold boast by which you show Vich- Alpine's vowed and mortal foe ? ' ' Warrior, but yester-morn I knew Nought of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, Save as an outlawed desperate man, The chief of a rebellious clan, Who, in the Regent's court and sight, With ruffian dagger stabbed a knight; Yet this alone might from his part no Sever each true and loyal heart.' Wrathful at such arraignment foul, Dark lowered the clansman's sable scowl, A space he paused, then sternly said, 1 And heardst thou why he drew his blade ? Heardst thou that shameful word and blow Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe ? What recked the Chieftain if he stood On Highland heath or Holy- Rood ? He rights such wrong where it is given, 120 If it were in the court of heaven.' ' Still was it outrage ; — yet, 't is true, Not then claimed sovereignty his due; While Albany with feeble hand Held borrowed truncheon of command, The young King, mewed in Stirling tower, Was stranger to respect and power. But then, thy Chieftain's robber life ! — Winning mean prey by causeless strife, Wrenching from ruined Lowland swain 130 His herds and harvest reared in vain, — Methinks a soul like thine should scorn The spoils from such foul foray borne.' VII The Gael beheld him grim the while, And answered with disdainful smile: ' Saxon, from yonder mountain high, I marked thee send delighted eye Far to the south and east, where lay, Extended in succession gay, Deep waving fields and pastures green, 140 With gentle slopes and groves between: — These fertile plains, that softened vale, Were once the birthright of the Gael; 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 fattened steer or household bread, Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, 150 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 blade must win the rest." 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 160 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 Roderick Dhu/ VIII Answered Fitz-James : ' And, if I sought, Think'st thou no other could be brought ? What deem ye of my path waylaid ? 172 My life given o'er to ambuscade ? ' 192 THE LADY OF THE LAKE ' As of a meed to rashness due: Hadst thou sent warning fair and true, — I seek my hound or falcon strayed, I seek, good faith, a Highland maid, — Free hadst thou been to come and go; But secret path marks secret foe. Nor yet for this, even as a spy, 180 Hadst thou, unheard, been doomed to die, Save to fulfil an augury.' ' Well, let it pass ; nor will I now Fresh cause of enmity avow, 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 again, I come with banner, brand, and bow, 190 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 answered from the hill; Wild as the scream of the curlew, From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath, arose 200 Bonnets and spears and bended bows; On right, on left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe; From shingles gray 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 armed for strife. That whistle garrisoned the glen 210 At once with full five hundred men, As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterranean host had given. Watching their leader's beck and will, All silent there they stood and still. Like the loose crags whose threatening mass Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, As if an infant's touch could urge Their headlong passage down the verge, With step and weapon forward flung, 220 Upon the mountain-side they hung. The Mountaineer cast glance of pride Along Benledi's living side, Then fixed 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 Roderick Dhu ! ' Fitz - James was brave : — though to his heart The life-blood thrilled with sudden start, He manned himself with dauntless air, 230 Returned the Chief his haughty stare, His back against a rock he bore, And firmly placed his foot before : — 1 Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I.' Sir Roderick marked, — and in his eyes Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foeman worthy of their steel. Short space he stood — then waved his hand : 240 Down sunk the disappearing band; Each warrior vanished where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood; Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, In osiers pale and copses low; It seemed as if their mother Earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth. The wind's last breath had tossed in air Pennon and plaid and plumage fair, — The next but swept a lone hill-side, 250 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 gray stone. Fitz-James looked round, — yet scarce be- lieved The witness that his sight received; Such apparition well might seem Delusion of a dreadful dream. Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed, 260 And to his look the Chief replied: ' Fear nought — nay, that I need not say — But — doubt not aught from mine array. Thou art my guest; — I pledged my word As far as Coilantogle ford: Nor would I call a clansman's brand For aid against one valiant hand, Though on our strife lay every vale Rent by the Saxon from the Gael. So move we on ; — I only meant 270 To show the reed on which you leant, Deeming this path you might pursue CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT 193 Without a pass from Roderick Dim.' They moved; — I said Fitz- James was brave As ever knight that belted glaive, Yet dare not say that now his blood Kept on its wont and tempered flood, As, following Roderick's stride, he drew That seeming lonesome pathway through, Which yet by fearful proof was rife 280 With lances, that, to take his life, Waited but signal from a guide, So late dishonored and defied. Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round The vanished guardians of the ground, And still from copse and heather deep Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep, And in the plover's shrilly strain The signal whistle heard again. Nor breathed he free till far behind 290 The pass was left; for then they wind Along a wide and level green, Where 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 reached that torrent's sounding shore, Which, daughter of three mighty lakes, From Vennachar in silver breaks, Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines 3°° On Bochastle the mouldering lines, Where Rome, the Empress of the world, Of yore her eagle wings unfurled. And here his course the Chieftain stayed, Threw down his target and his plaid, And to the Lowland warrior said: I Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust. This murderous Chief, this ruthless man, This head of a rebellious clan, 310 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, Armed like thyself with single brand; For this is Coilantogle ford, And thou must keep thee with thy sword.' XIII The Saxon paused : ' I ne'er delayed, When foeman bade me draw my blade; 320 Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed 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, stranger, 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: 330 " 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 hath solved her prophecy; Then yield to Fate, and not to me. To James at Stirling let us go, When, if thou wilt be still his foe, 340 Or if the King shall not agree To grant thee grace and favor free, I plight mine honor, oath, and word That, to thy native strengths restored, With each advantage shalt thou stand That aids thee now to guard thy land.' XIV Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye : ' Soars thy presumption, then, so high, Because a wretched kern ye slew, Homage to name to Roderick Dhu ? 350 He yields not, he, to man nor Fate ! Thou add'st but fuel to my hate; — My clansman's blood demands revenge. Not yet prepared ? — By heaven, I change My thought, and hold thy valor 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, Roderick, for the word ! 360 It nerves my heart, it steels my sword; For I have sworn this braid to stain In the best blood that warms thy vein. Now, truce, farewell ! and, ruth, begone ! — 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. 370 But fear not — doubt not — which thou wilt — 94 THE LADY OF THE LAKE : We try this quarrel hilt to hilt/ Then each at once his falchion drew, Each on the ground his scabbard threw, Each looked to sun and stream and plain As what they ne'er might see again; Then foot and point and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed. XV 111 fared it then with Roderick Dhu, That on the field his targe he threw, 380 Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside; For, trained abroad his arms to wield, Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintained unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood, And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood; 390 No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartans dyed. Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, And showered his blows like wintry rain; Aud, as firm rock or castle-roof Against the winter shower is proof, The foe, invulnerable still, Foiled his wild rage by steady skill; Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 399 Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, And backward borne upon the lea, Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee. * Now yield thee, or by Him who made The world, thy 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; 410 Received, but recked not of a wound, And locked 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 ! down, down they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below. The Chieftain's gripe his throat com- pressed, His knee was planted on his breast; His clotted locks he backward threw, Across his brow his hand he drew, From blood and mist to clear his sight, Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright ! But hate and fury ill supplied The stream of life's exhausted tide, Aud all too late the advantage came, To turn the odds of deadly game; For, while the dagger gleamed on high, Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye. 4SO Down came the blow ! but in the heath 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. XVII He faltered thanks to Heaven for life, Redeemed, unhoped, from desperate strife: Next on his foe his look he cast, Whose every gasp appeared his last; 440 In Roderick's gore he dipped the braid, — ' Poor Blanche ! thy wrongs are dearly paid; Yet with thy foe must die, or live, The praise that faith and valor 'give.' With that he blew a bugle note, Undid the collar from his throat, Unbonneted, and by the wave Sat down his brow and hands to lave. Then faint afar are heard the feet Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet; 450 The sounds increase, and now are seen Four mounted squires in Lincoln green; Two who bear lance, and two who lead By loosened rein a saddled steed; Each onward held his headlong course, And by Fitz-James reined up his horse, — With wonder viewed the bloody spot, — * Exclaim not, gallants ! question not. — You, Herbert and Lnffness, alight, And bind the wounds of yonder knight; 460 Let the gray palfrey bear his weight, We 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 To see the archer-game at noon; But lightly Bayard clears the lea. — De Vaux and Herries, follow me. CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT 95 XVIII 4 Stand, Bayard, stand!' — the steed obeyed, 470 With arching neck and bended head, And glancing eye and quivering ear, As if he loved his lord to hear. No foot Fitz-Jaraes in stirrup stayed, No grasp upon the saddle laid, But wreathed his left hand in the mane, And lightly bounded from the plain, Turned on the horse his armed heel, And stirred his courage with the steel. Bounded the fiery steed in air, 480 The rider sat erect and fair, Then like a bolt from steel crossbow Forth launched, along the plain they go. They dashed that rapid torrent through, And up Carhonie's hill they flew; Still at the gallop pricked the Knight, His merry men followed as they might. Along thy banks, swift Teith, they ride, And in the race they mock thy tide; Torry and Lendrick now are past, 490 And Deaustown lies behind them cast; They rise, the bannered towers of Doune, They sink in distant woodland soon; Blair-Drummond sees the hoofs strike fire, They sweep like breeze through Ochter- ty re ; They mark just glance and disappear The lofty brow of ancient Kier; They bathe their coursers' sweltering sides, Dark Forth ! amid thy sluggish tides, And on the opposing shore take ground, 500 With plash, with scramble, and with bound. Right-hand they leave thy cliffs, Craig- Forth ! And soon the bulwark of the North, Gray Stirling, with her towers and town, Upon their fleet career look down. As up the flinty path they strained, Sudden his steed the leader reined; A signal to his squire he flung, Who instant to his stirrup sprung: — * Seest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman gray, 510 Who townward 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 burly groom He seems, who in the field or chase A baron's train would nobly grace ' — 1 Out, out, De Vaux ! can fear supply, And jealousy, no sharper eye ? 520 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. 'T is James of Douglas, by Saint Serle ! The uncle of the banished Earl. Away, away, to court, to show The near approach of dreaded foe: The King must stand upon his guard; Douglas and he must meet prepared.' 530 Then right-hand wheeled their steeds, and straight They won the Castle's postern gate. xx The Douglas who had bent his way From Cambus-kenneth's abbey gray, Now, as he climbed 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. 540 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 Heaven; — Be pardoned 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; 550 And thou, O 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 the Franciscan steeple reel ? And see ! upon the crowded street, In motley groups what masquers meet ! 560 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 yeoman bends his bow, And the tough wrestler foils his foe, 196 THE LADY OF THE LAKE As well as where, in proud career, The high-born tilter shivers spear. I '11 follow to the Castle-park, 570 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.' The Castle gates were open flung, The quivering drawbridge rocked and rung, And echoed loud the flinty street Beneath the courser's clattering feet, As slowly down the steep descent Fair Scotland's King and nobles went, 580 While all along the crowded way Was jubilee and loud huzza. And ever James was bending low To his white jennet's saddle-bow, Doffing his cap to city dame, Who smiled and blushed for pride and shame. And well the simperer might be vain, — He chose the fairest of the train. Gravely he greets each city sire, Commends each pageant's quaint attire, 590 Gives to the dancers thanks aloud, And smiles and nods upon the crowd, Who rend the heavens with their ac- claims, — 'Long live the Commons' King, King James ! ' Behind the King thronged peer and knight, And noble dame and damsel bright, Whose fiery steeds ill brooked the stay Of the steep street and crowded way. But in the train you might discern Dark lowering brow and visage stern; 600 There nobles mourned their pride restrained, And the mean burgher's joys disdained; And chiefs, who, hostage for their clan, Were each from home a banished man, There thought upon their own gray tower, Their waving woods, their feudal power, And deemed themselves a shameful part Of pageant which they cursed in heart. Now, in the Castle-park, drew out Their checkered bands the joyous rout. 61 There morricers, with bell at heel And blade in hand, their mazes wheel; But chief, beside the butts, there stand Bold Robin Hood and all his band, — Friar Tuck with quarterstaff and cowl, Old Scathelocke with his surly scowl, Maid Marian, fair as ivory bone, Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John; Their bugles challenge all that will, In archery to prove their skill. 6 The Douglas bent a bow of might, — His first shaft centred in the white, And when in turn he shot again, His second split the first in twain. From the King's hand must Douglas take A silver dart, the archer's stake; Fondly he watched, with watery eye, Some answering glance of sympathy, — No kind emotion made reply ! Indifferent as to archer wight, 630 The monarch gave the arrow bright. XXIII 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, — Nor called 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 640 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 struggling soul his words suppressed; Indignant then he turned him where Their arms the brawny yeomen bare, To hurl the massive bar in air. When each his utmost strength had shown, The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone 650 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 gray-haired sires, who know the past, To strangers point the Douglas cast, And moralize on the decay Of Scottish strength in modern day. The vale with loud applauses rang, The Ladies' Rock sent back the clang. 660 The King, with look unmoved, bestowed A purse well filled with pieces broad. Indignant smiled the Douglas proud<, And threw the gold among the crowd, CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT 197 Who now with anxious wonder scan, And sharper glance, the dark gray man; Till whispers rose among the throng, That heart so free, and hand so strong, Must to the Douglas blood belong. 669 The old men marked and shook the head, To see his hair with silver spread, And winked 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 wrecked by many a winter's storm ; The youth with awe and wonder saw His strength surpassing Nature's law. Thus judged, as is their wont, the crowd, 680 Till murmurs rose to clamors loud. But not a glance from that proud ring Of peers who circled round the King With Douglas held communion kind, Or called the banished man to mind; No, not from those who at the chase Once held his side the honored place, Begirt his board, and in the field Found safety underneath his shield; For he whom royal eyes disown, 690 When was his form to courtiers known ! The Monarch saw the gambols flag, And bade let loose a gallant stag, Whose pride, the holiday to crown, Two favorite greyhounds should pull down, That venison free and Bourdeaux wine Might serve the archery to dine. But Luf ra, — whom from Douglas' side Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide, The fleetest hound in all the North, — 700 Brave Lufra saw, and darted forth. She left the royal hounds midway, And dashing on the antlered prey, Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank, And deep the flowing life-blood drank. The king's stout huntsman saw the sport By strange intruder broken short, j Came up, and with his leash unbound In anger struck the noble hound. The Douglas had endured, that morn, 710 The King's cold look, the nobles' scorn, And last, and worst to spirit proud, Had borne the pity of the crowd; But Lufra had been fondly bred, To share his board, to watch 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, 720 In darkened 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. Then clamored loud the royal train, And brandished swords and staves amain, But stern the Baron's warning: 'Back ! 730 Back, on your lives, ye menial pack ! Beware the Douglas. — Yes ! behold, King James ! The Douglas, doomed 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, 74 o 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 frowned, 7SO ' And bid our horsemen clear the ground.' XXVII Then uproar wild and misarray Marred the fair form of festal day. The horsemen pricked among the crowd, Repelled by threats and insult 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 760 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, 198 THE LADY OF THE LAKE And to the leading soldier said: « Sir John of Hyndford, 't was my blade, That knighthood on thy shoulder laid; For that good deed permit me then 770 A word with these misguided men. — XXVIII ' Hear, gentle friends, ere yet for me Ye break the bands of fealty. My life, my honor, 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, 780 That, for mean vengeance on a foe, Those cords of love I should unbind Which knit my country and my kind ? O 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, 790 For me that orphans weep their sires, That patriots mourn insulted laws, And curse the Douglas for the cause. O 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 prayed For blessings on his generous head Who for his country felt alone, 800 And prized her blood beyond his own. . Old men upon the verge of life Blessed him who stayed 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, 810 The Douglas up the hill he led, And at the Castle's battled verge, With sighs resigned Jris honored charge. xxx The offended Monarch rode apart, With bitter thought and swelling heart, And would not now vouchsafe again Through Stirling streets to lead his train. ' O Lenox, who would wish to rule This changeling crowd, this common fool ? Hear'st thou,' he said, ' the loud acclaim 820 With which they shout the Douglas name ? With like acclaim the vulgar throat Strained for King James their morning note; With like acclaim they hailed 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, 830 And fickle as a changeful dream; Fantastic as a woman's mood, And fierce as Frenzy's fevered 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 — What from our cousin, John of Mar ? ' 1 He prays, my liege, your sports keep bound 840 Within the safe and guarded ground; For some foul purpose yet unknown, — Most sure for evil to the throne, — The outlawed Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, Has summoned his rebellious crew; 'T is said, in James of Bothwell's aid These loose banditti stand arrayed. The Earl of Mar this morn from Doune To break their muster marched, and soon Your Grace will hear of battle fought; 850 But earnestly the Earl besought, Till for such danger he provide, With scanty train you will not ride.* ' Thou warn'st me I have done amiss, • I should have earlier looked to this; 1 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 Mar, 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 CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM 199 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 our message, Braco, fly ! ' 870 He turned his steed, — ' My liege, I hie, Yet ere I cross this lily lawn I fear the broadswords will be drawn.' The turf the flying courser spurned, And to his towers the King returned. Ill with King James's mood that day Suited gay feast and minstrel lay; Soon were dismissed the courtly throng, And soon cut short the festal song. Nor less upon the saddened town 8J The evening sunk in sorrow down. The burghers spoke of civil jar, Of rumored feuds and mountain war, Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu, All up in arms; — the Douglas too, They mourned him pent within the hold, * Where stout Earl William was of old.' — And there his word the speaker stayed, And finger on his lip he laid, Or pointed to his dagger blade. 85 But jaded horsemen from the west At evening to the Castle pressed, 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 rumor shook the town, Till closed the Night her pennons brown. CANTO SIXTH THE GUARD-ROOM The sun, 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 ; Summoning revellers from the lagging 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 O, what scenes of woe, 10 Are witnessed by that red and strug- gling beam ! The fevered patient, from his pallet low, Through crowded hospital beholds it stream ; The ruined maiden trembles at its gleam, The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail, The love-lorn wretch starts from torment- ing dream; The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale, Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his feeble wail. At dawn the towers of Stirling rang With soldier-step and weapon-clang, 20 While drums with rolling note foretell Relief to weary sentinel. Through narrow loop and casement barred, The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard, And, struggling with the smoky air, Deadened the torches' yellow glare. In comfortless alliance shone The lights through arch of blackened stone, And showed wild shapes in garb of war, Faces deformed with beard and scar, 30 All haggard from the midnight watch, And fevered with the stern debauch; For the oak table's massive board, Flooded with wine, with fragments stored, And beakers drained, and cups o'erthrown, Showed in what sport the night had flown. Some, weary, snored on floor and bench; Some labored still their thirst to quench; Some, chilled with watching, spread their hands O'er the huge chimney's dying brands, 40 While round them, or beside them flung, At every step their harness rung. Ill These drew not for their fields the sword, Like tenants of a feudal lord, Nor owned 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; 50 The mountain-loving Switzer there More freely breathed in mountain-air; The Fleming there despised the soil 200 THE LADY OF THE LAKE That paid so ill the laborer's toil; Their rolls showed French and German name; And merry England's exiles came, To share, with ill-concealed disdain, Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain. All brave in arms, well trained to wield The heavy halberd, brand, and shield; 60 In camps licentious, wild, and bold; In pillage fierce and uncontrolled; And now, by holytide and feast, From rules of discipline released. IV They held debate of bloody fray, Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray. Fierce was 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, 70 Whose mangled limbs and bodies gored Bore token of the mountain sword, Though, neighboring to the Court of Guard, Their prayers and feverish wails were heard, — Sad burden to the ruffian joke, And savage oath by fury spoke ! — At length up started John of Brent, A yeoman from the banks of Trent; A stranger to respect or fear, In peace a chaser of the deer, 80 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 marred the dicer's brawling sport, And shouted loud, ' Renew the bowl ! And, while a merry catch I troll, Let each the buxom chorus bear, Like brethren of the brand and spear.' soldier's song Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule 90 Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl, That tbere 's wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack, And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack: Yet whoop, Barnaby ! off with thy liquor, Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar ! Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip, Says that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly, And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye; 99 Yet whoop, 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 't is right of his office poor laymen to lurch Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church. Yet whoop, bully-boys ! off with your liquor, Sweet Marjorie 's the word, and a fig for the vicar ! VI The warder's challenge, heard without, Stayed in mid-roar the merry shout. A soldier to the portal went, — no 'Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent; And — beat for jubilee the drum ! — A maid and minstrel with him come.' Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarred, Was entering now the Court of Guard, A harper with him, and, in plaid All muffled close, a mountain maid, Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. 'What news?' they roared: — 'I only know, 120 From noon till eve we fought with foe, As wild and as untamable As the rude mountains where they dwell; On both sides store of blood is lost, Nor much success can either boast.' — ' But whence thy captives, friend ? such 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, 130 The leader of a juggler band.' CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM VII * No, comrade ; — no such fortune mine. After the fight these sought our line, That aged harper and the girl, And, having audience of the Earl, Mar bade I should purvey them steed, And bring them hitherward with speed. Forbear your mirth and rude alarm, For none shall do them shame or harm. — ' i Hear ye his boast ? ' cried John of Brent, 140 Ever to strife and jangling bent; ' Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, And yet the jealous niggard grudge To pay the forester his fee ? I '11 have my share howe'er it be, Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee.' Bertram his forward step withstood; And, burning in his vengeful mood, Old Allan, though unfit for strife, Laid hand upon his dagger-knife ; 150 But Ellen boldly stepped between, And dropped at once the tartan screen: — So, from his morning cloud, appears The sun of May through summer tears. The savage soldiery, amazed, As on descended angel gazed; Even hardy Brent, abashed and tamed, Stood half admiring, half ashamed. VIII Boldly she spoke : ' Soldiers, attend ! My father was the soldier's friend, 160 Cheered him in camps, in marches led, And with him in the battle bled. Not from the valiant or the strong Should exile's daughter suffer wrong.' Answered De Brent, most forward still In every feat or good or ill: ' I shame me of the part I played; And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid ! An outlaw I by forest laws, And merry Need wood knows the cause. 170 Poor Rose, — if Rose be living now,' — He wiped his iron eye and brow, — ' Must bear such age, I think, as thou. — Hear ye, 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; 180 Ye all know John de Brent. Enough.' IX Their Captain came, a gallant young, — Of Tullibardine's house he sprung, — Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight; Gay was his mien, his humor light, And, though by courtesy controlled, 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, 190 Young Lewis was a generous youth; But Ellen's lovely face and mien, III 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, 200 Or may the venture suit a squire ? ' Her dark eye flashed; — she paused and sighed : — ' 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 Monarch to Fitz-James.' The signet-ring young Lewis took 210 With deep respect and altered look, And said: ' This ring our duties own; And pardon, if to worth unknown, In semblance mean obscurely veiled, Lady, in aught my folly failed. Soon as the day flings wide his gates, The King shall know what suitor waits. Please you meanwhile in fitting bower Repose you till his waking hour; Female attendance shall obey 220 Your hest, for service or array. Permit I marshal you the way.' But, ere she followed, with the grace And open bounty of her race, She bade her slender purse be shared Among the soldiers of the guard. The rest with thanks their guerdon took, But Brent, with shy and awkward look, On the reluctant maiden's hold 229 Forced bluntly back the proffered gold: — ' Forgive a haughty English heart, THE LADY OF THE LAKE And O, forget its ruder part ! The vacant purse shall be my share, Which in my barret-cap I '11 bear, Perchance, in jeopardy of war, Where gayer crests may keep afar.' With thanks — 't was all she could — the maid His rugged courtesy repaid. When Ellen forth with Lewis went, Allan made suit to John of Brent: — 240 ' My lady safe, let your grace Give me to see my master's face ! His minstrel I, — to share his doom Bound from the cradle to the tomb. Tenth in descent, since first my sires Waked for his noble house their lyres, Nor one of all the race was known But prized its weal above their own. With the Chief's birth begins our care; Our harp must soothe the infant heir, 250 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; 260 Nor wot we how a name — a word — Makes 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 laboring steer, I had not dwelt an outcast here. Come, good old Minstrel, follow me; Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.' Then, from a rusted iron hook, 270 A bunch of ponderous keys he took, Lighted a torch, and Allan led Through grated arch and passage dread. Portals they passed, where, deep within, Spoke prisoner's moan and fetters' din; Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored, Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's sword, And many a hideous engine grim, For wrenching joint and crushing limb, By artists formed who deemed it shame 280 And sin to give their work a name. They halted at a low-browed porch, And Brent to Allan gave the torch, While bolt and chain he backward rolled, And made the bar unhasp its hold. They entered: — 't was 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 290 Decked the sad walls and oaken floor, Such as the rugged days of old Deemed fit for captive noble's hold. ' Here,' said De Brent, ' thou mayst re- main 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 growled anew. Roused at the sound, from lowly bed 300 A captive feebly raised his head; The wondering Minstrel looked, and knew — Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu ! For, come from where Clan- Alpine fought, They, erring, deemed 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 breakers lies astrand, — So on his couch lay Roderick Dhu ! 310 And oft his fevered limbs he threw In toss abrupt, as when her sides Lie rocking in the advancing tides, That shake 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, — < What of thy lady ? — of my clan ? — 319 My mother ? — Douglas ? — tell me all ! Have they been ruined in my fall ? Ah, yes ! or wherefore art thou here ? Yet speak, — speak boldly, — do not fear/ For Allan, who his mood well knew, Was 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 ? ' CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM 203 * 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; 332 And, for thy clan, — on field or fell, Has never harp of minstrel told Of combat fought so true and bold. Thy stately Pine is yet unbent, Though many a goodly bough is rent.' XIV The Chieftain reared his form on high, And fever's fire was in his eye; But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks 340 Checkered his swarthy brow and cheeks. i Hark, Minstrel ! I have heard thee play, With measure bold on festal day, In yon lone isle, — again where ne'er Shall harper play or warrior hear ! — That stirring air that peals on high, O'er Dermid's race our victory. — Strike it ! — and then, — for well thou canst, — Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced, Fling me the picture of the fight, 350 When met my clan the Saxon might. I '11 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 soared from battle fray.' The trembling Bard with awe obeyed, — Slow on the harp his hand he laid; But soon remembrance of the sight 360 He witnessed from the mountain's height, With what old Bertram told at night, Awakened the full power of song, And bore him in career along; — As shallop launched 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 BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE ' The Minstrel came once more to view The eastern ridge of Benvenue, 370 For ere he parted he would say Farewell to lovely Loch Achray — Where shall he find, in foreign land, So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ! — There is no breeze upon the fern, No 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, 380 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 glance That on the thicket streams, Or do they flash on spear and lance 390 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 ! To hero boune for battle-strife, Or bard of martial lay, 'T were worth ten years of peaceful life, One glance at their array ! XVI 'Their light -armed archers far and near 400 Surveyed the tangled ground, Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, A twilight forest frowned, Their barded horsemen in the rear The stern battalia crowned. No symbol clashed, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum ; Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, The sullen march was dumb. There breathed no wind their crests to shake, 4-10 Or wave their flags abroad; Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake, That shadowed o'er their road. Their vaward scouts no tidings bring, Can rouse no lurking foe, Nor spy a trace of living thing, Save when they stirred the roe; The host moves like a deep-sea wave, Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, High-swelling, dark, and slow. 420 The lake is passed, and now they gain A narrow and a broken plain, Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws; And here the horse and spearmen pause, While, to explore the dangerous glen, Dive through the pass the archer-men. 204 THE LADY OF THE LAKE XVII ' At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell, As all the fiends from heaven that fell Had pealed the banner-cry of hell ! 430 Forth from the pass in tumult driven, Like chaff before the wind of heaven, The archery appear: For life ! for life ! their flight they ply — And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, And plaids and bonnets waving high, And broadswords flashing to the sky, Are maddening in the rear. Onward they drive in dreadful race, Pursuers and pursued; 44 o Before that tide of flight and chase, How shall it keep its rooted place, The spearmen's twilight wood ? — " Down, down," cried Mar, " your lances down ! Bear back both friend and foe ! " — Like reeds before the tempest's frown, That serried grove of lances brown At once lay levelled low; And closely shouldering side to side, The bristling ranks the onset bide. — 450 " We '11 quell the savage mountaineer, As their Tinchel cows the game ! They come as fleet as forest deer, We '11 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, Right onward did Clan- Alpine come. Above the tide, each broadsword bright Was brandishing like beam of light, 460 Each targe was dark below; And with the ocean's mighty swing, When heaving to the tempest's wing, They hurled 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 a hundred anvils rang ! But Moray wheeled his rearward rank Of horsemen on Clan- Alpine's flank, — 47c " My banner-men, advance ! I see," he cried, " their column shake. Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake, Upon them with the lance ! " — The horsemen dashed among the rout, As deer break through the broom; Their steeds are stout, their swords are out, They soon make lightsome room. Clan- Alpine's best are backward borne — Where, where was Roderick then ! 480 One blast upon his bugle-horn Were worth a thousand men. And refluent through the pass of fear The battle's tide was poured; Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear, Vanished the mountain-sword. As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, Receives her roaring linn, As the dark caverns of the deep Suck the wild whirlpool in, 49 o So did the deep and darksome pass Devour the battle's mingled mass; None linger now upon the plain, Save those who ne'er shall fight again. 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 rude Trosachs' dread defile Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. 500 Gray Benvenue I soon repassed, Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast. The sun is set ; — the clouds are met, The lowering scowl of heaven An inky hue of livid blue To the deep lake has given; Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen Swept o'er the lake, then sunk again. I heeded not the eddying surge, Mine eye but saw the Trosachs' gorge, 510 Mine ear but heard that 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 again, But not in mingled tide; The plaided warriors of the North 520 High on the mountain thunder forth And overhang its side, While by the lake below appears The darkening cloud of Saxon spears. At weary bay each shattered band, Eying their foemen, sternly stand; Their banners stream like tattered sail, CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM 205 That flings its fragments to the gale, And broken arms and disarray Marked the fell havoc of the day. 530 * Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, The Saxons 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: 'T is 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, 540 And loose a shallop from the shore. Lightly we '11 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 corselet rung, He plunged him in the wave : — All saw the deed, — the purpose knew, And to their clamors Benvenue A mingled echo gave ; The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, 550 The helpless females scream for fear, And yells for rage the mountaineer. 'T was then, as by the outcry riven, Poured down at once the lowering heaven: A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast, Her billows reared their snowy crest. Well for the swimmer swelled they high, To mar the Highland marksman's eye; For round him showered, mid rain and hail, The vengeful arrows of the Gael. 560 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 marked Duncraggan's widowed dame, Behind an oak I saw her stand, A naked dirk gleamed in her hand: — It darkened, — but amid the moan Of waves I heard a dying groan ; — Another flash ! — the spearman floats 570 A weltering corse beside the boats, And the stern matron o'er him stood, Her hand and dagger streaming blood. '"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 580 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 A herald's voice forbade the war, For Both well'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 590 How Roderick brooked 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 deafened ear The minstrel melody can hear; His face grows sharp, — his hands are clenched, As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched; Set are his teeth, his fading eye 600 Is sternly fixed on vacancy; Thus, motionless and moanless drew, His parting breath stout Roderick Dhu ! — Old Allan-bane looked on aghast, While grim and still his spirit passed; But when he saw that life was fled, He poured his wailing o'er the dead. XXII ' And art thou cold and lowly laid, Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, 609 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, I '11 wail for Alpine's honored Pine ! ' What groans shall yonder valleys fill ! What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill ! What tears of burning rage shall thrill, When mourns thy tribe thy battles done, Thy fall before the race was won, 621 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 honored Pine ! ' Sad was thy lot on mortal stage ! — The captive thrush may brook the cage, 206 THE LADY OF THE LAKE The prisoned eagle dies for rage. Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain ! And, when its notes awake again, 630 Even she, so long beloved in vain, Shall with my harp her voice combine, And mix her woe and tears with mine, To wail Clan-Alpine's honored Pine.' Ellen the while, with bursting heart, Remained in lordly bower apart, Where played, with many-colored gleams, Through storied pane the rising beams. In vain on gilded roof they fall, And lightened up a tapestried wall, 640 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; Or if she looked, 't was but to say, With better omen dawned the day In that lone isle, where waved on high The dun-deer's hide for canopy; Where oft her noble father shared The simple meal her care prepared, 650 While Lufra, crouching by her side, Her station claimed with jealous pride, And Douglas, bent on woodland game, Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Graeme, Whose answer, oft at random made, The wandering of his thoughts betrayed. Those who such simple joys have known Are taught to prize them when they 're gone. But sudden, see, she lifts her head, The window seeks with cautious tread. 660 What distant music has the power To win her in this woful hour ? 'T was from a turret that o'erhung Her latticed bower, 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 is weary of his stall, And I am sick of captive thrall. I wish I were as I have been, Hunting the hart in forest green, 670 With bended bow and bloodhound free, For that's the life is meet for me. ' I hate to learn the ebb of time From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl, Inch after inch, along the wall. The lark was wont my matins ring, The sable rook my vespers sing, These towers, although a king's they be, Have not a hall of joy for me. 680 ' 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 ! ' xxv The heart-sick lay was hardly said, The listener had not turned her head, 690 It trickled still, the starting tear, When light a footstep struck her ear, And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near. She turned the hastier, lest again The prisoner should renew his strain. ' O welcome, brave Fitz-James ! ' she said; ' How may an almost orphan maid Pay the deep debt — ' 'O say not so ! To me no gratitude you owe. Not mine, alas ! the boon to give, 700 And bid thy noble father live; I can but be thy guide, sweet maid, With Scotland's King thy suit to aid. No tyrant he, though ire and pride May lay his better mood aside. Come, Ellen, come ! 't is more than time, He holds his court at morning prime.' With beating heart, and bosom wrung, As to a brother's arm she clung. Gently he dried the falling tear, 710 And gently whispered hope and cheer; Her faltering steps half led, half stayed, Through gallery fair and high arcade, Till at his touch its wings of pride A portal arch unfolded wide. XXVI Within 't was brilliant all and light, A thronging scene of figures bright; It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight, As when the setting sun has given Ten thousand hues to summer even, 720 And from their tissue fancy frames Aerial knights and fairy dames. Still by Fitz-James her footing staid; A few faint steps she forward made, Then slow her drooping head she raised, And fearful round the presence gazed; CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM 207 For him she sought who owned this state, The dreaded Prince whose will was fate ! — She gazed on many a princely port Might well have ruled a royal court; 730 On many a splendid garb she gazed, — Then turned bewildered and amazed, For all stood bare ; and in the room Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. To hitn each lady's look was lent, On him each courtier's eye was bent; Midst furs 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 ! XXVII As wreath of snow on mountain-breast Slides from the rock that gave it rest, Poor Ellen glided from her stay, And at the Mouarch's feet she lay; No word her choking voice commands, — She showed the ring, — she clasped her hands. 0, not a moment could he brook, The generous Prince, that suppliant look ! Gently he raised her, — and, the while, Checked with a glance the circle's smile; 750 Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed, And bade her terrors be dismissed: — * 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 forgiven; Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue, 1, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. 760 We would not, to the vulgar crowd, Yield what they craved with clamor loud; Calmly we heard and judged his cause, Our council aided and our laws. I stanched thy father's death-feud stern With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn; And Both well's Lord henceforth we own The friend and bulwark of our throne. — But, lovely infidel, how now ? What clouds thy misbelieving brow ? 770 Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid; Thou must confirm this doubting maid.' XXVIII Then forth the noble Douglas sprung, And on his neck his daughter hung. The Monarch drank, that happy hour, The sweetest, holiest draught of Power, — When it can say with godlike voice, Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice ! Yet would not James the general eye On nature's raptures long should pry; 780 He stepped between — ' Nay, Douglas, nay, Steal not my proselyte away ! The riddle 't is my right to read, That brought this happy chance to speed. Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray In life's more low but happier way, 'T is under name which veils my power, Nor falsely veils, — for Stirling's tower Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims, 789 And Normans call me James Fitz-James. Thus watch I o'er insulted laws, Thus learn to right the injured 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, Joined to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew My spell-bound steps to Benvenue In dangerous hour, and all but gave 799 Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive ! ' Aloud he spoke: ' Thou still dost hold That little talisman of gold, Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring, — What seeks fair Ellen of the King ? ' XXIX Full well the conscious maiden guessed He probed the weakness of her breast; But with that consciousness there came A lightening of her fears for Graeme, And more she deemed the Monarch's ire Kindled 'gainst him who for her sire 810 Rebellious broadsword boldly drew; And, to her generous feeling true, She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu. 'Forbear thy suit; — the King of 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 Chieftain live ! — Hast thou no other boon to crave ? 820 No other captive friend to save ? ' Blushing, she turned her from the King, And to the Douglas gave the ring, As if she wished her sire to speak The suit that stained her glowing cheek. 208 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK ' Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force, And stubborn justice holds her course. Malcolm, come forth ! ' — and, at the word, Down kneeled the Graeme to Scotland's Lord. 829 * For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, From thee may Vengeance claim her dues, Who, nurtured underneath our smile, Hast paid our care by treacherous wile, And sought amid thy faithful clan A refuge for an outlawed man, Dishonoring thus thy loyal name. — Fetters and warder for the Graame ! ' His chain of gold the King unstrung, The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung, Then gently drew the glittering band, 840 And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand. Harp of the North, farewell ! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade de- scending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm ! the fountain lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder min- strelsy; Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee. 850 Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp ! Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way, Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawned wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured alone. — That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress ! is thine own. Hark ! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, 860 Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string ! 'T is now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'T is now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the merged dell; m ^ And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spell — And now, 't is silent all ! — Enchantress, fare thee well ! THE VISION OF DON RODERICK INTRODUCTORY NOTE The foundation of The Vision of Don Roderick is given by Scott in the Preface printed below and referred to again in the Notes, but there was no further Introduction in 1830, and it is to the Dedication, Scott's Letters, and to Lockhart's Life that we must turn for an explanation of the occasion which produced the poem. In a letter to Lady Ab- ercorn, dated Ashestiel, 30th April, 1811, Scott writes : — ' I promised I would not write any poetry without letting you know, and I make all sort of haste to tell you of my sudden determina- tion to write a sort of rhapsody upon the af- fairs of the Peninsula. It is to be called The Vision of Don Roderick, and is founded upon the apparition explanatory of the future events in Spain, said to be seen by the last King of the Gothic race, in a vault beneath the great church of Toledo. I believe your Ladyship will find something of the story in the Com- tesse DAunois' travels into Spain, but I find it at most length in an old Spanish history of the aforesaid Don Roderick, professing to be translated from the Arabic, but being in trutk a mere romance of the reign of Ferdinand ancL INTRODUCTORY NOTE 209 Isabella. It will serve my purpose, however, tout de meme. The idea of forming a short lyric piece upon this subject has often glided through my mind, but I should never, I fear, have had the grace to turn it to practice if it were not that groping in my pockets to find some guineas for the suffering Portuguese, and detecting very few to spare, I thought I could only have recourse to the apostolic benediction, " Silver and gold have I none, but that which I have I will give unto you." My friends and booksellers, the Ballantynes of Edinburgh, have very liberally promised me a hundred guineas for this trifle, which I intend to send to the fund for relieving the sufferers in Portugal. I have come out to this wilderness to write my poem, and so soon as it is finished I will send you, my dear Lady Marchioness, a copy, — not that it will be worth your acceptance, but merely that you may be assured I am doing nothing that I would not you knew of sooner than any one. I intend to write to the Chairman of the Com- mittee by to-morrow's post. I would give them a hundred drops of my blood with the same pleasure, would it do them service, for my heart is a soldier's, and always has been, though my lameness rendered me unfit for the profession, which, old as I am, I would rather follow than any other. But these are waking dreams, in which I seldom indulge even to my kindest friends.' The poem, which was published July 15, 1811, called out two criticisms, — one for the adoption of the Spenserian stanza, the other for the omission of any reference to Sir John Moore, Scott's countryman who had just fallen in battle in the cause which Scott was celebrating, and whose memory is kept alive in many readers' minds by Wolfe's martial verses on his burial, — ' Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried.' Scott meets both criticisms in a letter to Mor- ritt, September, 1811 : — 'The Edinburgh Reviewers have been down on my poor Bon Roderick, hand to fist ; but truly, as they are too fastidious to approve of the campaign, I should be very unreasonable if I expected them to like the celebration thereof. I agree with you respecting the lum- bering weight of the stanza, and I shrewdly suspect it would require a very great poet in- deed to prevent the tedium arising from the frequent recurrence of rhymes. Our language is unable to support the expenditure of so many for each stanza ; even Spenser himself, with all the licenses of using obsolete words and uncommon spelling, sometimes fatigues the ear. They are also very wroth with me for omitting the merits of Sir John Moore ; but as I never exactly discovered in what they lay, unless in conducting his advance and re- treat upon a plan the most likely to verify the desponding speculations of the foresaid reviewers, I must hold myself excused for not giving praise where I was unable to see that much was due.' The poem was both published in quarto form and included in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1809, which was not however published till 1811. It had the following : — PREFACE The following Poem is founded upon a Spanish Tradition, particularly detailed in the Notes ; but bearing, in general, that Don Rod- erick, the last Gothic King of Spain, when the Invasion of the Moors was impending, had the temerity to descend into an ancient vault, near Toledo, the opening of which had been de- nounced as fatal to the Spanish Monarchy. The legend adds, that his rash curiosity was mortified by an emblematical representation of those Saracens who, in the year 714, defeated him in battle, and reduced Spain under their dominion. I have presumed to prolong the Vision of the Revolutions of Spain down to the present eventful crisis of the Peninsula ; and to divide it, by a supposed change of scene, into Three Periods. The First of these repre- sents the Invasion of the Moors, the Defeat and Death of Roderick, and closes with the peaceful occupation of the country by the Vic- tors. The Second Period embraces the state of the Peninsula, when the conquests of the Spaniards and Portuguese in the East and West Indies had raised to the highest pitch the renown of their arms ; sullied, however, by superstition and cruelty. An allusion to the inhumanities of the Inquisition terminates this picture. The Last Part of the Poem opens with the state of Spain previous to the unpar- alleled treachery of Bonaparte ; gives a sketch of the usurpation attempted upon that unsus- picious and friendly kingdom, and terminates with the arrival of the British succors. It may be further proper to mention that the object of the Poem is less to commemorate or detail particular incidents, than to exhibit a general and impressive picture of the several periods brought upon the stage. I am too sensible of the respect due to the Public, especially by one who has already ex- perienced more than ordinary indulgence, to offer any apology for the inferiority of the poetry to the subject it is chiefly designed to commemorate. Yet I think it proper to men- tion that while I was hastily executing a work, written for a temporary purpose, and on pass- 2IO THE VISION OF DON RODERICK ing events, the task was most cruelly inter- rupted by the successive deaths of Lord Presi- dent Blair and Lord Viscount Melville. In those distinguished characters I had not only to regret persons whose lives were most im- portant to Scotland, but also whose notice and patronage honored my entrance upon active life ; and, I may add, with melancholy pride, who permitted my more advanced age to claim no common share in their friendship. Under such interruptions, the following verses, which my best and happiest efforts must have left far unworthy of their theme, have, I am my- self sensible, an appearance of negligence and incoherence, which, in other circumstances, I might have been able to remove. Edutbubgh, June 24, 1811. THE VISION OF DON RODERICK Quid dignum memorare tuis, Hispa.7iia, terris, Vox humana valet ! — Claudian. TO JOHN WHITMORE, ESQ., AND TO THE COMMITTEE OF SUBSCRIBERS FOR RELIEF OF THE PORTUGUESE SUFFERERS IN WHICH HE PRESIDES, THIS POEM, COMPOSED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE FUND UNDER THEIR MANAGEMENT, IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY WALTER SCOTT. INTRODUCTION Lives there a strain whose sounds of mounting fire May rise distiuguished o'er the din of war; Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre, Who sung beleaguered Ilion's evil star ? Such, 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 swelled 'twixt each loud trum- pet-change, That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge ! II Yes ! such a strain, with all o'erpower- ing measure, 10 Might melodize with each tumultuous sound, Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure, That rings Mond ego's ravaged shores around ; The thundering cry of hosts with con- quest crowned, The female shriek, the ruined peasant's moan, The shout of captives from their chains unbound, The foiled oppressor's deep and sullen groan, A Nation's choral hymn for tyranny o'er- thrown. INTRODUCTION 211 III But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day, i9 Skilled but to imitate an elder page, Timid and raptureless, can we repay The debt thou claim'st in this ex- hausted 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 Ho- mer's rage A theme; a theme for Milton's mighty hand — How much unmeet for us, a faint degener- ate band ! Ye mountains stern ! within whose rug- ged breast The friends of Scottish freedom found repose; Ye torrents ! whose hoarse sounds have soothed their rest, 30 Returning from the field of vanquished foes; Say, have ye lost each wild majestic close, That erst the choir of Bards or Druids flung; What time their hymn of victory arose, And Cattraeth's glens with voice of triumph rung, And mystic Merlin harped, and gray-haired Llywarch sung ? O, if your wilds such minstrelsy re- tain, As sure your changeful gales seem oft to say, When sweeping wild and sinking soft again, Like trumpet-jubilee or harp's wild sway ; 40 If ye can echo such triumphant lay, Then lend the note to him has loved you long ! Who pious gathered each tradition gray, That floats your solitary wastes along, And with affection vain gave them new voice in song. VI For not till now, how oft soe'er the task Of truant verse hath lightened graver care, From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask, In phrase poetic, inspiration fair; 49 Careless he gave his numbers to the air, They came unsought for, if applauses came; Nor for himself prefers he now the prayer: Let but his verse befit a hero's fame, Immortal be the verse ! — forgot the poet's name ! VII Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer tost: ' Minstrel ! the fame of whose roman- tic lyre, Capricious-swelling now, may soon be lost, Like the light flickering of a cottage fire; If to such task presumptuous thou aspire Seek not from us the meed to warrior due: 60 Age after age has gathered son to sire, Since our gray cliffs the din of conflict knew, Or, pealing through our vales, victorious bugles blew. VIII ' Decayed our old traditionary lore, Save where the lingering fays renew their ring, By milkmaid seen beneath the hawthorn hoar, Or round the marge of Minchmore's haunted spring; Save where their legends gray-haired shepherds sing, That now scarce win a listening ear but thine, 69 Of feuds obscure and Border ravaging, 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 ethereal flame, 212 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK Where the rude villager, his labor done, In verse spontaneous chants some fa- vored name, Whether Olalia's charms his tribute claim , Her eye of diamond and her locks of jet, Or whether, kindling at the deeds of Graeme, 79 He sing, to wild Morisco measure set, Old Albin's red claymore, green Erin's bayonet ! 'Explore those regions, where the flinty crest Of wild Nevada ever gleams with snows, Where in the proud Alhambra's ruined breast Barbaric monuments of pomp repose ; Or where the banners of more ruthless 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, Portugal, and Spain. 90 XI ' There, of Numantian fire a swarthy spark Still lightens in the sunburnt native's eye; The stately port, slow step, and visage dark Still mark enduring pride and con- stancy. 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. ' And cherished still by that unchanging race, 100 Are themes for minstrelsy more high than thine: Of strange tradition many a mystic trace, Legend and vision, prophecy and sign; Where wonders wild of Arabesque com- bine With Gothic imagery of darker shade. Forming a model meet for minstrel line, Go, seek such theme ! ' — The Moun- tain Spirit said: With filial awe I heard — I heard, and I obeyed. THE VISION OF DON RODERICK Rearing their crests amid the cloudless skies, And darkly clustering in the pale moon- light, 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- stretched 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. 9 All save the rushing swell of Teio's tide, Or, distant heard, a courser's neigh or tramp, Their changing rounds as watchful horse- men 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, Which glimmered back, against the moon's fair lamp, Tissues of silk and silver twisted sheen, And standards proudly pitched, and warders armed between. But of their monarch's person keeping ward, Since last the deep-mouthed bell of vespers tolled, 20- THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 213 The chosen soldiers of the royal guard The post beneath the proud cathedral hold: A band unlike their Gothic sires of old, Who, for the cap of steel and iron mace, Bear slender darts and casques bedecked with gold, While silver-studded belts their shoul- ders grace, Where ivory quivers ring in the broad fal- chion's place. IV In the light language of an idle court, They murmured at their master's long delay, 29 And held his lengthened orisons in sport: 1 What ! will Don Roderick here till morning stay, To wear in shrift and prayer the night away? And are his hours in such dull penance For fair Florinda's plundered charms to pay?' Then to the east their weary eyes they cast, And wished the lingering dawn would glim- mer forth at last. But, far within, Toledo's prelate lent An ear of fearful wonder to the king; The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent, 39 So long that sad confession witnessing: For Roderick told of many a hidden thing, Such as are lothly uttered to the air, When Fear, Remorse, and Shame the bosom wring, And Guilt his secret burden cannot bear, And Conscience seeks in speech a respite from Despair. VI Full on the prelate's face and silver hair The stream of failing light was feebly rolled ; But Roderick's visage, though his head was bare, Was shadowed by his hand and mantle's fold. While of his hidden soul the sins he told, 50 Proud Alaric's descendant could not brook That mortal man his bearing should behold, Or boast that he had seen, when con- science shook, Fear tame a monarch's brow, remorse a warrior's look. VII The old man's faded cheek waxed yefc more pale, As many a secret sad the king be- wrayed ; As sign and glance eked out the unfin- ished tale, When in the midst his faltering whisper staid. — * Thus royal Witiza was slain,' he said; ' Yet, holy father, deem not it was I.' 60 Thus still Ambition strives her crimes to shade. — * O, rather deem 't was stern necessity ! Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or die. VIII * And if Florinda's shrieks alarmed 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 disguise their mood: ' — But Conscience here, as if in high dis- dain, 70 Sent to the Monarch's cheek the burn- ing blood — He stayed his speech abrupt — and up the prelate stood. * IX ' O hardened offspring of an iron race ! What of thy crimes, Don Roderick, shall I say ? What alms or prayers or penance can efface Murder's dark spot, wash treason's stain away ! For the foul ravisher how shall I pray, Who, scarce repentant, makes his crime his boast ? 214 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK How hope Almighty vengeance shall delay, 79 Unless, in mercy to yon Christian host, He spare the shepherd lest the guiltless sheep be lost.' Then kindled the dark tyrant in his mood, And to his brow returned its dauntless gloom; * And welcome then,' he cried, ' be blood for blood, For treason treachery, for dishonor doom ! Tet will I know whence come they or by whom. Show, for thou canst — give forth the fated key, And guide me, priest, to that mysterious room Where, if aught true in old tradition be, His nation's future fates a Spanish king shall see.' 90 ' Ill-fated Prince ! recall the desperate word, Or pause ere yet the omen thou obey ! Bethink, yon spell-bound portal would afford Never to former monarch entrance- 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.' — XII ' Prelate ! a monarch's fate brooks no delay; 100 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 essayed, Low muttered thunders the cathedral shook, And twice he stopped and twice new effort made, Till the huge bolts rolled back and the loud hinges brayed. Long, large, and lofty was that vaulted hall; Roof, walls, and floor were all of mar- ble stone, no Of polished marble, black as funeral pall, Carved o'er with signs and characters 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 Roderick could descry Wonders that ne'er till then were seen by mortal eye. XIV Grim sentinels, against the upper wall, Of molten bronze, two Statues held their place ; Massive their naked limbs, their stature tall, 120 Their frowning foreheads golden circles grace. Moulded they seemed for kings of giant race, That lived and sinned before the avenging flood; This grasped a scythe, that rested on a mace; This spread his wings for flight, that pondering stood, Each stubborn seemed and stern, immu- table of mood. XV Fixed was the right-hand giant's brazen look Upon his brother's glass of shifting sand, As if its ebb he measured by a book, Whose iron volume loaded his huge hand; 130 In which was wrote of many a fallen land, Of empires lost, and kings to exile driven: THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 215 And o'er that pair their names in scroll expand — 1 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 up- sway, As one that startles from a heavy Full on the upper wall the mace's sweep 140 At once descended with the force of thunder, And, hurtling down at once in crumbled heap, The marble boundary was rent asun- der, And gave to Roderick's view new sights of fear and wonder. For they might spy beyond that mighty breach Realms as of Spain in visioned pro- spect laid, Castles and towers, in due proportion each, As by some skilful artist's hand por- trayed: Here, crossed by many a wild Sierra's shade And boundless plains that tire the traveller's eye; 150 There, rich with vineyard and with olive glade, Or deep-embrowned by forests huge and high, Or washed by mighty streams that slowly murmured by. XVIII And here, as erst upon the antique stage Passed forth the band of masquers trimly led, In various forms and various equipage, While fitting strains the hearer's fancy fed; So, to sad Roderick's eye in order spread, Successive pageants filled that mystic scene, Showing the fate of battles ere they bled, 160 And issue of events that had not been ; And ever and anon strange sounds were heard between. First shrilled an unrepeated female shriek ! — It seemed as if Don Roderick knew the call, For the bold blood was blanching in his cheek. — Then answered kettle-drum and at- abal, Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear ap- pall, The Tecbir war-cry and the Lelie's yell Ring wildly dissonant along the hall. Needs not to Roderick their dread im- port tell — 17a ' The Moor ! ' he cried, ' the Moor ! — ring out the tocsin bell ! ' They come ! they come ! I see the groaning lands White with the turbans of each Arab horde; Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving 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 conflict roared, The shadowy hosts are closing on the plain — Now, God and Saint Iago strike for the good cause of Spain ! 180 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 Orelia ? — Yes, 't is mine ! 2l6 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK But never was she turned from battle- line: Lo ! where the recreant spurs o'er stock and stone ! — Curses pursue the slave, and wrath di- vine ! Rivers ingulf him!' — 'Hush,' in shuddering tone, The prelate said; 'rash prince, yon vis- ioned form's thine own.' XXII Just then, a torrent crossed the flier's course ; 190 The dangerous ford the kingly likeness tried; But the deep eddies whelmed 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 di- vide, With naked scimitars mete out the land, And for the bondsmen base the free-born natives brand. XXIII Then rose the grated Harem, to enclose The loveliest maidens of the Christian line ; 200 Then, menials, to their misbelieving foes Castile's young nobles held forbidden wine; Then, too, the holy Cross, salvation's sign, By impious hands was from the altar thrown, And the deep aisles of the polluted shrine Echoed, for holy hymn and organ-tone, The Santon's frantic dance, the Fakir's gibbering moan. XXIV How fares Don Roderick ? — E'en as one who spies Flames dart their glare o'er midnight's sable woof, And hears around his children's piercing And sees the pale assistants stand aloof; While cruel Conscience brings him bitter proof His folly or his crime have caused his grief; And while above him nods the crumbling roof, He curses earth and Heaven — him- self in chief — Desperate of earthly aid, despairing Hea- ven's relief ! XXV That scythe-armed Giant turned 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 timbrel rings ; 220 And to the sound the bell-decked dancer springs, Bazars resound as when their marts are met, In tourney light the Moor his jerrid flings, And on the land as evening seemed to set, The Imaum's chant was heard from mosque or minaret. So passed that pageant. Ere another came, The visionary scene was wrapped in smoke, Whose sulphurous wreaths were crossed by sheets of flame; With every flash a bolt explosive broke, Till Roderick deemed the fiends had burst their yoke 230 And waved 'gainst heaven the infer- nal gonfalone ! For War a new and dreadful language spoke, Never by ancient warrior heard or known ; Lightning and smoke her breath, and thunder was her tone. XXVII From the dim landscape roll the clouds away — THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 217 The Christians have regained their heritage ; Before the Cross has waned the Cres- cent's ray, And many a monastery decks the stage, And lofty church and low-browed- her- mitage. The land obeys a Hermit and a Knight, — 240 The Genii these of Spain for many an age; This clad in sackcloth, that in armor bright, And that was Valor named, this Bigotry was hight. XXVIII t Valor was harnessed like a chief of old, Armed at all points, and prompt for knightly gest; His sword was tempered in the Ebro cold, Morena's eagle plume adorned his crest, The spoils of Afric's lion bound his breast. Fierce he stepped forward and flung down his gage; 249 As if of mortal kind to brave the best. Him followed his companion, dark and sage As he my Master sung, the dangerous Archimage. XXIX Haughty of heart and brow the warrior came, In look and language proud as proud might be, I Vaunting his lordship, lineage, fights, and fame: Yet was that barefoot monk more proud than he ; And as the ivy climbs the tallest tree, So round the loftiest soul his toils he wound, And with his spells subdued the fierce and free, Till ermined Age and Youth in arms renowned, 260 Honoring his scourge and haircloth, meekly kissed the ground. And thus it chanced that Valor, peer- less knight, Who ne'er to King or Kaiser veiled his crest, Victorious still in bull-feast or in fight, Since first his limbs with mail he did invest, Stooped ever to that anchoret's behest; Nor reasoned 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 pitiless as strong. 270 XXXI Oft his proud galleys sought some new- found world, That latest sees the sun or first the morn; Still at that wizard's feet their spoils he hurled, — Ingots of ore from rich Potosi borne, Crowns by Caciques, aigrettes by Om- rahs 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 marked the stains and smiled beneath his cowl. XXXII Then did he bless the offering, and bade make 280 Tribute to Heaven of gratitude and praise ; And at his word the choral hymns awake, And many a hand the silver censer sways, But with the incense-breath these censers raise Mix steams from corpses smouldering in the fire; The groans of prisoned victims mar the lays, And shrieks of agony confound the quire ; While, 'mid the mingled sounds, the dark- ened scenes expire. 2l8 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK XXXIII Preluding light, were strains of music heard, As once again revolved that measured sand : 290 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 muchacha met, He conscious of his broidered cap and band, She of her netted locks and light cor- sette, Each tiptoe perched to spring and shake the castauet. xxxiv And well such strains the opening scene became; For Valor had relaxed his ardent look, And at a lady's feet, like lion tame, 300 Lay stretched, full loath the weight of arms to brook; And softened Bigotry upon his book Pattered a task of little good or ill: But the blithe peasant plied his pruning- hook, Whistled the muleteer o'er vale and hill, And rung from village-green the merry seguidille. xxxv Gray Royalty, 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 minion bold. 310 But peace was on the cottage and the fold, From court intrigue, from bickering faction far; Beneath the chestnut-tree love's tale was told, And to the tinkling of the light gui- tar Sweet stooped the western sun, sweet rose the evening star. xxxvi As that sea-cloud, in size like human hand When first from Carmel by the Tishbite seen, Came slowly overshadowing Israel's land, Awhile perchance bedecked with colors sheen, While yet the sunbeams on its skirts had been, 320 Limning with purple and with gold its shroud, Till darker folds obscured the blue serene And blotted heaven with one broad sa- ble cloud, Then sheeted rain burst down and whirl- winds howled aloud: — XXXVII Even so, upon that peaceful scene was poured, Like gathering clouds, full many a for- eign band, And He, their leader, wore in sheath his sword, And offered peaceful front and open hand, Veiling the perjured treachery he planned, By friendship's zeal and honor's spe- cious guise, 330 Until he won the passes of the land; Then burst were honor's oath and friendship's ties ! He clutched his vulture grasp and called fair Spain his prize. XXXVIII An iron crown his anxious forehead bore : And well such diadem his heart be- came Who ne'er his purpose for remorse gave o'er, Or checked his course for piety or shame; Who, trained a soldier, deemed a soldier's fame Might flourish in the wreath of battles won, Though neither truth nor honor decked his name; 340 Who, placed by fortune on a monarch's throne, Recked not of monarch's faith or mercy's kingly tone. THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 219 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 sordid 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 en- dure, 350 Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure. XL Before that leader strode a shadowy form; Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor showed, With which she beckoned him through fight and storm, And all he crushed that crossed his desperate road, Nor thought, nor feared, nor looked 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 his terrors wake, Nor deigned she, as of yore, a milder form to take. 360 XLI No longer now she spurned at mean re- venge, Or staid her hand for conquered foe- man's moan, As when, the fates of aged Rome to change, By Caesar's side she crossed the Ru- bicon. Nor joyed she to bestow the spoils she won, As when the banded powers of Greece were tasked To war beneath the Youth of Macedon: No seemly veil her modern minion asked, He saw her hideous face and loved the fiend unmasked. XLII That prelate marked his march — on ban- ners blazed 370 With battles won in many a distant 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 shifting sand And thou hast tempered it with slaugh- ter's flood; And know, fell scourge in the Almighty's hand, Gore-moistened trees shall perish in the bud, And by a bloody death shall die the Man of Blood ! ' XLIII The ruthless leader beckoned from his train A wan fraternal shade, and bade him kneel, 380 And paled his temples with the crown of Spain, While trumpets rang and heralds cried ' Castile ! ' Not that he loved him — No ! — In no man's weal, Scarce in his own, e'er joyed that sullen heart; Yet round that throne he bade his war- riors wheel, That the poor puppet might perform 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 amazement hung, Nor brooked they long their friendly faith abused ; 390 For with a common shriek the general tongue Exclaimed, ' To arms ! ' and fast to arms they sprung. And Valor woke, that Genius of the land! Pleasure and ease and sloth aside he flung, As burst the awakening Nazarite his band When 'gainst his treacherous foes he clenched his dreadful hand. 220 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK _ ifor XLV That mimic monarch now cast anxious eye Upon the satraps that begirt him round, Now doffed his royal robe in act to fly, And from his brow the diadem un- bound. 400 So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle wound, From Tarik's walls to Bilboa's moun- tains blown, These martial satellites hard labor found, To guard awhile his substituted throne ; Light recking of his cause, but battling for their own. XLVI From Alpuhara's peak that bugle rung, And it was echoed from Corunna's wall; Stately Seville responsive war-shout flung, Grenada caught it in her Moorish hall; Galicia bade her children fight or fall, 410 Wild Biscay shook his mountain-coro- net, Valencia roused her at the battle-call, And, foremost still where Valor's sons are met, Fast started to his gun each fiery Miquelet. XLVII But unappalled and burning for the fight, The invaders march, of victory secure, Skilful their force to sever or unite, And trained alike to vanquish or endure. Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to insure, Discord to breathe and jealousy to sow, To quell by boasting and by bribes to lure; 421 While nought against them bring the unpractised foe, Save hearts for freedom's cause and hands for freedom's blow. XLVIII Proudly they march — but, O, they march not forth By one hot field to crown a brief cam- paign, As when their eagles, sweeping through the North, Destroyed at every stoop an ancient 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, 430 High blazed the war, and long, and far, and wide, And oft the God of Battles blest the right- eous side. XLIX Nor unatoned, where Freedom's foes prevail, Remained 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 claimed for blood the retribution due, Probed the hard heart and lopped the murd'rous hand; And Dawn, when o'er the scene her beams she threw, 440 Midst ruins they had made the spoilers' corpses knew. What minstrel verse may sing or tongue may tell, Amid the visioned strife from sea to sea, How oft the Patriot banners rose or fell, Still honored in defeat as victory ? For that sad pageant of events to be Showed every form of fight by field and flood; Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their gle©, Beheld, while riding on the tempest scud, The waters choked with slain, the earth bedrenched with blood ! 450 LI Then Zaragoza — blighted be the tongue That names thy name without the honor due ! For never hath the harp of minstrel rung Of faith so felly proved, so firmly true ! THE VISION OF DON RODERICK Mine, sap, and bomb thy shattered ruins knew, Each art of war's extremity had room, Twice from thy half-sacked streets the foe withdrew, And when at length stern Fate de- creed thy doom, They won not Zaragoza but her children's bloody tomb. LII Yet raise thy head, sad city ! Though in chains, 460 Enthralled thou canst not be ! Arise, and claim Reverence from every heart where Free- Idom reigns, For what thou worshippest ! — thy sainted dame, She of the Column, honored be her name By all, whate'er their creed, who honor love ! And like the sacred relics of the flame That gave some martyr to the blessed above, To every loyal heart may thy sad embers prove ! Nor thine alone such wreck. Gerona fair ! Faithful to death thy heroes should be sung, 470 Manning the towers, while o'er their heads the air Swart as the smoke from raging fur- nace hung; Now thicker darkening where the mine was sprung, Now briefly lightened by the cannon's flare, Now arched with fire-sparks as the bomb was flung, And reddening now with conflagra- tion's glare, While by the fatal light the foes for storm prepare. LIV While all around was danger, strife, and fear, While the earth shook and darkened was the sky, And wide destruction stunned the listen- ing ear, 480 Appalled the heart, and stupefied the eye,— Afar was heard that thrice-repeated cry, In which old Albion's heart and tongue unite, Whene'er her soul is up and pulse beats high, Whether it hail the wine-cup or thefight, And bid each arm be strong or bid each heart be light. LV Don Roderick turned him as the shout grew loud — A varied scene the changeful vision showed, For, where the ocean mingled with the cloud, A gallant navy stemmed the billows broad. 490 From mast and stern Saint George's symbol flowed, Blent with the silver cross to Scotland dear; Mottling the sea their landward barges rowed, And flashed the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear, And the wild beach returned the seamen's jovial cheer. LVI It was a dread yet spirit-stirring sight ! The billows foamed beneath a thou- sand' oars, Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite, Legions on legions brightening all the shores. Then banners rise and cannon - signal roars, 500 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: 222 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK The deep battalion locks its firm ar- ray* And meditates his aim the marksman light; Far glance the lines of sabres flashing bright, Where mounted squadrons shake the echoing mead; 510 Lacks not artillery breathing flame and night, Nor the fleet ordnance whirled by rapid steed, That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in speed. LVIII A various host — from kindred realms they came, Brethren in arms but rivals in re- nown — For yon fair bands shall merry England claim, And with their deeds of valor deck her crown. Hers their bold port, and hers their martial frown, And hers their scorn of death in free- dom's cause, Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown, 520 And the blunt speech that bursts with- out a pause, And freeborn thoughts which league the soldier with the laws. LIX And, O loved warriors of the minstrel's land ! Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave ! The rugged form may mark the moun- tain 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 Scot- tish plaid; And when the pibroch bids the battle rave, And level for the charge your arms are laid, 530 Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset staid ? 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 military glee : Boast, Erin, boast them ! tameless, frank, and free, In kindness warm and fierce in danger known, Rough nature's children, humorous as she: And He, yon Chieftain — strike the proudest tone Of thy bold harp, green Isle ! — the hero is thine own. 540 LXI Now on the scene Vimeira should be shown, On Talavera's fight should Roderick gaze, And hear Corunna wail her battle won, And see Busaco's crest with lightning blaze : — But shall fond fable mix with heroes' 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 ! 549 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 confines hurled, While kindling nations buckle on their mail, And Fame, with clarion - blast and wings unfurled, To freedom and revenge awakes an injured world ? CONCLUSION 223 LXIII Before them it was rich with vine and vain, though anxious, is the glance I flock, cast, And smiled like Eden in her summer Since Fate has marked futurity her dress ; — own : 560 Behind their wasteful march a reeking wil- Yet Fate resigns to worth the glorious derness. past, The deeds recorded and the laurels HI won. And shall the boastful chief maintain his Then, though the Vault of Destiny be word, gone, Though Heaven hath heard the wail- King, prelate, all the phantasms of my ings of the land, 2a brain, Though Lusitania whet her vengeful Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sword, sun, Though Britons arm and Welling- Yet grant for faith, for valor, and for ton command ? Spain, No ! grim Busacos' iron ridge shall One note of pride and fire, a patriot's part- stand ing strain ! An adamantine barrier to his force; And from its base shall wheel his shat- tered band, CONCLUSION As from the unshaken rock the torrent hoarse 1 Bears off its broken waves and seeks a ' Who shall command Estrella's moun- devious course. * tain-tide Back to the source, when tempest- IV chafed, to hie ? Yet not because Alcoba's mountain-hawk Who, when Gascogne's vexed gulf is Hath on his best and bravest made raging wide, her food, Shall hush it as a nurse her infant's In numbers confident, yon chief shall cry? balk , 30 His magic power let such vain boaster His lord's imperial thirst for spoil and try? blood : And when the torrent shall his voice For full in view the promised conquest obey, stood, And Biscay's whirlwinds list his lullaby, And Lisbon's matrons from their walls Let him stand forth and bar mine might sum eagles' way, The myriads that had half the world sub- And they shall heed his voice and at his dued, bidding stay. And hear the distant thunders of the drum That bids the bands of France to storm II ' Else ne'er to stoop till high on Lisbon's towers IO They close their wings, the symbol of and havoc come. V our yoke, Four moons have heard these thunders And their own sea hath whelmed yon idly rolled, red -cross powers ! ' Have seen these wistful myriads eye Thus, on the summit of Alverca's their prey, rock, As famished wolves survey a guarded To marshal, duke, and peer Gaul's leader fold — spoke. But in the middle path a Lion lay ! 40 While downward on the land his le- At length they move — but not to battle- gions press, fray, 224 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK Nor blaze yon fires where meets the From thy dishonored name and arms manly fight; to clear — Beacons of infamy, they light the way Fallen child of Fortune, turn, redeem her Where cowardice and cruelty unite favor here ! To damn with double shame their ignomini- ous flight ! IX VI Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each distant aid; Those chief that never heard the lion O triumph for the fiends of lust and wrath ! roar ! Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be forgot, Within whose souls lives not a trace por- What wanton horrors marked their trayed wrackful path ! Of Talavera or Mondego's shore ! The peasant butchered in his ruined Marshal each band thou hast and sum- cot, mon more; The hoary priest even at the altar shot, 50 Of war's fell stratagems exhaust the Childhood and age given o'er to sword whole ; and flame, Rank upon rank, squadron on squadron Woman to infamy; — no crime forgot, pour, By which inventive demons might pro- Legion on legion on thy foeman claim roll, 8o Immortal hate to man and scorn of God's And weary out his arm — thou canst not great name ! quell his soul. f vn X The rudest sentinel in Britain born vainly gleams with steel Agueda's With horror paused to view the havoc shore, done, Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava's Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch plain, forlorn, And front the flying thunders as they Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer roar, grasped his gun. With frantic charge and tenfold odds, Nor with less zeal shall Britain's peace- in vain ! ful son And what avails thee that for Cameron Exult the debt of sympathy to pay; 60 slain Hiches nor poverty the tax shall shun, Wild from his plaided ranks the yell Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor was given ? the gay, Vengeance and grief gave mountain-rage Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor bard's the rein, more worthless lay. And, at the bloody spear-point head- long driven, VIII Thy despot's giant guards fled like the rack But thou — unf oughten wilt thou yield to of heaven. 9 o Fate, Minion of Fortune, now miscalled in XI vain ! Go, baffled boaster ! teach thy haughty Can vantage-ground no confidence cre- mood ate, To plead at thine imperious master's Marcella's pass, nor Guarda's moun- throne ! tain-chain ? Say, thou hast left his legions in their Vainglorious fugitive, yet turn again ! blood, Behold, where, named by some pro- Deceived his hopes and frustrated phetic seer, thine own; Flows Honor's Fountain, as foredoomed Say, that thine utmost skill and valor the stain 70 shown CONCLUSION 225 By British skill and valor were out- vied ; Last say, thy conqueror was Welling- ton ! And if he chafe, be his own fortune tried — God and our cause to friend, the venture we '11 abide. XII But you, the heroes of that well-fought day, 100 How shall a bard unknowing and un- known His meed to each victorious leader pay, Or bind on every brow the laurels won? Yet fain my harp would wake its boldest tone, O'er the wide sea to hail Cadogan 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. Yes ! hard the task, when Britons wield the sword To give each chief and every field its fame: no Hark ! Albuera thunders Beresford, And red Barosa shouts for dauntless Graeme ! 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 crowned ! O who shall grudge him Albuera's bays Who brought a race regenerate to the field, Housed them to emulate their fathers' praise, 120 Tempered their headlong rage, their courage steeled, And raised fair Lusitania's fallen shield, And gave new edge to Lusitania's sword, And taught her sons forgotten arms to wield — Shivered my harp and burst its every chord, If it forget thy worth, victorious Beres- ford ! Not on that bloody field of battle won, . Though Gaul's proud legions rolled like mist away, Was half his self-devoted valor shown, — He gaged but life on that illustrious day; I30 But when he toiled those squadrons to array Who fought like Britons in the bloody game, Sharper than Polish pike or assagay, He braved the shafts of censure and of shame, And, dearer far than life, he pledged a soldier's fame. Nor be his praise o'erpast who strove to hicle Beneath the warrior's vest affection's wound, Whose wish Heaven for his country's weal denied; Danger and fate he sought, but glory found. From clime to clime, where'er war's trumpets sound, 140 The wanderer went; yet, Caledonia ! still Thine was his thought in march and tented ground; He dreamed mid Alpine cliffs of Ath- ole's hill, And heard in Ebro's roar Lis Lyndoch's lovely rill. XVII O hero of a race renowned of old, Whose war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell, Since first distinguished in the onset bold, Wild sounding when the Roman ram- part fell ! By Wallace' side it rung the Southron's knell, 226 ROKEBY Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber owned its fame, 150 Turn m ell's rude pass can of its terrors tell, But ne'er from prouder field arose the name Than when wild Ronda learned the con- quering shout of Graeme ! But all too long, through seas unknown and dark, — With Spenser's parable I close my tale, — By shoal and rock hath steered my ven- turous bark, And landward now I drive before the gale. And now the blue and distant shore I hail, And nearer now I see the port ex- pand, And now I gladly furl my weary sail, X 6o And as the prow light touches on the strand, I strike my red- cross flag and bind my skiff to land. ROKEBY INTRODUCTORY NOTE Mr. Morritt, to whom Scott dedicates Rokeby, and in whose beautiful estate the scene of the poem is laid, was introduced to the poet in the early summer of 1808, and an intimacy began which was one of the most agreeable elements in Scott's life. Twenty years later when paying him a visit, Scott re- corded in his Journal (ii. 195): ' He is now one of my oldest, and, I believe, one of my most sincere friends, a man unequalled in the mixture of sound good sense, high literary cul- tivation, and the kindest and sweetest temper that ever graced a human bosom.' The in- timacy led to a long correspondence and to frequent interchange of visits. Mr. Morritt's own recollections of Scott form a delightful contribution in Lockhart's Life. He visited Scott in Edinburgh when he first made his ac- quaintance, and Scott returned the visit a year later. The beauty of Rokeby made a great impression upon him, as may be seen by his letter to Gsorge Ellis, July 8, 1809, and it is most probable that in taking the step which led to the purchase of Abbotsford, and re- moval from Ashestiel, Scott was influenced by his admiration for his friend's estate. At any rate, Scott palpably connected the writing of the poem Rokeby with the enlargement of his domain, and asked eagerly Morritt to aid him in his poetical venture. ' I have a grand project to tell you of,' he writes December 20, 1811. " Nothing- less than a fourth romance, in verse ; the theme, during the English civil wars of Charles I., and the scene, your own domain of Rokeby. I want to build my cottage a little better than my limited finances will permit out of my ordinary income ; and although it is very true that an author should not hazard his reputation, yet, as Bob Acres says, I really think Reputation should take some care of the gentleman in re- turn. Now, I have all your scenery deeply imprinted in my memory, and moreover, be it known to you, I intend to refresh its traces this ensuing summer, and to go as far as the borders of Lancashire, and the caves of York- shire, and so perhaps on to Derbyshire. I have sketched a story which pleases me, and I am only anxious to keep my theme quiet, for its being piddled upon by some of your Ready- to-catch literati, as John Bunyan calls them, would be a serious misfortune to me. I am not without hope of seducing you to be my guide a little way on my tour. Is there not some book (sense or nonsense I care not) on the beauties of Teesdale — I mean a descrip- tive work ? If you can point it out or lend it me, you will do me a great favour, and no less if you can tell me any traditions of the period. By which party was Barnard castle occupied ? It strikes me that it should be held for the Parliament. Pray help me in this, by truth, or fiction, or tradition, — I care not which if it be picturesque. What the deuce is the name of that wild glen, where we had such a clamber on horseback up a stone staircase ? — Cat's Cradle, or Cat's Castle, I think it was. I wish also to have the true edition of the traditionary tragedy of yonr old house at Mortham, and the ghost thereunto appertain- ing, and you will do me yeoman's service in compiling the relics of so valuable a legend. Item — Do you know anything of a striking ancient castle, belonging, I think, to the Duke INTRODUCTORY NOTE 227 of Leeds, called Coningsburgh ? Grose no- tices it, but in a very flimsy manner. I once flew past it on the mail-coach, when its round tower and flying buttresses had a most roman- tic effect in the morning dawn.' Whereupon Mr. Morritt girded himself and addressed himself thoroughly to the task of supplying Scott with the needed material, and of making suggestions for the construction of the poem which were clearly heeded by the poet. The correspondence between the two friends continued during the winter and spring of 1812, and Morritt furnished further mem- orabilia in answer to questions, and Scott divided his time between his poem and the estate which it was to help pay for. ' My work Rokeby does and must go forward,' he writes March 2, 1812, ' or my trees and enclos- ures might, perchance, stand still. But I de- stroyed the first canto after I had written it fair out, because it did not quite please me. I shall keep off people's kibes if I can, for my plan, though laid during the civil wars, has little to do with the politics of either party, being very much confined to the adven- tures and distresses of a particular family.' In the same letter he says that he must certainly refresh his memory with the scenery, in spite of the serviceable memoranda of Mr. Morritt, and in the autumn of 1812 he went with Mrs. Scott, Walter, and Sophia to Rokeby, remaining there about a week. It was while he was on this ^isit that Mr. Morritt made that interesting note on Scott's habits of ob- servation which has often been quoted for the light it throws on the poet's attitude toward his work. ' I observed him,' says Morritt, ' noting down even the peculiar little wild flowers and herbs that accidentally grew round and on the side of a bold crag near his intended cave of Guy Denzil ; and could not help saying, that as he was not to be on oath in his work, daisies, violets, and primroses would be as poetical as any of the humble plants he was examining. I laughed, in short, at his scrupu- lousness ; but I understood him when he re- plied, " that in nature herself no two scenes were exactly alike, and that whoever copied truly what was before his eyes, would possess the same variety in his descriptions, and ex- hibit apparently an imagination as boundless as the range of nature in the scenes he re- corded ; whereas — whoever trusted to imagi- nation, would soon find his own mind circum- scribed, and contracted to a few favorite images, and the repetition of these would sooner or later produce that very monotony and barrenness which had always haunted descriptive poetry in the hands of any but the patient worshippers of truth. Besides which," he said, " local names and peculiarities make a fictitious story book look so much better in the face." ' The poem gave its author a good deal of trouble, since he was unwontedly anxious to do it well, and he destroyed his work and re- attacked it, finally pushing it to a conclusion in the three months at the close of 1812. As usual, during the process of composition and when it was completed he sought the criticism of his friends. 'There are two or three songs,' he wrote Morritt, ' and particularly one in praise of Brignal Banks, which I trust you will like — because, entre nous, I like them myself. One of them is a little dashing ban- ditti song, called and entitled Allen-a-Dale.' Scott, indeed, gives Joanna Baillie a curious coincidence in the discovery, on reading her ' Passion of Fear,' that she had an outlaw's song of which the chorus was almost verbatim that which he had written for his outlaw's song in Rokeby, so that he was forced to re- write that song. Miss Baillie herself repaid him with an enthusiastic letter after reading Rokeby. ' I wish you could have seen me,' she writes, ' when it arrived. My sister was from home, so I stirred my fire, swept the hearth, chased the cat out of the room, lighted my candles, and began upon it immediately. It is written with wonderful power both as to natural objects and human character ; and your magnificent bandit, Bertram, is well en- titled to your partiality ; for it is a masterly picture, and true to nature in all its parts, according to my conceptions of nature. Your Lady and both her lovers are very pleasing and beautifully drawn, her conduct and be- havior to them both is so natural and delicate ; and so is theirs to each other. How many striking passages there are which take a hold of the imagination that can never be unloosed ! The burning of the castle in all its progress is very sublime ; the final scene, also, when Ber- tram rides into the church, is grand and terri- fic; the scene between him and Edmund, when he weeps to find that there is any human being that will shed a tear for him, is very touching and finely imagined. I say nothing of what struck me so much in the three first cantos. And besides those higher beauties, there are those of a softer kind that are wonderfully attractive ; for instance, the account of the poor Irishman's death, after he had delivered the child to the Lord of Rokeby, which made me weep freely, and the stealing of Edmund back to the cave by night with all the indica- tions of his silent path, the owlet ceasing its cry, the otter leaping into the stream, etc., is delightful. Your images and similes too, with which the work is not overloaded (like a lady with a few jewels, but of the best water), 228 ROKEBY are excellent. Your songs are good, particu- larly those of Wilfrid ; but they have struck me less, somehow or other, than the rest of the poem. As to the invention of your story, I praise that more sparingly, for tho' the lead- ing circumstances are well imagined, the con- ducting of it seems to me too dramatic for a lyrical narrative, and there are too many com- plex contrivances to the bringing about the catastrophe.' Miss Baillie proceeded, with some sagacity, to predict that Scott's mind was working to- ward dramatic composition. Her criticism of Rokeby indeed implies that the story would have lent itself better to a form which per- mitted a greater elaboration of character and plot. Only the next year, Scott was to per- fect his Waverley. In truth, in Rokeby, Scott's interest, though largely in the presentation of his friend's domain, was specifically in char- acter, and the heroine especially was the reflection, in imaginative form, of that early love, whose influence had already been felt in The Lay of the Last Minstrel. Writing to Miss Edgeworth, five years after the appear- ance of Rokeby, he says : ' This much of Ma- tilda I recollect — (for that is not so easily forgotten) — that she was attempted for the existing person of a lady who is now no more, so that I am particularly flattered with your distinguishing it from the others, which are in general mere shadows.' And Lockhart, quot- ing this, adds : ' I can have no doubt that the lady he here alludes to, was the object of his own unfortunate first love ; and as little, that in the romantic generosity, both of the youth- ful poet who fails to win her higher favor, and of his chivalrous competitor, we have before us something more than " a mere shadow." ' Rokeby was published the first week in Jan- uary, 1813, and bore the dedication to Mr. Morritt. When the poem was issued in the collective edition of 1830, it was preceded by the following Introduction. INTRODUCTION Between the publication of The Lady of the Lake, which was so eminently successful, and that of Rokeby, in 1813, three years had intervened. I shall not, I believe, be accused of ever having attempted to usurp a superior- ity over many men of genius, my contempora- ries ; but, in point of popularity, not of actual talent, the caprice of the public had certainly given me such a temporary superiority over men, of whom, in regard to poetical fancy and feeling, I scarcely thought myself worthy to loose the shoe-latch. On the other hand, it would be absurd affectation in me to deny, that I conceived myself to understand, more perfectly than many of my contemporaries, the manner most likely to interest the great mass of mankind. Yet, even with this belief, I must truly and fairly say that I always con- sidered myself rather as one who held the bets in time to be paid over to the winner, than as having any pretence to keep them in my own right. In the mean time years crept on, and not without their usual depredations on the passing generation. My sons had arrived at the age when the paternal home was no longer their best abode, as both were destined to active life. The field-sports, to which I was pecul- iarly attached, had now less interest, and were replaced by other amusements of a more quiet character ; and the means and opportunity of pursuing these were to be sought for. I had, indeed, for some years attended to farming, a knowledge of which is, or at least was then, indispensable to the comfort of a family re- siding in a solitary country-house ; but al- though this was the favorite amusement of many of my friends, I have never been able to consider it as a source of pleasure. I never could think it a matter of passing importance, that my cattle or crops were better or more plentiful than those of my neighbors, and nev- ertheless I began to feel the necessity of some more quiet out-door occupation, different from those I had hitherto pursued. I purchased a small farm of about one hundred acres, with the purpose of planting and improving it, to which property circumstances afterwards en- abled me to make considerable additions ; and thus an era took place in my life, almost equal to the important one mentioned by the Vicar of Wakefield, when he removed from the Blue- room to the Brown. In point of neighborhood, at least, the change of residence made little more difference. Abbotsf ord, to which we re- moved, was only six or seven miles down the Tweed, and lay on the same beautiful stream. It did not possess the romantic character of Ashestiel, my former residence ; but it had a stretch of meadow-land along the river, and possessed, in the phrase of the landscape-gar- dener, considerable capabilities. Above all, the land was my own, like Uncle Toby's Bowl- ing-green, to do what I would with. It had been, though the gratification was long post- poned, an early wish of mine to connect my- self with my mother earth, and prosecute those experiments by which a species of creative AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION power is exercised over the face of nature. I can trace, even to childhood, a pleasure derived from Dodsley's account of Shenstone's Lea- sowes, and I envied the poet much more for the pleasure of accomplishing' the objects de- tailed in his friend's sketch of his grounds, than for the possession of pipe, crook, flock, and Phillis to boot. My memory, also, tena- cious of quaint expressions, still retained a phrase which it had gathered from an old almanac of Charles the Second's time (when everything down to almanacs affected to be smart), in which the reader, in the month of June, is advised for health's sake to walk a mile or two every day before breakfast, and, if he can possibly so manage, to let his exer- cise be taken upon his own land. With the satisfaction of having attained the fulfilment of an early and long-cherished hope, I commenced my improvements, as delight- ful in their progress as those of the child who first makes a dress for a new doll. The naked- ness of the land was in time hidden by wood- lands of considerable extent — the smallest of possible cottages was progressively expanded into a sort of dream of a mansion-house, whim- sical in the exterior, but convenient within. Nor did I forget what is the natural pleasure of every man who has been a reader ; I mean the filling the shelves of a tolerably large library. All these objects I kept in view, to be executed as convenience should serve ; and although I knew many years must elapse be- fore they could be attained, I was of a dispo- sition to comfort myself with the Spanish proverb, ' Time and I against any two.' The difficult and indispensable point of finding a permanent subject of occupation was now at length attained ; but there was an- nexed to it the necessity of becoming again a candidate for public favor; for as I was turned improver on the earth of the every-day world it was under condition that the small tenement of Parnassus, which might be access- ible to my labors, should not remain unculti- vated. I meditated, at first, a poem on the subject of Bruce, in which I made some progress, but afterwards judged it advisable to lay it aside, supposing that an English story might have more novelty ; in consequence, the precedence was given to Eokeby. If subject and scenery could have influ- enced the fate of a poem, that of Eokeby should have been eminently distinguished ; for the grounds belonged to a dear friend, with whom I had lived in habits of intimacy for many years, and the place itself united the romantic beauties of the wilds of Scotland with the rich and smiling aspect of the southern portion of the island. But the Cavaliers and Roundheads, whom I attempted to summon up to tenant this beautiful region, had for the public neither the novelty nor the peculiar interest of the primitive Highlanders. This, perhaps, was scarcely to be expected, consider- ing that the general mind sympathizes read- ily and at once with the stamp which nature herself has affixed upon the manners of a peo- ple living in a simple and patriarchal state ; whereas it has more difficulty in understand- ing or interesting itself in manners founded upon those peculiar habits of thinking or act- ing which are produced by the progress of so- ciety. We could read with pleasure the tale of the adventures of a Cossack or a Mongol Tartar, while we only wonder and stare over those of the lovers in the Pleasing Chinese His- tory, where the embarrassments turn upon difficulties arising out of unintelligible deli- cacies peculiar to the customs and manners of that affected people. ' The cause of my failure had, however, a far deeper root. The manner, or style, which, by its novelty, attracted the public in an un- usual degree, had now, after having been three times before them, exhausted the patience of the reader, and began in the fourth to lose its charms. The reviewers may be said to have apostrophized the author in the language of Parnell's Edwin : — ' And here reverse the charm, he cries, And let it fairly now suffice, The gambol has been shown.' The licentious combination of rhymes, in a manner perhaps not very congenial to our lan- guage, had not been confined to the author. Indeed, in most similar cases, the inventors of such novelties have their reputation destroyed by their own imitators, as Actseon fell under the fury of his own dogs. The present author, like Bobadil, had taught his trick of fence to a hundred gentlemen (and ladies), who could fence very nearly or quite as well as himself. For this there was no remedy ; the harmony became tiresome and ordinary, and both the original inventor and his invention must have fallen into contempt if he had not found out another road to public favor. What has been said of the metre only, must be considered to apply equally to the structure of the Poem and of the style. The very best passages of any popular style are not, perhaps, susceptible of imitation, but they may be approached by men of talent ; and those who are less able to copy them, at least lay hold of their peculiar fea- tures, so as to produce a strong burlesque. In either way, the effect of the manner is rendered cheap and common ; and, in the latter case, ridiculous to boot. The evil consequences to an author's reputation are at least as fatal as 230 ROKEBY those which come upon the musical composer ■when his melody falls into the hands of the street ballad-singer. Of the unfavorable species of imitation, the author's style gave room to a very large num- ber, owing to an appearance of facility to which some of those who xised the measure unques- tionably leaned too far. The effect of the more favorable imitations, composed by persons of talent, was almost equally unfortunate to the original minstrel, by showing that they could overshoot him with his own bow. In short, the popularity which once attended the School, as it was called, was now fast decaying. Besides all this, to have kept his ground at the crisis when Rokeby appeared, its author ought to have put forth his utmost strength, and to have possessed at least all his original advan- tages, for a mighty and unexpected rival was advancing on the stage, — a rival not in poetical powers only, but in that art of attracting popu- larity, in which the present writer had hitherto preceded better men than himself. The reader will easily see that Byron is here meant, who, after a little velitation of no great promise, now appeared as a serious candidate, in the first two cantos of Childe Harold. I was astonished at the power evinced by that work, which neither the Hours of Idleness, nor the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, had prepared me to ex- pect from its author. There was a depth in his thought, an eager abundance in his diction, which argued full confidence in the inexhaust- ible resources of which he felt himself pos- sessed, and there was some appearance of that labor of the file, which indicates that the author is conscious of the necessity of doing every justice to his work, that it may pass warrant. Lord Byron was also a traveller, a man whose ideas were fired by having seen, in distant scenes of difficulty and danger, the places whose very names are recorded in our bosoms as the shrines of ancient poetry. For his own misfor- tune, perhaps, but certainly to the high increase of his poetical character, nature had mixed in Lord Byron's system those passions which agitate the human heart with most violence, and which may be said to have hurried his bright career to an early close. There would have been little wisdom in measuring my force with so formidable an antagonist ; and I was as likely to tire of playing the second fiddle in the concert, as my audience of hearing me. Age also was advancing. I was growing in- sensible to those subjects of excitation by which youth is agitated. I had around me the most pleasant but least exciting of all society, that of kind friends and an affectionate family. My circle of employments was a narrow one ; it occupied me constantly, and it became daily more difficult for me to interest myself in poeti- cal composition : — 1 How happily the days of Thalaba went by ! Yet, though conscious that I must be, in the opinion of good judges, inferior to the place I had for four or five years held in letters, and feeling alike that the latter was one to which I had only a temporary right, I could not brook the idea of relinquishing literary occupation, which had been so long my chief diversion. Neither was I disposed to choose the alternative of sinking into a mere editor and commentator, though that was a species of labor which I had practised, and to which I was attached. But I could not endure to think that I might not, whether known or concealed, do something of more importance. My inmost thoughts were those of the Trojan Captain in the galley race : 4 Non jam, prima peto, Mnestheus, neque vincere certo, Quanquam O ! — sed superent, quibus hoc, Neptune, dedisti; Extremos pudeat rediisae : hoc vincite, cives, Et prohibete nefas.' * Mn. lib. v. 194. I had, indeed, some private reasons for my ' Quanquam ! ' which were not worse than those of Mnestheus. I have already hinted that the materials were collected for a poem on the subject of Bruce, and fragments of it had been shown to some of my friends, and received with applause. Notwithstanding, therefore, the eminent success of Byron, and the great chance of his taking the wind out of my sails, there was, I judged, a species of cowardice in desist- ing from the task which I had undertaken, and it was time enough to retreat when the battle should be more decidedly lost. The sale of Rokeby, excepting as compared with that of The Lady of the Lake, was in the highest degree respectable ; and as it included fifteen hundred quartos, in those quarto-reading days, the trade had no reason to be dissatisfied. Abbotsford, April, 1830. 1 I seek not now the foremost palm to gain; Though yet — but ah ! that haughty wish is vain ! Let those enjoy it whom the gods ordain. But to be last, the lags of all the race ! — Redeem yourselves and me from that disgrace. Dryden. ROKEBY A POEM IN SIX CANTOS JOHN B. S. MORRITT, ESQ., THIS POEM THE SCENE OF WHICH IS LAID IN HIS BEAUTIFUL DEMESNE OF ROKEBY, IS INSCRIBED, IN TOKEN OF SINCERE FRIENDSHIP, BY WALTER SCOTT. ADVERTISEMENT The Scene of this Poem is laid at Rokeby, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, and shifts to the adjacent fortress of Barnard Castle, and to other places in that Vicinity. The Time occupied by the Action is a space of Five Days, Three of which are supposed to elapse between the end of the Fifth and the beginning of the Sixth Canto. The date of the supposed events is immediately subsequent to the great Battle of Marston Moor, 3d July, 1644. This period of public confusion has been chosen without any purpose of combining the Fable with the Military or Political Events of the Civil War, but only as affording a degree of probability to the fictitious Narrative now pre- sented to the Public. CANTO FIRST The moon is in her summer glow, But hoarse and high 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, She changes as a guilty dream, When Conscience with remorse and fear Goads sleeping Fancy's wild career. Her light seems now the blush of shame, Seems now fierce anger's darker flame, 1 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 Reflected from the Woodland Tees, Then from old BalioFs tower looks forth, Sees the clouds mustering in the north, Hears upon turret-roof and wall By fits the plashing rain-drop fall, 2 Lists to the breeze's boding sound, And wraps his shaggy mantle round. Those towers, which in the changeful gleam Throw murky shadows on the stream, Those towers of Barnard hold a guest, The emotions of whose troubled breast, 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, 30 Composed his limbs, and vainly sought By effort strong to banish thought. Sleep came at length, but with a train Of feelings true 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; 40 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. 231 232 ROKEBY Thus Oswald's laboring feelings trace Strange changes in his sleeping face, Rapid 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, 50 While the perturbed sleeper's hand Seemed grasping dagger-knife or brand. Relaxed that grasp, the heavy sigh, The tear in the half-opening eye, The pallid cheek and brow, confessed That grief was busy in his breast: Nor paused that mood — a sudden start Impelled the life-blood from the heart; Features convulsed and mutterings dread Show terror reigns in sorrow's stead. 60 That pang the painful slumber broke, And Oswald with a start awoke. IV He woke, and feared again to close His eyelids in such dire repose; He woke, — to watch the lamp, and tell From hour to hour the castle-bell, Or listen to the owlet's cry, Or the sad breeze that whistles by, Or catch by fits the tuneless rhyme With which the warder cheats the time, 70 And envying think how, when the sun Bids the poor soldier's watch be done, Couched on his straw and fancy-free, He sleeps like careless infancy. Far townward sounds a distant tread, And Oswald, starting from his bed, Hath caught it, though no human ear, Unsharpened by revenge and fear, Could e'er distinguish horse's clank, Until it reached the castle bank. 80 Now nigh and plain the sound appears, The warder's challenge now he hears, Then 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.' 90 Stifling the tumult of his breast, His answer Oswald thus expressed, ' 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 in ample fold Mantles his form's gigantic mould. Full slender answer deigned he To Oswald's anxious courtesy, 100 But marked by a disdainful smile He saw and scorned the petty wile, When Oswald 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 slow aside The ponderous cloak of tough bull's hide, And to the torch glanced broad and clear The corselet of a cuirassier; no Then from his brows the casque he drew And from the dank plume dashed the dew, From gloves of mail relieved his hands And spread them to the kindling brands, And, turning to the genial board, Without 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 famished wolf that tears his prey. 120 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, Cursing each moment that his guest Protracted o'er his ruffian feast, 130 Yet, viewing with alarm at last The end of that uncouth repast, Almost he seemed their haste to rue As at his sign his train withdrew, And left him with the 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 mien appears To justify suspicious fears. 140 On his dark face a scorching clime And toil had done the work of time, Roughened the brow, the temples bared, And sable hairs with silver shared, CANTO FIRST 233 Yet left — what age alone could tame — The lip of pride, the eye of flame; The full-drawn lip that upward curled, The eye that seemed to scorn the world. That lip had terror never blanched; 149 Ne'er in that eye had tear-drop quenched The flash severe of swarthy glow That mocked at pain and knew not woe. Inured to danger's direst form, Tornado 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 scorned them all. But yet, though Bertram's hardened look Unmoved could blood and danger brook, Still worse than apathy had place 161 On his swart brow and callous face; For evil passions cherished 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, 170 Had depth and vigor to bring forth The hardier 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 chastened 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. 180 Even now, by conscience unrestrained, Clogged by gross vice, by slaughter stained, Still knew his daring soul to soar, And mastery o'er the mind he bore; For meaner guilt or heart less hard Quailed beneath Bertram's bold regard. And this felt Oswald, while in vain He strove by many a winding train To lure his sullen guest to show Unasked the news he longed to know, 190 While on far other subject hung His heart than faltered from his tongue. Yet nought for that his guest did deign To note or spare his secret pain, But still in stern and stubborn sort Returned him answer dark and short, Or started from the theme to range In loose digression wild and strange, And forced the embarrassed host to buy By query close direct reply. 200 XI Awhile he glozed upon the cause Of Commons, Covenant, and Laws, And Church reformed — but felt rebuke Beneath grim Bertram's sneering look, Then stammered — ' 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.' 210 ' Here, in your towers by circling Tees, You, Oswald Wycliffe, 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, Encamped before beleaguered York 220 Thy horse with valiant Fairfax lay, And must have fought — how went the day?' XII ' Wouldst hear the tale ? — On Marston heath Met front to front the ranks of death; Flourished the trumpets fierce, and now Fired was each eye and flushed each brow; On either side loud clamors ring, " God and the Cause ! " — " God and the King ! " Right English all, they rushed to blows, With nought to win and all to lose. 230 I could have laughed — but lacked the time — To see, in phrenesy sublime, How the fierce zealots fought and bled For king or state, as humor 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. — 234 ROKEBY Led Bertram Risingham the hearts That countered there on adverse parts, 240 No superstitious fool had I Sought El Dorados iu the sky ! Chili had heard ine through her states, And Lima oped her silver gates, Rich Mexico I had marched through, And sacked the splendors of Peru, Till sunk Pizarro's daring name, And, Cortez, thine, in Bertram's fame/ — ' Still from the purpose wilt thou stray ! Good gentle friend, how went the day ? ' 250 XIII ' Good am I deemed at trumpet sound, And good where goblets dance the round, Though gentle ne'er was joined 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; 260 While, in ten thousand eddies driven, The billows fling their foam to heaven, And the pale pilot seeks in vain Where rolls the river, where the main Even thus upon the bloody field The eddying tides of conflict wheeled Ambiguous, till that heart of flame, Hot Rupert, on our squadrons came, Hurling against our spears a line Of gallants fiery as their wine ; 270 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, Preached forth from hamlet, grange, and down, To curb the crosier and the crown, Now, stark and stiff, lie stretched in gore, And ne'er shall rail at mitre more. — 280 Thus fared it when I left the fight With the good Cause and Commons' right.' — XIV * Disastrous news ! ' dark Wy cliff e said; Assumed despondence bent his head, While troubled joy was in his eye, The well-feigned 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, 290 What leaders of repute and name Bought by their death a deathless fame. If such my direst foeman's doom, My tears shall dew his honored 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,' answered Bertram, ' wouldst thou know, 300 Demand in simple terms and plain, A soldier's answer shalt thou gain; For question dark or riddle high I have nor judgment nor reply.' xv The wrath his art and fear suppressed Now blazed at once in Wycliffe's breast, And brave from man so meanly born Roused his hereditary scorn. ' Wretch ! hast thou paid thy bloody debt ? Philip of Mortham, lives he yet ? 310 False to thy patron or thine oath, Traitorous or perjured, one or both. Slave ! hast thou kept thy promise plight, To slay thy leader in the fight ? ' Then from his seat 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 quaffed Flung from him Wycliffe's hand and laughed — 320 ' Now, Oswald Wy cliff e, speaks thy heart ! Now play'st thou well thy genuine part ! Worthy, but for thy craven fear, Like me to roam a buccaneer. What reck'st thou of the Cause divine, If Mortham 's wealth and lands be thine ? What carest thou for beleaguered York, If this good hand have done its work ? Or what though Fairfax and his best Are reddening Marston's swarthy breast, 330 If Philip Mortham with them lie, Lending his life-blood to the dye ? — Sit, then ! and as mid comrades free Carousing after victory, When tales are told of blood and fear That boys and women shrink to hear, CANTO FIRST 235 From point to point I frankly tell The deed of death as it befell. XVI ' When purposed vengeance I forego, Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe; 340 And when an insult I forgive, Then brand me as a slave and live ! — Philip of Mortham is with those Whom Bertram Risingham calls foes; Or whom more sure revenge attends, If numbered with ungrateful friends. As was his wont, ere battle glowed, Along the marshalled ranks he rode, And wore his visor up the while. I saw his melancholy smile 350 When, full opposed in front, he knew Where Rokeby's kindred banner flew. " And thus," he said, " will friends di- vide!"— I heard, and thought how side by side We two had turned 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, 360 And fenceless faced the deadly dew; I thought on Quariana's cliff Where, rescued from our foundering skiff, Through the white breakers' wrath I bore Exhausted Mortham to the shore; And, when his side an arrow found, I sucked the Indian's venomed wound. These thoughts like torrents rushed along, To sweep away my purpose strong. XVII J Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent; 370 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. 'T was then I thought how, lured to come As partner of his wealth and home, Years of piratic wandering o'er, 380 With him I sought our native shore. But Mortham's lord grew far estranged From the bold heart with whom he ranged; Doubts, horrors, superstitious fears, Saddened and dimmed descending years; The wily priests their victim sought, And damned 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 390 I revelled thrice the sura away. An idle outcast then I strayed, Unfit for tillage or for trade. Deemed, like the steel of rusted lance, Useless and dangerous at once. The women feared my hardy look, At my approach the peaceful shook; The merchant saw my glance of flame, And locked his hoards when Bertram, came; Each child of coward peace kept far 400 From the neglected son of war. XVIII ' But civil discord gave the call, And made my trade the trade of all. By Mortham urged, I came again His vassals to the fight to train. What guerdon waited on my care ? I could not cant of creed or prayer; Sour fanatics each trust obtained, And I, dishonored and disdained, Gained but the high and happy lot 410 In these poor arms to front the shot ! — All this thou know'st, thy gestures tell; Yet hear it o'er and mark it well. 'T is honor 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 pressed my courser's side, Philip of Mortham's cause was tried, And ere the charging squadrons mixed 420 His plea was cast, his doom was fixed. I watched him through the doubtful fray, That changed as March's moody day, Till, like a stream that bursts its bank, Fierce Rupert thundered on our flank. 'T was then, midst tumult, smoke, and strife, Where each man fought for death or life, 'T was then I fired my petronel, And Mortham, steed and rider, fell. One dying look he upward cast, 430 Of wrath and anguish — 't was his last. Think not that there I stopped, to view What of the battle should ensue; 236 ROKEBY But ere I cleared that bloody press, Our northern 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 440 First lured their Lesley o'er the Tweed. Yet when I reached the banks of Swale, Had rumor learned another tale ; With his barbed horse, fresh tidings say, Stout Cromwell has redeemed the day: But whether false the news or true, Oswald, I reck as light as you.' Not then by Wycliffe might be shown How his pride startled at the tone In which his complice, fierce and free, 450 Asserted guilt's equality. In smoothest terms his speech he wove Of endless friendship, faith, and love; Promised and vowed in courteous sort, But Bertram broke professions short. ' Wycliffe, be sure not here I stay, No, scarcely till the rising day; Warned by the legends of my youth, I trust not an associate's truth. Do not my native dales prolong 460 Of Percy Rede the tragic song, Trained forward to his bloody fall, By G-irsonneld, that treacherous Hall ? Oft by the Pringle's haunted side The shepherd sees his spectre glide. And near the spot that gave me name, The moated mound of Risingham, Where Reed upon her margin sees Sweet Woodburne's cottages and trees, Some ancient sculptor's art has shown 470 An outlaw's image on the stone; Unmatched in strength, a giant he, With quivered back and kirtled 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 warned by legends of my youth, I trust to no associate's truth. ' When last we reasoned of this deed, 480 Nought, I bethink me, was agreed, Or by what rule, or when, or where, The wealth of Mortham we should share ; Then list while I the portion name Our differing laws give each to claim. Thou, vassal sworn to England's throne, Her rules 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 490 The statutes of the buccaneer. Friend to the sea, and foeman sworn To all that on her waves are borne, When falls a mate in battle broil His comrade heirs his portioned spoil; When dies in fight a daring foe He claims his wealth who struck th 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 string of pearl, each silver bar, And all the wealth of western war. I go to search where, dark and deep, Those trans-Atlantic treasures sleep. Thou must along — for, lacking thee, The heir will scarce find entrance free And then farewell. I haste to try Each varied pleasure wealth can buy; When cloyed each wish, these wars afford Fresh work for Bertram's restless sword.' XXII 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: — Joyed at the soul that Bertram flies, 520 He grudged the murderer's mighty prize, Hated his pride's presumptuous tone, And feared to wend with him alone. At length, that middle course to steer 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.' 510 Contempt kept Bertram's anger down, 530 And wreathed to savage smile his frown. ' Wilfrid, or thou — 't is one to me, Whichever bears the golden key. CANTO FIRST 2 37 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 540 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.' XXIV Nought of his sire's ungenerous part Polluted Wilfrid's gentle heart, A heart too soft from early life 550 To hold with fortune needful strife. His sire, while yet a hardier 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 Showed the elastic spring of blood; Hour after hour he loved to pore 560 On Shakespeare's rich and varied lore, But turned 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 570 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 seek. Such was his wont; and there his dream Soared on some wild fantastic theme Of faithful love or ceaseless spring, Till Contemplation's wearied wing The enthusiast could no more sustain, 580 And sad he sunk to earth again. He loved — as many a lay can tell, Preserved in Stanmore's lonely dell; For his was minstrel's skill, he caught The art unteachable, untaught; He 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; Silent he loved — in every gaze 590 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. Wilfrid must love and woo the bright Matilda, heir of Rokeby's knight. To love her was an easy hest, 600 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 ; Friendship, esteem, and fair regard, And praise, the poet's best reward ! She read the tales his taste approved, And sung the lays he framed or loved; Yet, loath to nurse the fatal flame 610 Of hopeless love in friendship's name, In kind caprice she oft withdrew The favoring 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 woe-foreboding peasant sees; In concert oft they braved of old 620 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 Rokeby led his ranks, To aid the valiant northern earls Who drew the sword for royal Charles. Mortham, by marriage near allied, — His sister had been Rokeby's bride, Though long before the civil fray 630 2 3 8 ROKEBY In peaceful grave the lady lay, — Philip of Mortham raised his band, And marched 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 Rokeby's Knight 640 Waits in his halls the 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 Rokeby's foe, Must the dear privilege forego, By Greta's side in evening gray, To steal upon Matilda's way, Striving with fond hypocrisy 650 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; Somethiug to give, to sing, to say, Some modern tale, some ancient lay. Then, while the longed-for minutes last, — Ah ! minutes quickly over-past ! — Recording each expression free 660 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 Wilfrid may lurk in Eastwood green, To watch Matilda's wonted round, While springs his heart at every sound. She comes ! — 't is but a passing sight, Yet serves to cheat his weary night; She comes not — he will wait the hour 670 When her lamp lightens in the tower; 'T is something yet if, as she past, Her shade is o'er the lattice cast. ' What is my life, my hope ? ' he said; ' Alas ! a trausitory 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 turned impatient ear 680 From Truth's intrusive voice severe. Gentle, indifferent, and subdued, In all but this unmoved he viewed Each outward change of ill and good: But Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild, Was Fancy's spoiled and wayward child; In her bright car she bade him ride, With one fair form to grace his side, Or, in some wild and lone retreat, Flung her high spells around his seat, 690 Bathed in her dews his languid head, Her fairy mantle o'er 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 the reins, 700 Pity and woe ! 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 pursued, How rich it glowed with promised good; 710 Remind him of each wish enjoyed, How soon his hopes possession cloyed ! Tell him we play unequal game Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim; And, ere he strip him for her race, Show the conditions of the chase: Two sisters by the goal are set, Cold Disappointment and Regret; One disenchants the winner's eyes, And strips of all its worth the prize. 720 While one augments its gaudy show, More to enhance the loser's woe. The victor sees his fairy gold Transformed when won to drossy mould, But still the vanquished mourns his loss, And rues as gold that glittering dross. XXXII More wouldst thou know — yon tower sur- vey, Yon couch mi pressed since parting day, Yon untrimmed lamp, whose yellow gleam Is mingling with the cold moonbeam, 730 And yon thin form ! — the hectic red CANTO SECOND 239 On his pale cheek unequal spread; The head reclined, the loosened hair, The limbs relaxed, the mournful air. — See, he looks up; — a woful smile Lightens his woe-worn cheek a while, — 'T is Fancy wakes some idle thought, To gild the ruin she has wrought; For, like the bat of Indian brakes, Her pinions fan the wound she makes, 740 And, soothing thus the dreamer's pain, She drinks his life-blood from the vein. Now to the lattice turn his eyes, Vain hope ! to see the sun arise. The moon with clouds is still o'ercast, Still howls by fits the stormy blast; Another hour must wear away Ere the east kindle into day, And hark ! to waste that weary hour, He tries the minstrel's magic power. 750 XXXIII SONG 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 I How 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 ! Fair Queen ! I will not blame thee now, As once by Greta's fairy side; 760 Each little cloud that dimmed 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 calmed my fear. Then did I swear thy ray serene Was formed to light some lonely dell, By two fond lovers only seen, Reflected from the crystal well; 770 Or sleeping on their mossy cell, Or quivering on the lattice 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 addressed ? Thou hast no cares to chase thy rest. 780 Mortham has fallen on Mars ton-moor; Bertram brings warrant to secure His treasures, bought by spoil and blood, For the state's use and public good. The menials will 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 ! ' 790 CANTO SECOND Far in the chambers of the west, The gale had sighed itself to rest; The moon was cloudless now and clear, But pale and soon to disappear. The thin gray clouds waxed dimly light On Brusleton and Houghton height; And the rich dale that eastward lay Waited the wakening touch of day, To give its woods and cultured plain, And towers and spires, to light again. 10 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 bannered walls. High crowned he sits in dawning pale, The sovereign of the lovely vale. What prospects from his watch-tower high Gleam gradual on the warder's eye ! — 20 Far sweeping to the east, he sees Down his deep woods the course of Tees, And tracks his wanderings by the steam Of summer vapors from the stream; And ere he pace 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, 30 And each huge trunk that from the side Reclines him o'er the darksome tide Where Tees, full many a fathom low, 240 ROKEBY Wears with his rage no common foe; For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here, Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career, Condemned to mine a channelled way O'er solid sheets of marble gray. Nor Tees alone in dawning bright Shall rush upon the ravished sight; 40 But many a tributary stream Each from its own dark cell shall gleam : Staindrop, who from her sylvan bowers Salutes proud Baby's battled towers; The rural brook of Egliston, And Balder, named from Odin's son; And Greta, to whose banks ere long We lead the lovers of the song; And silver Lune from Stanmore wild, And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child, 50 And last and least, but loveliest still, Bomantic Deepdale's slender rill. Who in that dim-wood glen hath strayed, Yet longed for Boslin'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 thine, Thy scenes and story to combine ! 60 Thou bid'st him who by Boslin 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 for 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. 70 IV Bertram awaited not the sight Which sunrise 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 gray ruins passed; 80 Each on his own deep visions bent, Silent and sad they onward went. Well may you think that Bertram's mood To Wilfrid savage seemed and rude; Well may you think bo^d Risingham Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame; And small the intercourse, I ween, Such uncongenial souls between. Stern Bertram shunned the nearer way Through Rokeby's park and chase that lay, _ 9 o And, skirting high the valley's ridge, They crossed by Greta's ancient bridge, Descending where her waters wind Free for a space and unconfined 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 renowned Whose votive shrine asserts their claim Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, 10a ' Stern sons of war ! ' sad Wilfrid sighed, ' 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 addressed in vain. VI Of different mood a deeper sigh Awoke when Rokeby's turrets high Were northward in the dawning seen To rear them o'er the thicket green. no O then, though Spenser's self had strayed Beside him through the lovely glade, Lending his 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 clamoring joyful on her road; Pointing where, up the sunny banks, The trees retire in scattered ranks, 120 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 scattered host — All this and more might Spenser say, Yet waste in vain his magic lay, While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower. 13a CANTO SECOND 241 The open vale is soon passed o'er, Rokeby, though nigh, is seen no more; Sinking mid Greta's 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 seemed some mountain, rent and riven, A channel for the stream had given, 140 So high the cliffs of limestone gray Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way, Yielding along their rugged base A flinty footpath's niggard space, Where he who winds 'twixt 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, 150 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 ! The cliffs that rear their haughty head High o'er the river's darksome bed Were now all naked, wild, and gray, Now waving all with greenwood spray; Here trees to every crevice clung And o'er the dell their branches hung; 160 And there, all splintered and uneven, The shivered rocks ascend to heaven; Oft, too, the ivy swathed 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 revelled loud the feudal rout 169 And the arched halls returned their shout, Such and more 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. Now from the stream the rocks recede, 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 180 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. Seemed that the trees their shadows cast The earth that nourished them to blast; For never knew that swarthy grove The verdant hue that fairies love, 190 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, Bestrewed the ground with every blast. Though now the sun was o'er the hill, In this dark spot 't was twilight still, Save that on Greta's farther side Some straggling beams through copsewood glide; 200 And wild and savage contrast made That dingle's deep and funeral shade With the bright tints of early day, Which, glimmering through the ivy spray,. On the opposing summit lay. The lated peasant shunned the dell; For Superstition wont to tell Of many a grisly sound and sight, Scaring its path at dead of night. 209 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 is cast behind, As louder moans the wintry wind. Believe that fitting scene was laid 220 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 spot, at such an hour, — If touched by Superstition's power, Might well have deemed that Hell had given A murderer's ghost to upper heaven, While Wilfrid's form had seemed to glide Like his pale victim by his side. 242 ROKEBY XI Nor think to village swains alone 230 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 and pity barred, 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 retained 240 The credence they in childhood gained: Nor less his wild adventurous youth Believed in every legend's truth; Learned when beneath the tropic gale Full swelled the vessel's steady sail, And the broad Indian moon her light Poured on the watch of middle night, When seamen love to hear and tell Of portent, prodigy, and spell: 249 What gales are sold on Lapland's shore, How whistle rash bids tempests roar, Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite, Of Erick's cap and Elmo's light; Or of that Phantom Ship whose form Shoots like a meteor through the storm When the dark scud comes driving hard, And lowered is every top-sail yard, And canvas wove in earthly looms No more to brave the storm presumes ! Then mid the war of sea and sky, 260 Top and top-gallant hoisted high, Full spread and crowded every sail, The Demon Frigate braves the gale, And well the doomed spectators know The harbinger of wreck and woe. 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 pirate's mood 270 Repaid it home in deeds of blood, Strange nightly sounds of woe and fear Appalled the listening buccaneer, Whose light-armed shallop anchored lay In ambush by the lonely bay. The groan of grief, the shriek of pain, Ring from the moonlight groves of cane; The fierce adventurer's heart they scare, Who wearies memory for a prayer, Curses the roadstead, and with gale 280 Of early morning lifts the sail, 290 To give, in thirst of blood and prey, A legend for another bay. XIII Thus, as a man, a youth, a child, Trained in the mystic and the wild, With this on Bertram's soul at times Rushed 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 Hovered 'twixt horror and remorse — That pang, perchance, his bosom pressed As Wilfrid sudden he addressed: ' Wilfrid, this glen is never trod Until the sun rides high abroad, Yet twice have I beheld to-day A form that seemed to dog our way; Twice from my glance it seemed to flee 300 And shroud itself by cliff or tree. How think'st thou ? — Is our path way- laid ? Or hath thy sire my trust betrayed ? If so ' — Ere, starting from his dream That turned upon a gentler theme, Wilfrid had roused him to reply, Bertram sprung forward, shouting high, ' Whate'er thou art, thou now shalt stand ! ' And forth he darted, sword in hand. XIV As bursts the levin in its wrath, 310 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 't is bent Right up the rock's tall battlement; Straining each sinew to ascend, Foot, hand, and knee their aid must lend. Wilfrid, all dizzy with dismay, 320 Views from beneath his dreadful way: Now to the oak's warped roots be clings, Now trusts his weight to ivy strings; Now, like the wild-goat, must he dare An unsupported leap in air; Hid in the shrubby rain-course now, You mark him by the crashing bough, And by his corselet's sullen clank, And by the stones spurned from the bank, And by the hawk scared from her nest, 330 And raven's croaking o'er their guest, CANTO SECOND 243 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 angle to his grasp: Sole stay his foot may rest upon 340 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 descends, And downward holds its headlong way, Crashing o'er rock and copsewood spray ! Loud thunders shake the echoing dell ! 350 Fell it alone ? — alone it fell. Just on the very verge of fate, The hardy Bertram's falling weight He trusted to his sinewy hands, And on the top unharmed, he stands ! Wilfrid a safer path pursued, At intervals where, roughly hewed, Rude steps ascending from the dell Rendered the cliffs accessible. By circuit slow he thus attained 360 The height that Risingham had gained, And when he issued from the wood Before the gate of Mortham stood. 'T was a fair scene ! the sunbeam lay On battled tower and portal gray; 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 370 Rolled 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 'T was sweetly sung that roundelay, That summer morn shone blithe and gay; But morning beam and wild-bird's call Awaked not Mortham's silent hall. No porter by the low-browed gate 380 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 bayed a hound; Nor eager steed with shrilling neigh Accused the lagging groom's delay; Untrimmed, undressed, neglected now, 390 Was alleyed 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 400 With many a scutcheon and device: There, spent with toil and sunk in gloom, Bertram stood pondering by the tomb. XVIII ' It vanished like a flitting ghost ! Behind this tomb,' he said, ' 't was lost — This tomb where oft I deemed lies stored Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard. 'T is true, the aged servants said Here his lamented wife is laid; But weightier reasons may be guessed 410 For their lord's strict and stern behest That none should on his steps intrude Whene'er he sought this solitude. An ancient mariner I knew, What time I sailed with Morgan's crew, Who oft mid our carousals spake Of Raleigh, Frobisher, and Drake; Adventurous hearts ! who bartered, bold, Their English steel for Spanish gold. Trust not, would his experience say, 420 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 43 o Stalk nightly on his lonely post. 244 ROKEBY Such was his tale. Its truth, I ween, Is in my morning vision seen.' XIX Wilfrid, who scorned 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, 440 Oft vanquished, never quite suppressed, That unsubdued and lurking lies To take the felon by surprise And force him, 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; ' 'T was Mortham's form, from foot to head ! His morion with the plume of red, His shape, his mien — 't was Mortham, right _ 450 As when I slew him in the fight.' — 1 Thou slay him ? — thou ? ' — With con- scious start He heard, them manned 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; 'T was by this hand that Mortham died.' Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart, 460 Averse to every active part, But most adverse to martial broil, From danger shrunk and turned 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 waxed strong. Not his the nerves that could sustain, Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain; 469 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 ! Attach the murderer of your lord ! ' XXI A moment, fixed as by a spell, Stood Bertram — it seemed 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 drenched the blade in Wilfrid's gore. But in the instant it arose 49 o To end his life, his love, his woes, A warlike form that marked 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 the fight, And motioned Bertram from his sight. ' Go, and repent,' he said, ' while time 500 Is given thee; add not crime to crime.' Mute and uncertain and amazed, As on a vision Bertram gazed ! 'T was 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-bleached locks — 't was Mortham all. Through Bertram's dizzy brain career 510 A thousand thoughts, and all of fear; His wavering faith received not quite The form he saw as Mortham's sprite, But more he feared it if it stood His lord in living flesh and blood. What spectre can the charnel send, So dreadful as an injured friend ? Then, too, the habit of command, Used by the leader of the band When Risingham for many a day 520 Had marched and fought beneath his sway, Tamed him — and with reverted face Backwards he bore his sullen pace, Oft stopped, and oft on Mortham stared, And dark as rated mastiff glared, But when the tramp of steeds was heard Plunged in the glen and disappeared; : CANTO SECOND 245 Nor longer there the warrior stood, Retiring eastward through the wood, But first to Wilfrid warning gives, 530 « Tell thou to none that Mortham lives.' XXIII 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 armed a gallant power Reined up their steeds before the tower. ' Whence these pale looks, my son ? ' he said: ' Where 's Bertram ? Why that naked blade?' Wilfrid ambiguously replied — 540 For Mortham's charge his honor tied — ' Bertram is gone — the villain's word Avouched 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 dew-drop broke, And his lip quivered as he spoke: ' A murderer ! — Philip Mortham died 550 Amid the battle's wildest tide. Wilfrid, or Bertram raves or you ! Yet, grant such strange confession true, Pursuit were vain — let him fly far — 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 followed now in Wycliffe's train 560 An answer for his lord to gain. His steed, whose arched 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 restraint: XXV 1 Yes ! I beheld his bloody fall By that base traitor's dastard ball, Just when I thought to measure sword, 570 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 Risingham shall yield or die. — Ring out the castle larum bell ! Arouse the peasants with the knell ! 579 Meantime disperse — ride, gallants, ride ! Beset the wood on every side. But if among you one there be That honors 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 Redmond sprung; Instant on earth the harness rung Of twenty men of Wycliffe's band, Who waited not their lord's command. 590 Redmond his spurs from buskins drew, His mantle from his shoulders threw, His pistols in his belt he placed, The green - wood gained, the footsteps traced, Shouted like huntsman to his hounds, ' To cover, hark ! ' — and in he bounds. Scarce heard was Oswald's anxious cry, ' Suspicion ! yes — pursue him — fly — But venture not in useless strife On ruffian desperate of his life; 600 Whoever finds him shoot him dead ! Five hundred nobles for his head ! ' The horsemen galloped to make good Each path that issued from the wood. Loud from the thickets rung the shout Of Redmond and his eager rout; With them was Wilfrid, stung with ire, And envying Redmond's martial fire, And emulous of fame. — But where Is Oswald, noble Mortham's heir ? 610 He, bound by honor, law, and faith, Avenger of his kinsman's death ? — Leaning against the elmin tree, With drooping head and slackened knee, And clenched teeth, and close - clasped 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. 620 ROKEBY XXVIII What Vailed it him that brightly played 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 'vailed it that the fair domain, Its battled mansion, hill, and plain, On which the sun so brightly shone, Envied so long, was now his own ? 630 The lowest dungeon, in that hour, Of Brackenbury's dismal tower, Had been his choice, could such a doom Have opened Mortham's bloody tomb ! Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear To each surmise of hope or fear, Murmured among the rustics round, Who gathered at the larum sound, He dare not turn his head away, Even to look up to heaven to pray, 640 Or call on hell in bitter mood For one sharp death-shot from the wood ! At length o'erpast that dreadful space, Back straggling came the scattered chase; Jaded and weary, horse and man, Returned the troopers one by one. Wilfrid the last arrived to say All trace was lost of Bertram's way, Though Redmond still up Brignall wood The hopeless quest in vain pursued. 650 O, fatal doom of human race ! What tyrant passions passions chase ! Remorse from Oswald's brow is gone, Avarice and pride resume their throne; The pang of instant terror by, They dictate thus their slave's reply: 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 Redmond or with Risingham. — 660 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 with courtly phrase; In a rough path will oft command — Accept at least — thy friendly hand ; His she avoids, or, urged and prayed, Unwilling takes his proffered aid, c 7 o 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 ; Yet doubts she still to tender free The wonted words of courtesy. These are strong signs ! — yet wherefore sigh, And wipe, effeminate, thine eye ? Thine shall she be, if thou attend The counsels of thy sire and friend. 680 XXXI ' Scarce wert thou gone, when peep of light Brought genuine news of Marston's fight. Brave Cromwell turned the doubtful tide, And conquest blessed the rightful side; Three thousand cavaliers lie dead, Rupert 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; 690 Redmond his page arrived to say He reaches Barnard's towers to-day. Right 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, 700 And the bold swain who plies his oar May lightly row his bark to shore.' CANTO THIRD 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 assigned. 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 pounces 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, CANTO THIRD 247 Plying war's desultory trade, Incursion, flight, and ambuscade, Since Nirnrod, Cush's mighty son, At first the bloody game begun. The Indian, prowling for his prey, Who hears the settlers track his way, 20 And knows in distant forest 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 rushes glide, Now covering with the withered leaves The foot-prints that the dew receives — He, skilled in every sylvan guile, Knows not, nor tries, such various wile 30 As Risingham when on the wind Arose the loud pursuit behind. In Redesdale his youth had heard Each art her wily dalesman 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. 40 in Oft had he shown in climes afar Each attribute of roving war; The sharpened ear, the piercing eye, The quick resolve in danger nigh; The speed that in the flight or chase Outstripped 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, 50 Nor less confirmed 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, On Arawaca's desert shore, Or where La Plata's billows roar, When oft the sons of vengeful Spain Tracked the marauder's steps in vain. These arts, in Indian warfare tried, Must save him now by Greta's side. 60 'T was then, in hour of utmost need, He proved his courage, art, and speed. Now slow he stalked 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 brawling sound The echo of his footsteps drowned. 70 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 sylvan game. 'T was then — like tiger close beset At every pass with toil and net, 'Countered where'er he turns his glare By clashing arms and torches' flare, 80 Who meditates with furious bound To burst on hunter, horse and hound — 'T was then that Bertram's soul arose, Prompting to rush upon his foes: But as that crouching tiger, cowed By brandished steel and shouting crowd, Retreats beneath the jungle's shroud, Bertram suspends his purpose stern, And crouches in the brake and fern, Hiding his face lest foemen spy 90 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, Climbed every height to look around, Then rushing on with naked sword, Each dingle's bosky depths explored. 'T was Redmond — by the azure eye ; 'T was Redmond — by the locks that fly Disordered from his glowing cheek; 100 Mien, face, and form young Redmond 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 1 To aid the expression of the hour: Whether gay wit and humor sly Danced laughing in his light-blue eye, 248 ROKEBY Or bended brow and glance of fire And kindling cheek spoke Erin's ire, Or soft and saddened 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, 120 And hope's bright wings are checked 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 played, As aspens show the light and shade. VI Well Eisingham young Redmond knew, And much he marvelled that the crew Roused to revenge bold Mortham dead 130 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 That wreaks a generous f oeman's wrong. But small his leisure now to pause ; Redmond is first, whate'er the cause: And twice that Redmond came so near Where Bertram couched like hunted deer, The very boughs his steps displace 140 Rustled against the ruffian's face, Who desperate twice prepared to start, And plunge his dagger in his heart ! But Redmond turned a different way, And the bent boughs resumed their sway, And Bertram held it wise, unseen, Deeper to plunge in coppice green. Thus, circled in his coil, the snake, When roving hunters beat the brake, Watches with red and glistening eye, 150 Prepared, if heedless step draw nigh, With forked tongue and venomed fang Instant to dart the deadly pang; But if the intruders turn aside, Away his coils unfolded glide, And through the deep savannah wind, Some undisturbed retreat to find. But Bertram, as he backward drew, And heard the loud pursuit renew, And Redmond's hollo on the wind, Oft muttered in his savage mind — ' Redmond O'Neale ! were thou and I Alone this day's event to try, With not a second here to see But the gray cliff and oaken tree, That voice of thine that shouts so loud Should ne'er repeat its summons proud ! No ! nor e'er try its melting power Again in maiden's summer bower.' Eluded, now behind him die 170 Faint and more faint each hostile cry; He stands in Scargill wood alone, Nor hears he 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. VIII He listened long with anxious heart, Ear bent to hear and foot to start, And, while his stretched attention glows, 180 Refused his weary frame repose. 'T was silence all — he laid him down, Where purple heath profusely strown, And throatwort with its azure bell, And moss and thyme his cushion swell. There, spent with toil, he listless eyed The course of Greta's playful tide; Beneath her banks now eddying dun, Now brightly gleaming to the sun, As, dancing over rock and stone, 190 In yellow light her currents shone, Matching in hue the favorite gem Of Albin's mountain-diadem. Then, tired to watch the currents play, He turned his weary eyes away To where the bank opposing snowed Its huge, square cliffs through shaggy wood. One, prominent above the rest, Reared to the sun its pale gray breast; Around its broken summit grew 200 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 filled 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; CANTO THIRD 249 A crime, it seemed, so dire and dread That it had power to wake the dead. Then, pondering on his life betrayed By Oswald's art to Redmond's blade, In treacherous purpose to withhold, So seemed it, Mortham's promised gold, A deep and full revenge he vowed 2. On Redmond, forward, fierce, and proud: Revenge on Wilfrid — on his sire Redoubled 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 23 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 embrowned, 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 240 That very Mortham whom he slew ? Or had in living flesh appeared The only man on earth he feared ? — To try the mystic cause intent, His eyes that on the cliff were bent 'Countered at once a dazzling glance, Like sunbeam flashed 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, 250 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. 'T was but, he thought, some fitful beam, Glanced sudden from the sparkling stream; Then plunged him in his gloomy train Of ill-connected thoughts again, Until a voice behind him cried, 260 j 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 ! — thy purpose show, Whether thou comest as friend or foe. Report hath said, that Denzil's name 270 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 Risingham 280 Who watched with me in midnight dark To snatch a deer from Rokeby-park. How think'st thou ? ' — ' Speak thy pur- pose out; I love not mystery or doubt.' — XII 1 Then list. — Not far there lurk a crew Of trusty comrades stanch and true, Gleaned from both factions — Roundheads, freed From cant of sermon and of creed, And Cavaliers, whose souls like mine Spurn at the bonds of discipline. 290 Wiser, we judge, by dale and wold A warfare of our own to hold 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 steps waylaid, Thy head at price — so say our spies, Who ranged the valley in disguise. 30a Join then with us: though wild debate And wrangling rend our infant state, Each, to an equal loath to bow, Will yield to chief renowned as thou.' — XIII ' Even now,' thought Bertram, passion- stirred, ' I called on hell, and hell has heard ! What lack I, vengeance to command, But of stanch comrades such a band ? This Denzil, vowed to every evil, Might read a lesson to the devil. 3 10 250 ROKEBY 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 gray.' * Do thou,' said Bertram, ' lead the way.' Then muttered, ' It is best make sure; Guy Denzil's faith was never pure.' 320 He followed down the steep descent, Then through the Greta's streams they went; And when they reached the farther shore They stood the lonely cliff before. XIV With wonder Bertram heard within The flinty rock a murmured din; But when Guy pulled the wilding spray And brambles from its base away, He saw appearing to the air A little entrance low and square, 330 Like opening cell of hermit lone, Dark winding through the living stone. Here entered Denzil, Bertram here; And loud and louder on their ear, As from the bowels of the earth, Resounded shouts of boisterous mirth. Of old the cavern strait and rude In slaty rock the peasant hewed; And Brignall's woods and Scargill's wave E'en now o'er many a sister cave, 340 Where, 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 kept, There on his sordid pallet slept Guilt-born Excess, the goblet drained Still in his slumbering grasp retained; 350 Regret was there, his eye still cast With vain repining on the past; Among the feasters waited near Sorrow and unrepentant Fear, And Blasphemy, to frenzy driven, With his own crimes reproaching Heaven; While Bertram showed amid the crew The Master-Fiend that Milton drew. XV Hark ! the loud revel wakes again To greet the leader of the train. 360 Behold the group by the pale lamp That struggles with the earthy damp By what strange features Vice hath known To single out and mark her own ! Yet some there are whose brows retain Less deeply stamped 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: The cottage once his sire's he sees, Embowered upon the banks of Tees; He views sweet Winston's woodland scene, And shares the dance on Gainford-green. A tear is springing — but the zest Of some wild tale or brutal jest Hath to loud laughter stirred the rest. On him they call, the aptest mate For jovial song and merry feat: Fast flies his dream — with dauntless air, 380 As one victorious o'er despair, He bids the ruddy cup go round Till sense and sorrow both are drowned; 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 strewed, Themselves all profitless and rude. — With desperate merriment he sung, The cavern to the chorus rung, Yet mingled with his reckless glee Remorse's bitter agony. XVI SONG O, 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, — ' O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta 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, CANTO THIRD 2 5* Thou first must guess what life lead we That dwell by dale and down ? And if thou canst that riddle read, 4 As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, As blithe as Queen of May.' 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 420 To keep the king's greenwood.' [ A ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light; His blast !s heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night.' CHORUS Yet sung she, ' Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay; I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May ! * With burnished brand and musketoon 430 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. * And O, though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare 4 Would reign my Queen of May ! XVIII * Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I '11 die; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I ! 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. CHORUS ' Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 450 And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen.' When Edmund ceased his simple song, Was silence on the sullen throug. 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 designed, 460 While still on Bertram's grasping mind The wealth of murdered Mortham hung; Though half he feared his daring tongue, When it should give his wishes birth, Might raise a spectre from the earth ! At length his wondrous tale he told ; When scornful smiled his comrade bold, For, trained in license of a court, Religion's self was Denzil's sport; Then judge in what contempt he held 470 The visionary tales of eld ! His awe for Bertram scarce repressed The unbeliever's sneering jest, ' 'T were hard,' he said, ' for sage or seer To spell the subject of your fear; Nor do I boast the art renowned Vision and omen to expound. Yet, faith if I must needs afford To spectre watching treasured hoard, As ban-dog keeps his master's roof, 480 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 Lowered on the brow of Risingham. 489 He blushed to think, that he should seem Asserter 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 taxed thy breach of word To yon fair rose of Allenford, 252 ROKEBY I saw thee crouch like chastened hound Whose back the huntsman's lash hath found. 500 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; 510 Or think'st that Mortham would bestow His treasure with his faction's foe ? ' XXI Soon quenched 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 answered, 'Mortham's mind, Thou know'st, to joy was ill inclined. In youth, 't is said, a gallant free, 520 A lusty reveller was he; But since returned from over sea, A sullen and a silent mood Hath numbed the current of his blood. Hence he refused each kindly call To Rokeby's hospitable hall, And our stout knight, at dawn or morn Who loved to hear the bugle-horn, Nor less, when eve his oaks embrowned, To see the ruddy cup go round, 530 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.' XXII ' 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 ! — 540 Denzil, I knew him long, yet ne'er Knew him that joyous cavalier Whom youthful friends and early fame Called 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, By 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 ere one wrinkled knot untwine; 111 was the omen if he smiled, For 't was in peril stern and wild; But when he laughed 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; 561 Preaching even then to such as we, Hot with our dear-bought victory, Of mercy and humanity. XXIII ' I loved him well — his fearless part, His gallant leading, won my heart. And after each victorious fight, 'T was I that wrangled for his right, Redeemed his portion of the prey That greedier mates had torn away, In field and storm thrice saved his life, 57 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. Rise if thou canst ! ' he looked around And sternly stamped upon the ground — ' Rise, with thy bearing proud and high, Even as this morn it met mine eye, And give me, if thou darest, the lie ! ' 58c He paused — then, calm and passion-freed Bade Denzil with his tale proceed. ' Bertram, to thee I need not tell, What thou hast cause to wot so well, How superstition's nets were twined Around the Lord of Mortham'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. 59 I know not if her features moved Remembrance of the wife he loved, But he would gaze upon her eye, Till his mood softened to a sigh. He, whom no living mortal sought To question of his secret thought, CANTO THIRD 253 Now every thought and care confessed To his fair niece's faithful breast; Nor was there aught of rich and rare, In earth, in ocean, or in air, 600 But it must deck Matilda's hair. Her love still bound him unto life ; But then awoke the civil strife, And menials bore by his commands Three coffers with their iron bands From Mortham's vault at midnight deep To her lone bower in Rokeby-Keep, Ponderous with gold and plate of pride, His gift, if he in battle died.' XXV I Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train 610 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 plundered boors, and harts of greese ? 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 ? ' J I hold my wont — my rangers go, 620 Even now to track a milk-white doe. By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair, In Greta wood she harbors fair, , And when my huntsman marks her way, What think'st thou, Bertram, of the prey ? Were Rokeby's daughter in our power, We rate her ransom at her dower.' ' 'T is well ! — there 's vengeance in the thought, Matilda is by Wilfrid sought; And hot-brained Redmond too, 't is said, 630 Pays lover's homage to the maid. Bertram she scorned — if met by chance She turned from me her shuddering glance, Like a nice dame that 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 fall true ! — The war has weeded Rokeby's train, 640 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 'Still art thou Valor's venturous son ! Yet ponder first the risk to run: The menials of the castle, true And stubborn to their charge, though few — The wall to scale — the moat to cross — 650 The wicket-grate — the inner fosse ' — ' Fool ! if we blench for toys like these, On what fair guerdon can we seize ? Our hardiest venture, to explore Some wretched peasant's fenceless door, And the best prize we 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 blindfold wrath 660 Or wantonness a desperate path ? List, then; — for vantage or assault, From gilded vane to dungeon vault, Each pass of Rokeby-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 unbarred; 670 Then, vain were battlement and ward ! XXVIII 'Now speak'st thou well: to me the same If force or art shall urge the game; Indifferent if like fox I wind, Or spring like tiger on the hind. — But, hark ! our merry men so gay Troll forth another roundelay.' ' A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 680 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 ! No more of me you knew. 1 This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow 690 Ere we two meet again.' 254 ROKEBY He turned 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 700 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 centred all in Brignall cave ! I watch him well — his wayward course Shows oft a tincture of remorse. Som5 early love-shaft grazed his heart, And oft the scar will ache and smart. Yet is he useful; — of the rest 710 By fits the darling and the jest, His harp, his story, and his lay, Oft aid the idle hours away: When unemployed, 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 ALLEN- A- DALE Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spin- ning, 720 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 Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale 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 tin vale Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a- Dale ! Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, 73 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 bonnet wil vail, Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale ! Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; The mother, she asked of his househol and home: ' Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, My hall,' quoth bold Allen, « shows gallanter still; 'T is the blue vault of heaven, with its cres- cent so pale 740 And with all its bright spangles ! ' said Allen-a-Dale. The father was steel and the mother ws stdne; They lifted the latch and they bade him b< gone; But loud on the morrow their wail and thei cry: He had laughed 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 Allen-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; O, 't is 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 out deer ? ' — 1 1 have — but two fair stags are near. CANTO FOURTH 2 55 I watched her as she slowly strayed From Egliston up Thorsgill glade, But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side, 760 And then young Redmond in his pride Shot down to meet them on their way; Much, as it seemed, was theirs to say : There 's time to pitch both toil and net Before their path be homeward set.' A hurried and a whispered speech Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach, Who, turning to the robber band, Bade four, the bravest, take the brand. CANTO FOURTH When Denmark's raven soared on high, Triumphant through Northumbrian sky, The hovering near her fatal croak Bade Reged's Britons dread the yoke, And the broad shadow of her wing Blackened each cataract and spring Where Tees in tumult leaves his source, Thundering o'er Caldron and High-Force; Beneath the shade the Northmen came, Fixed on each vale a Runic name, 10 Reared 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, 19 Near Startforth high they paid their vows, Remembered Thor's victorious fame, And gave the dell the Thunderer's name. Yet Scald or Kemper erred, 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 grisly King of Northern War. 30 O, better were its banks assigned 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 make proud Oberon a throne, While, hidden in the thicket nigh, Puck should brood o'er his frolic sly; 40 And where profuse the wood-vetch clings Round ash and elm in verdant rings, Its pale and azure-pencilled flower Should canopy Titania's bower. Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade; But, skirting every sunny glade, In fair variety of green The woodland lends its sylvan screen. Hoary yet haughty, frowns the oak, Its boughs by weight of ages broke; 50 And towers erect in sable spire The pine-tree scathed by lightning-fire; The drooping ash and birch between 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 odors on the wind. Such varied group Urbino's hand Round Him of Tarsus nobly planned, 60 What time he bade proud Athens own On Mars's Mount the God Unknown ! Then gray Philosophy stood nigh, Though bent by age, in spirit high: There rose the scar-seamed veteran's spear, There Grecian Beauty bent to hear, While Childhood at her foot was placed, Or clung delighted to her waist. ' And rest we here,' Matilda said, And sat her in the varying shade. 70 ' 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- f riend ; And, Redmond, 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'erthrown.' 80 Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced, Beside her on the turf she placed; Then paused with downcast look and eye, Nor bade young Redmond seat him nigh. Her conscious diffidence he saw, Drew backward as in modest awe, 256 ROKEBY And sat a little space removed, Unmarked to gaze on her he loved. Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hair Half hid Matilda's forehead fair, 90 Half hid and half revealed 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 expressed Aught that waked feeling in her breast, 100 The mantling blood in ready play Rivalled 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, resigned; — 'T is that which Roman art has given, To mark their maiden Queen of Heaven, no 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 doting sire would call His Maud the merriest of them all. But days of war and civil crime Allowed but ill such festal time, And her soft pensiveness of brow Had deepened into sadness now. 120 In Marston field her father ta'en, Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham 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, — All lowered around the lovely maid, To darken her dejection's shade. Who has not heard — while Erin yet Strove 'gainst the Saxon's iron bit — 130 Who has not heard how brave O'Neale In English blood imbrued his steel, Against Saint George's cross blazed high The banners of his Tanistry, To fiery Essex gave the foil, And reigned a prince on Ulster's soil ? 150 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. 140 'T was first in that disastrous fight Rokeby and Mortham proved their might. There had they fallen amongst the rest, But pity touched a chieftain's breast; The Tanist he to great O'Neale, He checked his followers' bloody zeal, To quarter took the kinsmen bold, And bore them to his mountain-hold, Gave them each sylvan joy to know Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods could show, Shared with them Erin's festal cheer, Showed them the chase of wolf and deer, And, when a fitting time was come, Safe and unransomed sent them home, Loaded with many a gift to prove A generous foe's respect and love. VII Years speed away. On Rokeby's head Some touch of early snow was shed; Calm he enjoyed by Greta's wave 159 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 whitened Stanmore's stormy height, The chase was o'er, the stag was killed In Rokeby hall the cups were filled, 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 prayed. The porter answered 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 stretched and trim. His vesture showed the sinewy limb; 18c In saffron dyed, a linen vest Was frequent folded round his breast; A mantle long and loose he wore, Shaggy with ice and stained with gore. He clasped a burden to his heart, And, resting on a knotted dart, CANTO FOURTH 257 The snow from hair and beard he shook, And round him gazed with wildered look. Then up the hall with staggering pace He hastened by the blaze to place, 190 Half lifeless from the bitter air, His load, a boy of beauty rare. To Rokeby next he louted low, Then stood erect his tale to show With wild majestic port and tone, Like envoy of some barbarous throne. ' Sir ivichard, Lord of Rokeby, hear ! Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear; He graces thee, and to thy care 199 Young Redmond gives, his grandson fair. He bids thee breed him as thy son, For Turlough's days of joy are done, And other lords h~*'e seized his land, And faint and fee Die is his hand, And all the glory of Tyrone Is like a morning vapor flown. 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. 210 To Mortham first this charge was due, But in his absence honors you. — Now is my master's message by, And Ferraught will contented die.' IX His look grew fixed, 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 screamed the orphan child. 220 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 kissed the little hands outspread, And kissed and crossed the infant head, And in his native tongue and phrase Prayed to each saint to watch his days; Then all his strength together drew The charge to Rokeby to renew. 230 When half was faltered from his breast, And half by dying signs expressed, * Bless thee, O'Neale ! ' he faintly said, And thus the faithful spirit fled. 'T was 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, 241 That hung beside the gray wolf's head. — 'T was from his broken phrase descried, 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'crpowered at length, And stripped of all, his failing strength 25c Just bore him here — and then the child Renewed again his moaning wild. XI The tear down childhood's cheek that flows Is like the dew-drop on the rose; When next the summer breeze comes by 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, Through his thick curls of flaxen hair, 260 But blithest laughed that cheek and eye, When Rokeby 's little maid was nigh; 'T was 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, 270 And good Sir Richard smiling eyed The early knot so kindly tied. XII 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 Rokeby'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, 280 And loves against the deer so dun To draw the shaft, or lift the gun: Yet more he loves in autumn prime The hazel's spreading boughs to climb, And down its clustered stores to hail Where young Matilda holds her veil. 258 ROKEBY And she whose veil receives the shower Is altered too and knows her power, Assumes a monitress's pride 289 Her Redmond'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 ! XIII But Redmond 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, 300 And knew so well o'er all to throw His spirit's wild romantic glow, That, while she blamed and while she feared, She loved each venturous tale she heard. Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain To bower and hall their steps restrain, Together they explored the page Of glowing bard or gifted sage; Oft, placed the evening fire beside, The minstrel art alternate tried, 3 10 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, 320 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; 'T was plain that Oswald for his son Had Rokeby's favor wellnigh won. Now must they meet with change of cheer, With mutual looks of shame and fear; 330 Now must Matilda stray apart To school her disobedient heart, And Redmond now alone must rue The love he never can subdue. But factions rose, and Rokeby sware No rebel's son should wed his heir: And Redmond, nurtured while a child In many a bard's traditions wild, Now sought the lonely wood or stream, To cherish there a happier dream 340 Of maiden won by sword or lance, As in the regions of romance; And count the heroes of his line, Great Nial of the Pledges Nine, Shane-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 sheathe the sword to reap the corn, Or leave the mountain and the wold To shroud himself in castled hold. From such examples hope he drew, And brightened as the trumpet blew. 350 xv If brides were won by heart and* blade, Redmond 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 Rokeby's Lord bestowed his life, And well did Rokeby's generous knight 36c Young Redmond 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 bestride; From Tynemouth search to Cumberland, Like Redmond none could wield a brand; And then, of humor kind and free, And bearing him to each degree With frank and fearless courtesy, 370 There never youth was formed 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 war he gave The banner of his sires to wave, Redmond, distinguished by his care, He chose that honored flag to bear, And named his page, the next degree In that old time to chivalry. 38© In five pitched fields he well maintained The honored place his worth obtained, 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 dubbed a knight; CANTO FOURTH 2 59 Twice mid the battle's doubtful strife Of Rokeby's Lord he saved the life, But when he saw him prisoner made, He kissed and then resigned his blade, 390 And yielded him an easy prey To those who led the knight away, Resolved Matilda's sire should prove In prison, as in fight, his love. XVII When lovers meet in adverse hour, 'T is 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 filled his mind: 400 1 It was not thus,' Affection said, ' I dreamed of my return, dear maid ! • Not thus when from thy trembling hand I took the banner and the brand, When round me, as the bugles blew, Their blades three hundred warriors drew, And, while the standard I unrolled, Clashed their bright arms, with clamor bold. Where is that banner now ? — its pride Lies whelmed in Ouse's sullen tide ! 410 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 Disdained to profit by control, 420 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, 1 And bade their mournful musing fly, Like mist before the zephyr's sigh. XVIII ' I need not to my friends recall, How Mortham shunned my father's hall, A man of silence and of woe, Yet ever anxious to bestow 430 On my poor self whate'er could prove A kinsman's confidence and love. My feeble aid could sometimes chase The clouds of sorrow for a space; But oftener, fixed beyond my power, I marked his deep despondence lower. One dismal cause, by all unguessed, His fearful confidence confessed; And twice it was my hap to see Examples of that agony 440 Which for a season can o'erstrain 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, 450 But still he kept its source concealed, 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 mortham' s histoky ' Matilda ! thou hast seen me start, As if a dagger thrilled my heart, 460 When it has happed some casual phrase Waked memory of my former days. Believe that few can backward cast Their thought with pleasure on the past; But I ! — my youth was rash and vain, And blood and rage my manhood stain, And my gray hairs must now descend To my cold grave without a friend ! Even thou, Matilda, wilt disown Thy kinsman when his guilt is known. 470 And must I lift the bloody veil That hides my dark and fatal tale ? 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 point'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 ! — 480 ' 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 ! 260 ROKEBY We wedded secret — there was need — . Differing 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, 4 8 9 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, unknown To all but one dear friend alone, One darling friend — I spare his shame, I will not write the villain's name ! My trespasses 1 might forget, And sue in vengeance for the debt Due by a brother worm to me, Ungrateful to God's clemency, 500 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 't was bent So kind that from its harmless glee The wretch misconstrued villauy. Repulsed in his presumptuous love, A vengeful snare the traitor wove. Alone we sat — the flask had flowed, My blood with heat unwonted glowed, 510 When through the alleyed walk we spied With hurried step my Edith glide, Cowering beneath the verdant screen, As one unwilling to be seen. Words cannot paint the fiendish smile That curled the traitor's cheek the while ! Fiercely I questioned of the cause; He made a cold and artful pause, Then prayed it might not chafe my mood — " There was a gallant in the wood ! " 520 We had been shooting at the deer; My cross-bow — evil chance ! — was near: That ready weapon of my wrath I caught and, hasting up the path, In the yew grove my wife I found; A stranger's arms her neck had bound ! I marked his heart — the bow I drew — I loosed the shaft — 't was more than true ! I found my Edith's dying charms 529 Locked in her murdered brother's arms ! He came in secret to inquire Her state and reconcile her sire. ' All fled my rage — the villain first Whose craft my jealousy had nursed; He 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 know not what — of shaft mis-aimed; 540 And even from those the act who knew He hid the hand from which it flew. Untouched by human laws I stood, But God had heard the cry of blood ! There is a blank upon my mind, A fearful vision ill-defined Of raving till my flesh was torn, Of dungeon-bolts and fetters worn — And when I waked to woe more mild And questioned of my infant child — 550 Have I not written that she bare A boy, like summer morning fair ? — With looks confused my menials tell That armed men in Mortham dell Beset the nurse's evening way, And bore her with her charge away. My faithless friend, and none but he, Could profit by this villany ; Him then I sought with purpose dread Of treble vengeance on his head ! 560 He '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. { 'T was then that fate my footsteps led Among a daring crew and dread, With whom full oft my hated life I ventured in such desperate strife That even my fierce associates saw My frantic deeds with doubt and awe. 570 Much then I learned and much can show Of human guilt and human woe, Yet ne'er have in my wanderings known A wretch whose sorrows matched 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 drowned, My ruffian comrades slept around, 580 There came a voice — its silver tone Was soft, Matilda, as thine own — " Ah, wretch ! " it said, " what mak'st thou here, While unavenged my bloody bier, CANTO FOURTH 261 While unprotected lives mine heir Without a father's name and care ? " 1 1 heard — obeyed — and homeward drew; The fiercest of our desperate crew I brought, at time of need to aid My purposed vengeance long delayed. 590 But humble be 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 me in misery rejoice — I 've seen his face — I 've heard his voice — I claimed of him my only child — As he disowned the theft, he smiled ! That very calm and callous look, That fiendish sneer his visage took, 600 As when he said, in scornful mood, " There is a gallant in the wood ! " — I did not slay him as he stood — All praise be to my Maker given ! Long suffrance is one path to heaven.' Thus far the woful tale was heard When something in the thicket stirred. Up Redmond sprung; the villain Guy — For he it was that lurked so nigh — Drew back — he durst not cross his steel 610 A moment's space with brave O'Neale For all the treasured gold that rests In Mortham's iron-banded chests. Redmond resumed his seat; — he said Some roe was rustling in the shade. Bertram laughed 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. 620 Give me thy carabine — I '11 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 Redmond full in view; The gun he levelled — Mark like this Was Bertram never known to miss, When fair opposed to aim their sate An object of his mortal hate. 630 That day young Redmond's death had seen, But twice Matilda came between The carabine and Redmond's breast Just ere the spring his finger pressed. A deadly oath the ruffian swore, But yet his fell design forbore: ' It ne'er,' he muttered, ' shall be said That thus I scathed thee, haughty maid ! ' Then moved to seek more open aim, When to his side Guy Denzil came: 640 ' 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.' 650 Bertram looked up ; he saw, he knew That Denzil's fears had counselled true, Then cursed his fortune and withdrew, Threaded the woodlands undescried, And gained the cave on Greta side. They whom dark Bertram in his wrath Doomed to captivity or death, Their thoughts to one sad subject lent, Saw not nor heard the ambushment. Heedless and unconcerned they sate 660 While on the very verge of fate, Heedless and unconcerned remained When Heaven the murderer's arm re- strained ; As ships drift darkling down the tide, Nor see the shelves o'er which they glide. Uninterrupted thus they heard What Mortham's closing tale declared. He spoke of wealth as of a load By fortune on a wretch bestowed, In bitter mockery of hate, 670 His cureless woes to aggravate; But yet he prayed 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 averred, 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 680 On Windermere a stranger bark, Whose crew, with jealous care yet mild, Guarded a female and a child. 262 ROKEBY While these faint proofs he told and pressed, Hope seemed to kindle in his breast; Though inconsistent, vague, and vain, It warped his judgment and his brain. XXVIII These solemn words his story close: — ' Heaven witness for me that I chose My part in this sad civil fight 690 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, With thee may unsuspected lie. When of my death Matilda hears, Let her retain her trust three years ; 700 If none from me the treasure claim, Perished 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 ruined 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, 710 To that high mind by sorrow swerved Gave sympathy his woes deserved; But Wilfrid chief, who saw revealed Why Mortham wished his life concealed, In secret, doubtless, to pursue The schemes his wildered 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; 720 Yet grieved to think that Rokeby-hall, Dismantled and forsook by all, Open to rapine and to stealth, Had now no safeguard for the wealth Intrusted by her kinsman kind And for such noble use designed. ' Was Barnard Castle then her choice,' Wilfrid inquired with hasty voice, ' Since there the victor's laws ordain Her father must a space remain ? ' 730 A fluttered hope his accent shook, A fluttered joy was in his look. Matilda hastened to reply, For anger flashed in Redmond's eye; — ' Duty,' she said, with gentle grace, 'Kind Wilfrid, has no choice of place; Else had I for my sire assigned Prison less galling to his mind Than that his wild-wood haunts which sees And hears the murmur of the Tees, 740 Recalling thus with every glance What captive's sorrow can enhance; But where those woes are highest, there Needs Rokeby most his daughter's care.* XXX He felt the kindly check she gave, And stood abashed — then answered grave 1 1 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, 75c And well could send some horsemen 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 1 O, be it not one day delayed ! And, more thy sister-friend to aid, Be thou thyself content to hold In thine own keeping Mortham's gold, 75 Safest with thee.' — While thus she spoke, Armed soldiers on their converse broke, The same of whose approach afraid The ruffians left their ambuscade. Their chief to Wilfrid bended low, Then looked around as for a foe. ' What mean'st thou, friend,' young Wy- cliffe 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 77° Upon the moor of Barninghame, A stranger told you were waylaid, Surrounded, and to death betrayed. 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 obeyed.' XXXI Wilfrid changed color, and amazed Turned short and on the speaker gazed, While Redmond every thicket round 780 Tracked earnest as a questing hound, CANTO FIFTH 263 AndDenzil's carabine he found; Sure evidence by which they knew The warning was as kind as true. Wisest it seemed with cautious speed To leave the dell. It was agreed That Redmond with Matilda fair And fitting guard should home repair; At nightfall Wilfrid should attend With a strong band his sister-friend, 79° To bear with her from Rokeby's bowers To Barnard Castle's lofty towers Secret and safe the banded chests In which the wealth of Mortham rests. This hasty purpose fixed, they part, Each with a grieved and anxious heart. CANTO FIFTH The sultry summer day is done, The western hills have hid the sun, But mountain peak and village spire Retain reflection of his fire. 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 that lay Rich with the spoils of parting day, n In crimson and in gold arrayed, Streaks yet awhile the closing shade, Then slow resigns to darkening heaven The tints which brighter hours had given. Thus aged men full loath and slow The vanities of life forego, And count their youthful follies o'er Till memory lends her light no more. The eve that slow on upland fades Has darker closed on Rokeby's glades 20 Where, sunk within their banks profound, 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; 30 For louder clamored Greta's tide, And Tees in deeper voice replied, And fitful waked the evening wind, Fitful in sighs its breath resigned. Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul Felt in the scene a soft control, With lighter footstep pressed the ground, And often paused to look around; And, though his path was to his love, Could not but linger in the grove, 40 To drink the thrilling interest dear Of awful pleasure checked by fear. Such inconsistent moods have we, Even when our passions strike the key. in Now, through the wood's dark mazes past, The opening lawn he reached at last Where, silvered by the moonlight ray, The ancient Hall before him lay. Those martial terrors long were fled That frowned of old around its head: 50 The battlements, the turrets gray, Seemed half abandoned to decay; On barbican and keep of stone Stern Time the foeman's work had done. Where banners the invader braved, The harebell now and wallflower waved; In the rude guard-room where of yore Their weary hours the warders wore, Now, while the cheerful fagots blaze, On the paved floor the spindle plays; 60 The flanking guns dismounted lie, The moat is ruinous and dry, The grim portcullis gone — and all The fortress turned to peaceful Hall. But yet precautions lately ta'en Showed danger's day revived again; The court-yard wall showed marks of care The fall'n defences to repair, Lending such strength as might withstand The insult of marauding band. 70 The beams once more were taught to bear The trembling drawbridge into air, And not till questioned o'er and o'er For Wilfrid oped the jealous door, And when he entered bolt and bar Resumed their place with sullen jar; Then, as he crossed the vaulted porch, The old gray porter raised his torch, And viewed him o'er from foot to head Ere to the hall his steps he led. 80 That huge old hall of knightly state Dismantled seemed and desolate. 264 ROKEBY The moon through transom-shafts of stone Which crossed the latticed oriels shone, And by the mournful light she gave The Gothic vault seemed funeral cave. Pennon and banner waved no more O'er beams of stag and tusks of boar, Nor glimmering arms were marshalled seen To glance those sylvan spoils between. 90 Those arms, those ensigns, borne away, Accomplished Rokeby's brave array, But all were lost on Marston's day ! Yet here and there the moonbeams fall Where armor yet adorns the wall, Cumbrous of size, uncouth to sight, And useless in the modern fight, Like veteran relic of the wars Known only by neglected scars. Matilda soon to greet him came, 100 And bade them light the evening flame; Said all for parting was prepared, And tarried but for Wilfrid's guard. But then, reluctant to 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 no With those he trusted of his band That they should be at Rokeby met What time the midnight-watch was set. Now Redmond 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, And pressed it till his kindly strain 120 The gentle youth returned again. Seemed as between them this was said, 4 Awhile let jealousy be dead, 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 mind, A generous thought at once impressed On either rival's generous breast. Matilda well the secret took 130 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 talked, and hoped for happier days, And lent their spirits' rising glow Awhile to gild impending woe — High privilege of youthful time, I40 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, Played on Matilda's neck of snow, Her nut-brown curls and forehead high, And laughed in Redmond's azure eye. Two lovers by the maiden sate Without a glance of jealous hate; The maid her lovers sat between 150 With open brow and equal mien; It is a sight but rarely spied, Thanks to man's wrath and woman's pride. VII While thus in peaceful guise they sate A knock alarmed the outer gate, And ere the tardy porter stirred 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, 160 Summer dew is falling fast; I have wandered all the day, Do not bid me farther stray ! Gentle hearts of gentle kin, Take the wandering harper in ! ' But the stern porter answer gave, With ' Get thee hence, thou strolling knave ! The king wants soldiers; war, I trow, Were meeter trade for such as thou.' At this unkind reproof again J7 o Answered the ready Minstrel's 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 heart With the wizard notes that ring From the peaceful minstrel-string.' CANTO FIFTH 265 The porter, all unmoved, replied, — * Depart in peace, with Heaven to guide; If longer by the gate thou dwell, 180 Trust me, thou shalt not part so well.' With somewhat of appealing look The harper's part young Wilfrid took: 5 These notes so wild and ready thrill, They show no vulgar minstrel's skill; Hard were his task to seek a home More distant, since the night is come; And for his faith I dare engage — Your Harpool's blood is soured by age; His gate, ouce readily displayed 190 To greet the friend, the poor to aid, Now even to me though known of old Did but reluctantly unfold.' — ' O blame not as poor Harpool's crime An evil of this evil time. He deems dependent on his care The safety of his patron's heir, Nor judges meet to ope the tower To guest unknown at parting hour, Urging his duty to excess 200 Of rough and stubborn faithfulness. For this poor harper, I would fain He may relax: — hark to his strain! ' IX SONG RESUMED * I have song of war for knight, Lay of love for lady bright, 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, 210 I can count them name by name; Legends of their line there be, Known to few but known to me; If you honor Rokeby'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 noble kin, 220 Take the weary harper in ! ' ' Hark ! Harpool parleys — there is hope,' Said Redmond, ' that the gate will ope.' — ' For all thy brag and boast, I trow, Nought kuowest thou of the Felon Sow,' Quoth Harpool, ' nor how Greta-side She roamed and Rokeby forest wide; Nor how Ralph Rokeby gave the beast To Richmond's friars to make a feast. Of Gilbert Griffinson the tale 2 Goes, and of gallant Peter Dale That well could strike 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.' Matilda smiled; 'Cold hope,' said she, ' From Harpool's love of minstrelsy ! But for this harper may we dare, 240 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 Filea 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, 250 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 ecstasy, 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; Nor Owen's harp beside the blaze 260 Tell maiden's love or hero's praise ! The mantling brambles hide thy hearth, Centre of hospitable mirth; All undistinguished 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 of Clandeboy ! ' He spoke, and proudly turned aside 270 The starting tear to dry and hide. XI Matilda's dark and softened eye Was glistening ere O'Neale's was dry. 266 ROKEBY Her hand upon his arm she laid, — ' It is the will of Heaven,' she said. * And think'st thou, Redmond, I can part From this loved home with lightsome heart, Leaving to wild neglect whate'er Even from my infancy was dear? For in this calm domestic bound 280 Were all Matilda's pleasures found. That hearth my sire was wont to grace Full soon may be a stranger's place ; This hall in which a child I played Like thine, dear Redmond, lowly laid, The bramble and the thorn may braid; Or, passed for aye from me and mine, It ne'er may shelter Rokeby's line. Yet is this consolation given, 289 My Redmond, — 't is the will of Heaven.' 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 Redmond dared not trust his voice ; But rather had it been his choice To share that melancholy hour Than, armed with all a chieftain's power, In full possession to enjoy Slieve-Donard wide and Clandeboy. 300 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 Rokeby's maiden will not part From Rokeby's hall with moody heart. This night at least for Rokeby's fame The hospitable hearth shall flame, And ere its native heir retire Find for the wanderer rest and fire, 310 While this poor harper by the blaze Recounts 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. 320 True, I must leave sweet Rokeby's glades, Nor wander more in Greta shades; But sure, no rigid jailer, thou Wilt a short prison-walk allow Where summer flowers grow wild at will 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 ' O, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! Too lively glow the lilies light, The varnished 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 ! 34 o ' 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 ! 1 Let merry England proudly rear Her blended roses bought so dear; 350 Let Albin bind her bonnet blue With heath and harebell dipped in dew; On favored 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 pre- pare The ivy meet for minstrel's hair; And, while his crown of laurel-leaves With bloody hand the victor weaves, 360 Let the loud trump his triumph tell ; But when 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 I have looked and loved my last ! When villagers my shroud bestrew With pansies, rosemary, and rue, — 370 CANTO I^IFTH 267 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 be freely wove By hand of friendship and of love. I would not wish that rigid Fate Had doomed thee to a captive's state, 380 Whose hands are bound by honor's law, Who wears a sword he must not draw; But were it so, in minstrel pride The land together would we ride On prancing steeds, like harpers old, Bound for 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, 390 While thou the gentler souls should move With lay of pity and of love, And I, thy mate, in rougher strain Would sing of war and warriors slain. Old England's bards were vanquished then, And Scotland's vaunted Hawthornden, And, silenced on Iernian shore, M'Curtin's harp should charm no more ! ' In lively mood he spoke to wile From Wilfrid's woe - worn cheek a smile. 400 ' But,' said Matilda, ' ere thy name, Good 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 the horn and beaker flow To mitigate their parting woe.' 410 The harper came ; — in youth's first prime Himself; in mode of olden time His garb was fashioned, 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 seemed some masquer's quaint array For revel or for holiday. 420 XVI He made obeisance with a free Yet studied air of courtesy. Each look and accent framed to please Seemed to affect a playful ease; His face was of that doubtful kind That wins the eye, but not the mind; Yet harsh it seemed 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; 430 Round all the group his glances stole, Unmarked 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 dangerous and bold Had seemed this self-invited guest; But young our lovers, — and the rest, Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear At parting of their Mistress dear, 440 Tear-blinded to the castle-hall Came as to bear her funeral pall. XVII All that expression base was gone When waked the guest his minstrel tone; It fled at inspiration's call, As erst the 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 ! 450 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 Rokeby's maid With condescending kindness prayed Here to renew the strains she loved, At distance heard and well approved. 460 XVIII SONG THE HARP I was a wild and wayward boy, My childhood scorned each childish toy; 268 ROKEBY Retired from all, reserved and coy, To musing prone, I wooed my solitary joy, My Harp alone. My youth with bold ambition's mood Despised the humble stream and wood Where my poor father's cottage stood, To fame unknown; — 470 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 inspire ? My Harp alone ! At manhood's touch the bubble burst, And manhood's pride the vision curst, 480 And all that had my folly nursed Love's sway to own; Yet spared the spell that lulled 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 ! 490 Ambition's dreams I 've seen depart, Have rued of penury the smart, Have felt of love the venomed 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 '11 bear thee still; And when this life of want and ill Is wellnigh gone, 500 Thy strings mine elegy shall thrill, My Harp alone ! ' A pleasing lay ! ' Matilda said; But Harpool shook his old gray 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; 5IO Then paused amid the martial sound, And looked with well - feigned fear around; — 1 None to this noble house belong,' He said, ' that would a minstrel wrong Whose fate has been through good and ill To love his Royal Master still, And with your honored leave would fain Rejoice you with a royal strain.' Then, as assured by sign and look, The warlike tone again he took; S2 o And Harpool stopped and turned to hear A ditty of the Cavalier. XX SONG THE CAVALIER While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, 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 doffed 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 stirrup his broadsword hangs down, — Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the Crown ! 530 For the rights of fair England that broad- sword he draws, Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause; His watchword is honor, his pay is re- nown, — God strike with the gallant that strikes for the Crown ! They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall; But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town, That the spears of the North have encir- cled the Crown. I There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There 's Erin's high Ormond and Scotland's Montrose ! 540 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 Cava- lier! Be his banner unconquered, 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, tGood harper, now is heard in vain ! The time has been at such a sound When Rokeby's vassals gathered round, 550 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 Rokeby's heir such power retains, 560 »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 fathers' hall, To mourn the cause in which we fall.' The harper with a downcast look And trembling hand her bounty took. As yet the conscious pride of art Had steeled him in his treacherous part; A powerful spring of force unguessed 570 That hath each gentler mood suppressed, And reigned in many a human breast, From his that plans the red campaign To his that wastes the woodland reign. The failing wing, the blood-shot eye The sportsman marks with apathy, Each feeling of his victim's ill Drowned in his own successful skill. The veteran, too, who now no more Aspires to head the battle's roar, 5 8o CANTO FIFTH 269 Loves still the triumph of his art, And traces on the pencilled 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 ? 590 It is the conscious pride of art. XXIII 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 O, when passion rules, how rare The hours that fall to Virtue's share ! Yet now she roused her — for the pride 600 That lack of sterner guilt supplied Could scarce support him when arose The lay that mourned Matilda's woes. SONG THE FAREWELL ' The sound of Rokeby'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 whom sunbeams daunt, 610 Must part before the day. ' Soon from the halls my fathers reared, Their scutcheons may descend, A line so long beloved and feared May soon obscurely end. No longer here Matilda's tone Shall bid these 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. — 620 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. 270 ROKEBY 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, 630 Princes owned our fathers' aid; Lands and honors, wealth and power, Well their loyalty repaid. Perish wealth and power and pride, Mortal 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 stirred. In peasant life he might have known 640 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 waiving state, That marks the daughters of the great. Yet not perchance had these alone His scheme of purposed guilt o'erthrown; But while her energy of mind 650 Superior rose to griefs combined, Lending its kindling to her eye, Giving her form new majesty, — To Edmund's thought Matilda seemed The very object he had dreamed 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, Of princess fair by cruel fate 660 Heft of her honors, power, and state, 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 formed her peer ? Was it my hand that could unclose The postern to her ruthless foes ? Foes lost to honor, law, and faith, 670 Their kindest mercy sudden death ! Have I done this ? I, 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 arched door 680 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 Wycliff e'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 faltered forth a tale of woe. 689 XXVII BALLAD * " And whither would you lead me then ? " Quoth the friar of orders gray; 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 gray, And see thou shrive her free ! Else shall the sprite that parts to-night 700 Fling all its guilt on thee. ' " Let mass be said and trentals read When thou 'rt to convent gone, And bid the bell of Saint Benedict Toll out its deepest tone." 1 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 altered man, 710 The village crones can tell; He looks pale as clay and strives to pray, If he hears the convent bell. ' If prince or peer cross Darrell's way, He '11 beard him in his pride — If he meet a friar of orders gray, He droops and turns aside.' XXVIII ' Harper ! methinks thy magic lays,' Matilda said, ' can goblins raise ! CANTO FIFTH 271 r ellnigh my fancy can discern 720 Near the dark porch a visage stern; 'en now in yonder shadowy nook see it ! — Redmond, Wilfrid, look ! — human form distinct and clear — rod, for thy mercy ! — It draws near ! ' me saw too true. Stride after stride, ^he centre of that chamber wide 'ierce Bertram gained; then made a stand And, proudly waving with his hand, 729 Thundered — ' Be still, upon your lives ! — He bleeds who speaks, he dies who strives.' Behind their chief the robber crew, Forth from the darkened portal drew In silence — save that echo dread Returned their heavy measured tread. The lamp's uncertain lustre gave Their arms 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 sign, 740 At once they formed and curved their line, Hemming within its crescent drear Their victims like a herd of deer. Another sign, and to the aim Levelled 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 750 Between Matilda and the foes. * O, haste thee, Wilfrid !' Redmond cried; 4 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 — O 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, 760 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. The moonbeams, the fresh gale's caress, Renewed suspended consciousness; — * Where 's Redmond ? ' eagerly she cries: * Thou answer'st not — he dies ! he dies ! And thou hast left him all bereft 770 Of mortal aid — with murderers left ! I know it well — he would not yield His sword to man — his doom is sealed ! For my scorned 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. 779 For Redmond's death thou shalt not mourn, If mine can buy his safe return.' He turned away — his heart throbbed high, The tear was bursting from his eye; The sense of her injustice pressed Upon the maid's distracted breast, — ' Stay, Wilfrid, stay ! all aid is vain ! ' He heard but turned him not again ! He reaches now the postern door, Now enters — and is seen no more. With all the agony that e'er 79 o Was gendered 'twixt suspense and fear, She watched the line of windows tall Whose Gothic lattice lights the Hall, Distinguished by the paly red The lamps in dim reflection shed, While all beside in wan moonlight Each grated casement glimmered white. No sight of harm, no sound of ill, It is a deep and midnight still. 799 Who looked upon the scene had guessed All in the castle were at rest — When sudden on the windows shone A lightning flash just seen and gone ! A shot is heard — again the flame Flashed thick and fast — a volley came ! Then echoed wildly from within Of shout and scream the mingled din, And weapon-clash and maddening cry, Of those who kill and those who die ! — As filled the hall with sulphurous smoke, More red, more dark, the death-flash broke, And forms were on the lattice cast 812 That struck or struggled as they past. XXXII What sounds upon the midnight wind Approach so rapidly behind ? 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 ! 272 ROKEBY Fly to the postern — gain the hall ! ' 820 From saddle spring the troopers all; Their gallant steeds at liberty Run wild along the moonlight lea. But ere they burst upon the scene Full stubborn had the conflict been. When Bertram marked Matilda's flight, It gave the signal for the fight; And Rokeby's veterans, seamed with scars Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars, Their momentary panic o'er, 830 Stood to the arms which then they bore — For they were weaponed and prepared Their mistress on her way to guard. Then cheered them to the fight O'Neale, Then pealed the shot, and clashed the steel; The war-smoke soon with sable breath Darkened 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 840 Renew the charge with frantic yell. XXXIII Wilfrid has fallen — but o'er him stood Young Redmond soiled with smoke and blood, Cheering his mates with heart and hand Still to make good their desperate stand: ' Up, comrades, up ! In Rokeby halls Ne'er be it said our courage falls. What ! faint ye for their savage cry, Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye ? These rafters have returned a shout 850 As loud at 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 Rokeby'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 860 His brandished falchion's sheer descent ! Backward they scattered as he came, Like wolves before the levin flame, When, mid their howling conclave driven, Hath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven. Bertram rushed on — but Harpool clasped His knees, although in death he gasped, His falling corpse before him flung, And round the trammelled ruffian clung. Just then the soldiers filled the dome, 870 And shouting charged the felons home So fiercely that in panic dread They broke, they yielded, fell, or fled, Bertram's stern voice they heed no more, Though heard above the battle's roar; While, trampling down the dying man, He strove with volleyed threat and ban In scorn of odds, in fate's despite, To rally up the desperate fight. xxxiv Soon murkier clouds the hall enfold 880 Than e'er from battle-thunders rolled, So dense the combatants scarce know 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 890 Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand, Matilda saw — for frequent broke From the dim casements gusts of smoke, Yon tower, which late so clear defined On the fair hemisphere reclined That, pencilled on its azure pure, The eye could count each embrasure, Now, swathed within the sweeping cloud, Seems giant-spectre in his shroud; Till, from each loop-hole flashing light, 90c 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 wakened Greta's slumbering side. Soon all beneath, through gallery long And pendent arch, the fire flashed strong, Snatching whatever could maintain, Raise, or extend its furious reign; Startling with closer cause of dread 910 The females who the conflict fled, And now rushed forth upon the plain, Filling the air with clamors 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 raftered roof~ What ! wait they till its beams amain Crash on the slayers and the slain ? CANTO SIXTH 273 The alarm is caught — the drawbridge falls, 920 The warriors hurry from the walls, But by the conflagration's light Upon the lawn renew the fight. Each straggling felon down was hewed, 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 Stopped the pursuer's lifted hand. Denzil and he alive were ta'en; 930 The rest save Bertram all are slain. And where is Bertram ? — Soaring high, The general flame ascends the sky; In gathered 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 940 The giant form of Bertram broke ! His brandished sword on high he rears, Then plunged among opposing spears; Round his left arm his mantle trussed, Received and foiled three lances' thrust; Nor these his headlong course withstood, Like reeds he snapped the tough ashwood. In vain his foes around him clung; With matchless force aside he flung Their boldest, — as the bull at bay 950 Tosses the ban-dogs from his way, Through forty foes his path he made, And safely gained the forest glade. XXXVII Scarce was this final conflict o'er When from the postern Redmond bore Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft, Had in the fatal hall been left, Deserted there by all his train; But Redmond saw and turned again. Beneath an oak he laid him down 960 That in the blaze gleamed ruddy brown, And then his mantle's clasp undid; Matilda held his drooping head, Till, given to breathe the freer air, Returning life repaid their care. He gazed on them with heavy sigh, — * I could have wished even thus to die ! ' No more he said, — for now with speed Each trooper had regained his steed ; The ready palfreys stood arrayed 97 o For Redmond and for Rokeby's maid; Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain, One leads his charger by the rein. But oft Matilda looked behind, As up the vale of Tees they wind, Where far the mansion of her sires Beaconed the dale with midnight fires. In gloomy arch above them spread, The clouded heaven lowered bloody red; Beneath in sombre light the flood 980 Appeared 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 drowned; Till gathering strength again it rose, Announced its triumph in its close, Shook wide its light the landscape o'er, Then sunk — and Rokeby was no more I CANTO SIXTH 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 sun has three times seen The flowers unfold on Rokeby green, But sees no more the slumbers fly From fair Matilda's hazel eye; That morning sun has three times broke On Rokeby's glades of elm and oak, 10 But, rising from their sylvan screen, Marks no gray turrets glance between. A shapeless mass lie keep and tower, That, hissing to the morning shower, Can but with smouldering vapor pay The early smile of summer day. The peasant, to his labor bound, Pauses to view the blackened mound, Striving amid the ruined space Each well-remembered spot to trace. 20 That length of frail and fire-scorched wall Once screened the hospitable hall; When yonder broken arch was whole, 'T was 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 and Fate. 30 274 ROKEBY The towers must share the builder's doom; Ruin 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. Now the third night of summer came Since that which witnessed Rokeby's flame. On Brignall cliffs and Scargill brake The owlet's homilies awake, 40 The bittern screamed from rush and flag, The raven slumbered on his crag, Forth from his den the otter drew, — Grayling and trout their tyrant knew, As between reed and sedge he peers, With fierce round snout and sharpened Or prowling by the moonbeam cool Watches the stream or swims the pool; — Perched on his wonted eyrie high, Sleep sealed the tercelet's wearied eye, 50 That all the day had watched so well The cushat dart across the dell. In dubious beam reflected shone That lofty cliff of pale gray stone Beside whose base the secret cave To rapine late a refuge gave. The crag's wild crest of copse and yew On Greta's breast dark shadows threw, Shadows that met or shunned the sight With every change of fitful light, 60 As hope and fear alternate chase Our course through life's uncertain race. in Gliding by crag and copse wood 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. He passes now the ivy bush, — The owl has seen him and is hush; 70 He passes now the doddered oak, — He heard the startled raven croak; Lower and lower he descends, Rustle the leaves, the brushwood bends; The otter hears him tread the shore, Aud dives and is beheld no more; And by the cliff of pale gray stone The midnight wanderer stands alone. Methinks that by the moon we trace A well-remembered form and face ! 80 That stripling shape, that cheek so pale, Combine to tell a rueful tale, Of powers misused, of passion's force, Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse ! 'T is Edmund's eye at every sound That flings that guilty glance around; 'T is Edmund's trembling haste divides The brushwood that the cavern hides; And when its narrow porch lies bare 'T is Edmund's form that enters there. 90 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 seemed as none its floor had trode; Untouched appeared the various spoil, The purchase of his comrades' toil; Masks and disguises grimed with mud, Arms broken and defiled with blood, 100 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: Flagons and emptied flasks were there, And bench o'erthrown and shattered chair; And all around the semblance showed, As when the final revel glowed, no When the red sun was setting fast And parting pledge Guy Denzil past. ' To Rokeby treasure - vaults ! ' they quaffed, And shouted loud and wildly laughed, Poured maddening from the rocky door, And parted — to return no more ! They found in Rokeby vaults their doom, — A bloody death, a burning tomb ! There his own peasant dress he spies, Doffed to assume that quaint disguise, i2< And shuddering thought upon his glee When pranked in garb of minstrelsy. 1 O, be the fatal art accurst,' He cried, ' that moved my folly first, Till, bribed by bandits' base applause, I burst through God's and Nature's laws ! Three summer days are scantly past Since I have trod this cavern last, A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to err — But O, as yet no murderer ! i3< CANTO SIXTH 275 Even now I list my comrades' cheer, That general laugh is in mine ear Which raised my pulse and steeled 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 When flashed the fire and rolled the smoke, 140 When the avengers shouting came And hemmed us 'twixt the sword and flame ! My frantic flight — the lifted brand — That angel's interposing hand ! — If for my life from slaughter freed I yet could pay some grateful meed ! Perchance this object of my quest May aid ' — he turned nor spoke the rest. VI Due northward from the rugged hearth With paces five he meets the earth, 150 Then toiled with mattock to explore The entrails of the cavern floor, Nor paused till deep beneath the ground His search a small steel casket found. Just as he stooped to loose its hasp His shoulder felt a giant grasp ; He started and looked up aghast, Then shrieked ! — 'T was Bertram held him fast. * Fear not ! ' he said ; but who could hear That deep stern voice and cease to fear ? 160 * 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 rolled 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 smoothed his rugged mood, For still the youth's half-lifted eye 170 Quivered 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. Chance brings me hither; hill and plain I 've sought for refuge-place in vain. And tell me now, thou aguish boy, What makest thou here ? what means this toy? Denzil and thou, I marked, were ta'en; 180 What lucky chance unbound your chain ? I deemed, long since on Baliol's tower, Your heads were warped with sun and shower. Tell me the whole — and mark ! nought e'er Chafes me like falsehood or like fear.' Gathering his courage to his aid But trembling still, the youth obeyed. VII ' Denzil and I two nights passed o'er In fetters on the dungeon floor. A guest the third sad morrow brought; 190 Our hold, dark Oswald Wycliffe sought, And eyed my comrade long askance With fixed and penetrating glance. "Guy Denzil art thou called ?" — " The same." " At Court who served wild Buckinghame; Thence banished, won a keeper's place, So Villiers willed, in Mar wood-chase; That lost — I need not tell thee why — Thou madest thy wit thy wants supply, Then fought for Rokeby: — have I My prisoner right ? " — " At thy be- hest."— He paused awhile, and then went on With low and confidential tone ; — Me, as I judge, not then he saw Close nestled in my couch of straw. — " List to me, Guy. Thou know'st the great Have frequent need of what they hate ; Hence, in their favor oft we see Unscrupled, useful men like thee. Were I disposed to bid thee live, 210 What pledge of faith hast thou to give ? " VIII ' 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 turned 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, 220 Had fair Matilda's favor won; 276 ROKEBY And long since had their union been But for her father's bigot spleen, Whose brute and blindfold party-rage Would, force perforce, her hand engage To a base kern of Irish earth, Unknown his lineage and his birth, Save that a dying ruffian bore The infant brat to Rokeby door. Gentle restraint, he said, would lead 230 Old Rokeby 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 schooled 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 Rokeby, his parole forgot, 240 Had dealt with us to aid the plot. Such was the charge which Denzil's zeal Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale Proffered 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 proffer I refused that day; 250 Ashamed to live, yet loath to die, I soiled me with their infamy ! ' ' Poor youth ! ' said Bertram, * wavering still, Unfit alike for good or ill ! But what fell next ? ' — ' Soon as at large Was scrolled and signed our fatal charge, There never yet on tragic stage Was seen so well a painted rage As Oswald's showed ! With loud alarm He called his garrison to arm; 260 From tower to tower, from post to post, He hurried as if all were lost; Consigned to dungeon and to chain The good old knight and all his train; Warned each suspected Cavalier Within his limits to appear To-morrow at the hour of noon In the high church of Eglistone.' — * Of Eglistone ! — Even now I Said Bertram, ' as the night closed fast; 270 Torches and cressets gleamed around, I heard the saw and hammer sound, And I could mark they toiled to raise A scaffold, hung with sable baize, Which the grim headsman's scene dis- played, Block, axe, and sawdust ready laid. Some evil deed will there be done Unless Matilda wed his son; — She loves him not — 't is shrewdly guessed That Redmond rules the damsel's breast. 280 This is a turn of Oswald's skill; But I may meet, and foil him still ! — How earnest thou to thy freedom ? ' — 1 There Lies mystery more dark and rare. In midst of Wycliffe 's well-feigned rage, A scroll was offered by a page, Who told a muffled horseman late Had left it at the Castle-gate. He broke the seal — his cheek showed change, Sudden, portentous, wild, and strange; 290 The mimic passion of his eye Was turned 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: 1 " As in the pageants of the stage The dead awake in this wild age, Mortham — whom all men deemed decreed In his own deadly snare to bleed, Slain by a bravo whom o'er sea He trained to aid in murdering me, — Mortham has 'scaped ! The coward shot The steed but harmed the rider not." ' Here with an execration fell Bertram leaped up and paced the cell: — ' Thine own gray head or bosom dark,' He muttered, ' may be surer mark ! ' 310 Then sat and signed to Edmund, pale With terror, to resume his tale. ' Wycliffe went on : — " Mark with what flights Of wildered reverie he writes: — THE LETTER ' " Ruler of Mortham's destiny ! Though dead, thy victim lives to thee. CANTO SIXTH 277 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 321 He yields his honors and his land, One boon premised; — restore his child ! And, from his native land exiled, Mortham no more returns to claim His lands, his honors, or his name; Refuse him this and from the slain Thou shalt see Mortham rise again." — * This billet while the baron read, His faltering accents showed his dread; 330 He pressed 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 withdrew. Heaven be my witness, wist I where To find this youth, my kinsman's heir, 340 Unguerdoned I would give with joy The father's arms to fold his boy, And Mortham's lands and towers resign 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's part," He said, " to ease his patron's heart ! In thine own jailer's watchful care Lies Mortham's just and rightful heir; 350 Thy generous wish is fully won, — Redmond O'Neale is Mortham's son." — i 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'st not, Barnard's tow- ers Have racks of strange and ghastly pow- ers." Denzil, who well his safety knew, Firmly rejoined, " I tell thee true. 360 Thy racks could give thee but to know The proofs which I, untortured, show. It chanced upon 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 ! 370 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 deemed it safe to bear On mine own person gems so rare. Small heed I of the tablets took, But since have spelled them by the book When some sojourn in Erin's land 380 Of their wild speech had given command. 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 re- vealed In Thorsgill as I lay concealed, And heard at full when Rokeby's maid 390 Her uncle's history displayed; 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'JSTeale, his first resentment o'er, Despatched his son to Greta's shore, 399 Enjoining he should make him known — Until his farther will were shown — To Edith, but to her alone. What of their ill-starred meeting fell Lord Wy cliff e knows, and none so well. XV ' " O'Neale it was who in despair Robbed Mortham of his infant heir; He bred him in their nurture wild, And called him murdered Connel's child. Soon died the nurse; the clan believed 409 What from their chieftain they received. 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. 278 ROKEBY 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, 420 Late and reluctant he restores The infant to his native shores, With goodly gifts and letters stored, With many a deep conjuring word, To Mortham and to Rokeby's lord. Nought knew the clod of Irish earth, Who was the guide, of Redmond's birth, But deemed his chief's commands were laid On both, by both to be obeyed. How he was wounded by the way 430 I need not, and I list not say." — XVI * " A wondrous tale ! and, grant it true, What," Wycliffe answered, " might I do ? Heaven knows, as willingly as now I raise the bonnet from my brow, Would I my kinsman's manors fair Restore to Mortham or his heir; But Mortham is distraught — O'Neale Has drawn for tyranny his steel, Malignant to our rightful cause 440 And trained in Rome's delusive laws. Hark thee apart ! " They whispered 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 I have mates at large who know Where I am wont such toys to stow. Free me from peril and from band, 450 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 Wycliffe, " 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 460 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." 1 Meshed in the net himself had twined, What subterfuge could Denzil find ? He told me with reluctant sigh That hidden here the tokens lie, Conjured my swift return and aid, 47c By all he scoffed and disobeyed, And looked as if the noose were tied And I the priest who left his side. This scroll for Mortham Wycliffe gave, Whom I must seek by Greta's wave, Or in the hut where chief he hides, Where Thorsgill's forester resides. — Thence chanced it, wandering in the glade^ That he descried our ambuscade. — I was dismissed as evening fell, 480 And reached but now this rocky cell.' 1 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, 49c I '11 tear the secret from thy heart ! ' — XVIII ' It needs not. I renounce,' he said, 1 My tutor and his deadly trade. Fixed was my purpose to declare To Mortham, Redmond is his heir; To tell him in what risk he stands, And yield these tokens to his hands. Fixed was my purpose to atone, Far as I may, the evil done; And fixed it rests — if I survive 50c This night, and leave this cave alive.' — ' And Denzil ? ' — ' Let them ply the rack, Even till his joints and sinews crack ! If Oswald tear him limb from limb, What ruth can Denzil claim from him Whose thoughtless youth he led astray And damned to this unhallowed way ? He schooled me, faith and vows were vain ; Now let my master reap his gain.' — 509 1 True,' answered Bertram, ' 't is his meed; There 's retribution in the deed. But thou — thou art not for our course, Hast fear, hast pity, hast remorse; And he with us the gale who braves Must heave such cargo to the waves, Or lag with overloaded prore While barks unburdened reach the shore/ CANTO SIXTH 279 XIX He paused and, stretching him at length, Seemed to repose his bulky strength. Communing with his secret mind, 520 As half he sat and half reclined, One ample hand his forehead pressed, And one was dropped across his breast. The shaggy eyebrows deeper came Above his eyes of swarthy flame; His lip of pride awhile forebore The haughty curve till then it wore; The unaltered fierceness of his look A shade of darkened sadness took, — For dark and sad a presage pressed 530 Resistlessly on Bertram's breast, — And when he spoke, his wonted tone, So fierce, abrupt, and brief, was gone. His voice was steady, low, and deep, Like distant waves when breezes sleep; And sorrow mixed with Edmund's fear, Its low unbroken depth to hear. xx ' Edmund, in thy sad tale I find The woe that warped my patron's mind; 'T would wake the fountains of the eye 540 In other men, but mine are dry. Mortham must never see the fool That sold himself base Wycliffe's tool, Yet less from thirst of sordid gain Than to avenge supposed disdain. Say Bertram rues his fault — a word Till now from Bertram never heard: Say, too, that Mortham's lord he prays To think but on their former days; On Quariana's beach and rock, 550 On Cayo's bursting battle-shock, On Darien's sands and deadly dew, And on the 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; 560 My heart may burst but cannot bend. XXI ' The dawning of my youth with awe And prophesy the Dalesmen saw; For over Redesdale it came, As bodeful as their beacon-flame. Edmund, thy years were scarcely mine When, challenging the Clans of Tyne To bring their best my brand to prove, O'er Hexham's altar hung my glove ; But Tynedale, nor in tower nor town, 570 Held champion meet to take it down. My noontide India may declare; Like her fierce sun, I fired the air ! Like him, to wood and cave bade fly Her natives from mine angry eye. Panama's maids shall long look pale When Risingham inspires the tale; Chili's dark matrons long shall tame The froward child with Bertram's name. And now, my race of terror run, 580 Mine be the eve of tropic sun ! No pale gradations quench his ray, No twilight dews his wrath allay; With disk like battle-target red He rushes to his burning bed, Dyes the wide wave with bloody light, Then sinks at once — and all is night. — ' Now to thy mission, Edmund. Fly, Seek Mortham out, and bid him hie 589 To Richmond where his troops are laid, And lead his force to Redmond's aid. Say till he reaches Eglistone A friend will watch to guard his son. Now, fare -thee -well; for night draws on, And I would rest me here alone.' Despite his ill-dissembled fear, There swam in Edmund's eye a tear; A tribute to the courage high Which stooped not in extremity, But strove, irregularly great, 600 To triumph o'er approaching fate ! Bertram beheld the dew-drop start, It almost touched his iron heart: 4 1 did not think there lived,' he said, 1 One who would tear for Bertram shed.' He loosened then his baldric's hold, A buckle broad of massive gold; — ' Of all the spoil that paid his pains But this with Risingham remains; And this, dear Edmund, thou shalt take, 610 And wear it long for Bertram's sake. Once more — to Mortham speed amain; Farewell ! and turn thee not again.' XXIII 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, 28o ROKEBY Impatient questioned now his train, ' Was Denzil's son returned again? ' It chanced there answered of the crew 620 A menial who young Edmund knew: ' No son of Denzil this,' he said; ' A peasant boy from Winston glade, For song and minstrelsy renowned And knavish pranks the hamlets round.' ' Not Denzil's son ! — from Winston vale ! — Then it was false, that specious tale ; Or worse — he hath despatched the youth To show to Mortham's lord its truth. Fool that I was ! — But 't is too late ; — 630 This is the very turn of fate ! — The tale, or true or false, relies On Denzil's evidence ! — He dies ! — Ho ! Provost Marshal ! instantly Lead Denzil to the gallows-tree ! Allow him not a parting word; Short be the shrift and sure the cord ! Then let his gory head appall Marauders from the castle-wall. Lead forth thy guard, that duty done, 640 With best despatch to Eglistone. — Basil, tell Wilfrid he must straight Attend me at the castle-gate.' * Alas ! ' the old domestic said, And shook his venerable head, { Alas, my lord ! full ill to-day May my young master brook the way ! The leech has spoke with grave alarm Of unseen hurt, of secret harm, Of sorrow lurking at the heart, 650 That mars and lets his healing art.' ' Tush ! tell not me ! — Romantic boys Pine themselves sick for airy toys, I will find cure for Wilfrid soon; Bid him for Eglistone 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 ! 660 Entreaty boots not — instant fear, Nought 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 Redmond and her sire to die, She must give way. — Then, were the line Of Rokeby once combined with mine, I gain the weather-gage of fate ! 670 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 tell His tale — and Fairfax loves him well; — Else, wherefore should I now delay To sweep this Redmond from my way ? — But she to piety perforce 680 Must yield. — Without there ! Sound to horse ! ' xxv 'T was 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 turned his eyeballs dim, And, scarcely conscious what he sees, Follows the horsemen down the Tees; And scarcely conscious what he hears, 690 The trumpets tingle in his ears. O'er the long bridge they 're sweeping 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. O, for that pencil, erst profuse Of chivalry's emblazoned hues, That traced of old in Woodstock bower 700 The pageant of the Leaf and Flower, And bodied forth the tourney high Held for the hand of Emily ! Then might I paint the tumult broad That to the crowded abbey flowed, And poured, as with an ocean's sound, Into the church's ample bound ! Then might I show each varying mien, Exulting, woful, or serene; Indifference, with his idiot stare, 710 And Sympathy, with anxious air; Paint the dejected Cavalier, Doubtful, disarmed, and sad of cheer; And his proud foe, whose formal eye Claimed conquest now and mastery ; And the brute crowd, whose envious zeal Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel, CANTO SIXTH 2 8r And loudest shouts when lowest lie Exalted worth and station high. Yet what may such a wish avail ? 720 'T is 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 730 Or snatch a blossom from the bough. The reverend pile lay wild and waste, Profaned, dishonored, and defaced. Through storied lattices no more In softened 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 Altar and screen and ornament, And peasant hands the tombs o'erthrew Of Bowes, of Rokeby, and Fitz-Hugh. And now was seen, unwonted sight, In holy walls a scaffold dight ! Where once the priest of grace divine 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 hope and faith 750 Resounded loud a doom of death. Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was heard, And echoed thrice the herald's word, 740 Dooming, for breach of martial laws And treason to the Commons' cause, The Knight of Rokeby, and O'Neale, To stoop their heads to block and steel. The trumpets flourished high and shrill, Then was a silence dead and still; And silent prayers to Heaven were cast, 760 And stifled sobs were bursting fast, Till from the crowd begun to rise Murmurs of sorrow or surprise, And from the distant isles there came Deep - muttered threats with Wycliffe's 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 Rokeby's Knight, 770 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 bannered hall; 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 ! — And said with low and faltering breath, 780 'Thou know'st the terms of life and death.' The knight then turned 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 listened to his suit, 790 But dread prevailed and he was mute. XXIX And now he pours his choice of fear In secret on Matilda's ear; ' An union formed 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 pressed I give the word — thou know'st the rest.' Matilda, still and motionless, 8o» 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 bewildered eye, Now on the scaffold glanced, and now On Wycliffe's unrelenting brow. She veiled 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. 8n He once was generous ! ' As she spoke, Dark Wycliffe's joy in triumph broke: ' Wilfrid, where loitered ye so late ? Why upon Basil rest thy weight ? — Art spell-bound by enchanter's wand ? — Kneel, kneel, and take her yielded hand; Thank her with raptures, simple boy ! Should tears and trembling speak thy joy ? * 282 ROKEBY ' O hush, my sire ! To prayer and tear 820 Of mine thou hast refused thine ear; But now the awful hour draws on When truth must speak in loftier tone.' 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 830 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 forever part, And with the effort bursts my heart.' His feeble frame was worn so low, With wounds, with watching, and with woe That nature could no more sustain The agony of mental pain. He kneeled — his lip her hand had pressed, 840 Just then he felt the stern arrest. Lower and lower sunk his head, — They raised him, — but the life was fled ! Then first alarmed his sire and train Tried every aid, but tried in vain. The soul, too soft its ills to bear, Had left our mortal hemisphere, And sought in better world the meed To blameless life by Heaven decreed. XXXI 850 The wretched sire beheld aghast With Wilfrid all his projects past, All turned and centred on his son, On Wilfrid all — and he was gone. * And I am childless now,' he said; * Childless, through that relentless maid ! A lifetime's arts in vain essayed 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 860 With Rokeby's heiress Redmond'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 Appall not vengeance and despair. The murderess weeps upon his bier — I '11 change to real that feigned tear I They all shall share destruction's shock; — Ho ! lead the captives to the block ! ' But ill his provost could divine 870 His feelings, and forbore the sign. 1 Slave ! to the block ! — or I or they Shall face the judgment-seat this day ! ' XXXII The outmost crowd have heard a sound Like horse's hoof on hardened ground; Nearer it came, and yet more near, — The very death's-men paused to hear. 'T is in the churchyard now — the tread Hath waked the dwelling of the dead ! Fresh sod and old sepulchral stone 880 Return the tramp in varied tone. All eyes upon the gateway hung, When through the Gothic arch there sprung A horseman armed at headlong speed — Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. Fire from the flinty floor was spurned, The vaults unwonted clang returned ! — One instant's glance around he threw, From saddlebow his pistol drew. Grimly determined was his look 1 890 His charger with the spurs he strook — All scattered backward as he came, For all knew Bertram Risingham ! Three bounds that noble courser gave; The first has reached the central nave, The second cleared the chancel wide, The third — he was at Wycliffe's side. Full levelled at the baron's head, Rung the report — the bullet sped — And to his long account and last Without a groan dark Oswald past ! All was so quick that it might seem A flash of lightning or a dream. XXXIII While yet the smoke the deed conceals, Bertram his ready charger wheels ; But floundered on the pavement-floor The steed and down the rider bore, And, bursting in the headlong sway, The faithless saddle-girths gave way. 'T was while he toiled him to be freed, 910 And with the rein to raise the steed, That from amazement's iron trance All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once. Sword, halberd, musket-butt, their blows Hailed upon Bertram as he rose; A score of pikes with each a wound Bore down and pinned him to the ground ; INTRODUCTORY NOTE 283 But still his struggling force he rears, 'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing spears, Thrice from assailants shook him free, 920 Once gained his feet and twice his knee. By tenfold odds oppressed 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 930 Lest the grim king should rouse again ! Then blow and insult some renewed, And from the trunk the head had hewed, But Basil's voice the deed forbade; A mantle o'er the corse he laid: — * Fell as he was in act and mind, He left no bolder heart behind: Then, give him, for a soldier meet, A soldier's cloak for winding sheet.' xxxiv No more of death and dying pang, 940 No more of trump and bugle clang, Though through the sounding woods there come Banner and bugle, trump and drum. Armed with such powers as well had freed Young Redmond at his utmost need, And backed with such a band of horse As might less ample powers enforce, Possessed of every proof and sign That gave an heir to Mortham's line, And yielded to a father's arms 950 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, Cumbered with dead and stained with gore; What heard he ? — not the clamorous crowd, That shout their gratulations loud: Redmond he saw and heard alone, Clasped him and sobbed, ' My son ! my son ! ' xxxv This chanced upon a summer morn, 960 When yellow waved the heavy corn: But when brown August o'er the land Called forth the reaper's busy band, A gladsome sight the sylvan road From Eglistone to Mortham showed. Awhile 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, 97 o And from the gleaner's hands the ear Drops while she folds them for a prayer And blessing on the lovely pair. 'T was then the Maid of Rokeby gave Her plighted troth to Redmond brave ; And Teesdale can remember yet How Fate to Virtue paid her debt, And for their troubles bade them prove A lengthened life of peace and love. Time and Tide had thus their sway, 980 Yielding, like an April day, Smiling noon for sullen morrow, Years of joy for hours of sorrow ! THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN INTRODUCTORY NOTE One of the projects which grew out of the enterprise of the Ballantynes, when Scott was drawn into the toils, was the establishment of the Edinburgh Annual Register, which was to be conducted in opposition to Constable's Edin- burgh Review. It was to be mainly historical and annalistic, and the Quarterly' Review es- tablished shortly after more completely served the purpose of an antagonist of the Review, but Scott infused a little literary spirit into the Register, and amongst other contributions inserted in the first volume, for 1809, some imitations of living poets, one of them taking Scott himself for its model ! Meanwhile Rokeby had been started on the stocks ; and Scott, who in the ebullition of his active fancy liked to keep two or three varied tasks on hand, bethought himself of one of these fragments, The Vision of Triermain, and conceived the notion of expanding it into a poem, to be published anonymously at the same time with Rokeby, and fathered upon 284 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN some one of his friends, to complete the mys- tification. The fragment taken is nearly identical with Canto First of the Bridal, di- visions I.- VIII. He hoped especially hy this scheme to draw Jeffrey, and elicit from him a criticism which would he unencumbered by the reviewer's relations with the real au- thor. As Erskine had generally been credited with the authorship of the anonymous frag- ments in the Register, he was asked by Scott to play his part in the plot, and good naturedly lent his aid. ' I shall be very much amused,' he wrote to Scott, ' if the secret is kept and the knowing ones taken in. To prevent any dis- covery from your prose, what think you of putting down your ideas of what the preface ought to contain, and allowing me to write it over ? And perhaps a quizzing review might be concocted.' Scott took the hint, and the Introduction to The Bridal of Triermain given below is a mixture of Scott and Erskine, the latter's quotations from the Greek being es- pecially adapted to throwing off the scent those who might naturally attribute the poem to Scott. In his Introduction to The Lord of the Isles, written in 1830, when the secret had long been out, Scott wrote : ' Being much urged by my intimate friend, now unhappily no more, William Erskine (a Scottish judge, by the title of Lord Kinedder), I agreed to write the little romantic tale called The Bridal of Triermain ; but it was on the condition that he should make no serious effort to disown the composition, if report should lay it at his door. As he was more than suspected of a taste for poetry, and as I took care, in several places, to mix something which might resemble (as far as was in my power) my friend's feeling and manner, the train easily caught, and two large editions were sold. A third being called for, Lord Kinedder became unwilling to aid any longer a deception which was going farther than he expected or desired, and the real au- thor's name was given.' 1 Scott had taken Morritt into his confidence, but apparently he had not thus treated his in- timate correspondent, Lady Louisa Stuart, or Lady Abercorn. With both of these clever women he kept up a bit of fencing, though it is not quite certain that one or the other did not have an inkling of the truth, and so amused herself with playing a like game of hoodwink- ing. The little book was published almost on the same day as Rokeby, and Scott wrote to Morritt, March 9, 1813 ; ' I wish you would give the said author of Triermain a hoist to notice, by speaking of him now and then in those parts where a word spoken is sure to 1 A statement somewhat at variance with Scott's to Morritt on occasion of a fourth edition. — See below. have a hundred echoes. ... I hear Jeffrey has really bestowed great praise on the poem r and means to give it a place in his review. It has not, he says, my great artery, but there is more attention to style, more elegance and or- nament, etc., etc. We will see, however, what he really will say to it in his review, for there is no sure augury from his private conversa- tion.' A few days later, when writing to Lady Abercorn, Scott threw in a reference to the poem in a careless fashion. He is sending her some books : ' The first and most interesting is a spirited imitation of my manner called The Bridal of Triermain. The author is unknown, but it makes some noise among us. The other is a little novel,' and so on with a reference shortly to his own Rokeby. A month later, writing the same lady again, he says, paren- thetically, as it were, ' The Bridal of Triermain is the book which has excited the most inter- est here. Jeffrey lauds it highly, I am in- formed, and is one day to throw it at my head.' Lady Louisa Stuart on her side inti- mates that she suspects Scott to have written the Bridal, though she reports common rumor to assign it to R. P. Gillies. It was some time before the authorship was, rightly placed. Scott and Morritt were disap- pointed that Jeffrey did not fall into the trap laid for them, but though Scott's name was often mentioned as that of the probable author, the secret was well kept. As late as January, 1814, Scott was writing to Morritt : ' The fourth edition is at press. The Empress-Dow- ager of Prussia has expressed such an interest in it, that it will be inscribed to her, in some doggerel sonnet or other, by the unknown au- thor. This is funny enough ; ' and again to the same friend : ' As your conscience has very few things to answer for, you must still burthen it with the secret of the Bridal. It is spreading very rapidly, and I have one or two little faery romances which will make a second volume, and which I would wish published, but not with my name. The truth is that this sort of muddling work amuses me, and I am some- thing in the condition of Joseph Surface, who was embarrassed by getting himself too good a reputation ; for many things would please people well enough anonymously, which, if they bore me on the title-page, would just give me that sort of ill-name which precedes hanging, and that would be in many respects inconvenient if I thought of again trying a grande opus. I will give you a hundred good reasons when we meet for not owning the Bridal till I either secede entirely from the field of literature, or from that of life.' It is an amusing comment on Scott's willingness to allow others to carry off his honors, when we find him writing in his Journal a dozen yeara AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 285 later : ' A long letter from R. P. Gillies. I wonder how ever he could ask me to announce myself as the author of Annotations on German Novels which he is to write.' The Introduc- tion prefixed to the first edition, of March, 1813, here follows : — INTRODUCTION In the Edinburgh Annual Register for the year 1809, Three Fragments were inserted, written in imitation of Living Poets. It must have been apparent that by these prolusions nothing burlesque or disrespectful to the au- thors was intended, but that they were offered to the public as serious, though certainly very imperfect, imitations of that style of composi- tion by which each of the writers is supposed to be distinguished. As these exercises at- tracted a greater degree of attention than the author anticipated, he has been induced to complete one of them and present it as a sep- arate publication. It is not in this place that an examination of the works of the master whom he has here adopted as his model, can, with propriety, be in- troduced ; since his general acquiescence in the favorable suffrage of the public must neces- sarily be inferred from the attempt he has now made. He is induced, by the nature of his subject, to offer a few remarks on what has been called romantic poetry ; the popularity of which has been revived in the present day, under the auspices, and by the unparalleled success, of one individual. The original purpose of poetry is either re- ligious or historical, or, as must frequently happen, a mixture of both. To modern readers the poems of Homer have many of the feat- ures of pure romance ; but in the estimation of his contemporaries, they probably derived their chief value from their supposed historical au- thenticity. The same may be generally said of the poetry of all early ages. The marvels and miracles which the poet blends with his song do not exceed in number or extravagance the figments of the historians of the same period of society ; and indeed, the difference betwixt poetry and prose, as the vehicles of historical truth, is always of late introduction. Poets, under various denominations of Bards, Scalds, Chroniclers, and so forth, are the first histori- ans of all nations. Their intention is to relate the events they have witnessed, or the tradi- tions that have reached them ; and they clothe the relation in rhyme, merely as the means of rendering it more solemn in the narrative, or more easily committed to memory. But as the poetical historian improves in the art of conveying information, the authenticity of his narrative unavoidably declines. He is tempted to dilate and dwell upon the events that are interesting to his imagination, and, conscious how indifferent his audience is to the naked truth of his poem, his history gradually be- comes a romance. It is in this situation that those epics are found, which have been generally regarded the standards of poetry ; and it has happened somewhat strangely that the moderns have pointed out as the characteristics and peculiar excellencies of narrative poetry, the very cir- cumstances which the authors themselves adopted, only because their art involved the duties of thej historian as well as the poet. It cannot be believed, for example, that Homer selected the siege of Troy as the most appro- priate subject for poetry ; his purpose was to write the early history of his country ; the event he has chosen, though not very fruitful in varied incident, nor perfectly well adapted for poetry, was nevertheless combined with traditionary and genealogical anecdotes ex- tremely interesting to those who were to listen to him ; and this he has adorned by the exer- tions of a genius which, if it has been equalled, has certainly been never surpassed. It was not till comparatively a late period that the general accuracy of his narrative, or his pur- pose in composing it, was brought into ques- tion. AoKet irpwros [o 'Aval-ay Spas] (icadd (ptjai Qafioplvos iv iravTodairrj 'laropia) t^\v 'O/j/fipov ■Ko'tT]aiv airotp^vaffBai elvai irepi aperrjs Kal 8inat- oavvns. 1 But whatever theories might be framed by speculative men, his work was of an historical, not of an allegorical nature. 'Evav- tIaAgto (xeTa. tov M^ureco Kal oirov kKaffrore acpiitoiTo, iravra to. iirixupia SiepooraTO, Kal Iff- ropeow eirvvOdvero' efabs Se fxiv l\v Kal ixvnfioavwnv iravrcav ypdfieffOai. 2 Instead of recommend- ing the choice of a subject similar to that of Homer, it was to be expected that critics should have exhorted the poets of these latter days to adopt or invent a narrative in itself more susceptible of poetical ornament, and to avail themselves of that advantage in order to compensate, in some degree, the inferiority of genius. The contrary course has been in- culcated by almost all the writers upon the Epopma ; with what success, the fate of Homer's numerous imitators may best show. The ultimum supplicium of criticism was in- 1 Diogenes Laertius, lib. ii. Anaxag. Segm. II. 2 Homeri Vita, in Herod. Henr. Steph. 1570, p. 356. 2 86 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN flicted on the author if he did not choose a subject which at once deprived him of aE claim to originality, and placed him, if not in actual contest, at least in fatal comparison, with those giants in the land whom it was most his interest to avoid. The celebrated receipt for writing an epic poem, which ap- peared in The Guardian?- was the first instance in which common sense was applied to this department of poetry ; and, indeed, if the ques- tion be considered on its own merits, we must be satisfied that narrative poetry, if strictly confined to the great occurrences of history, would be deprived of the individual interest which it is so well calculated to excite. Modern poets may therefore be pardoned in seeking simpler subjects of verse, more inter- esting in proportion to their simplicity. Two or three figures, well grouped, suit the artist better than a crowd, for whatever purpose assembled. For the same reason, a scene im- mediately presented to the imagination, and directly brought home to the feelings, though involving the fate of but one or two persons, is more favorable for poetry than the political struggles and convulsions which influence the fate of kingdoms. The former are within the reach and comprehension of all, and, if depicted with vigor, seldom fail to fix attention : The other if more sublime, are more vague and distant, less capable of being distinctly under- stood, and infinitely less capable of exciting those sentiments which it is the very purpose of poetry to inspire. To generalize is always to destroy effect. We would, for example, be more interested in the fate of an individual soldier in combat, than in the grand event of a general action ; with the happiness of two lovers raised from misery and anxiety to peace and union, than with the successful exertions of a whole nation. From what causes this may originate, is a separate and obviously an immaterial consideration. Before ascribing this peculiarity to causes decidedly and odiously selfish, it is proper to recollect that while men see only a limited space, and while i The Guardian, No. 78. Pope. their affections and conduct are regulated, not by aspiring to an universal good, but by exert- ing their power of making themselves and others happy within the limited scale allotted to each individual, so long will individual his- tory and individual virtue be the readier and more accessible road to general interest and attention; and, perhaps, we may add, that it is the more useful, as well as the more acces- sible, inasmuch as it affords an example capa- ble of being easily imitated. According to the author's idea of Romantic Poetry, as distinguished from Epic, the former comprehends a fictitious narrative, framed and combined at the pleasure of the writer ; begin- ning and ending as he may judge best ; which neither exacts nor refuses the use of supernat- ural machinery ; which is free from the tech- nical rules of the Epee; and is subject only to those which good sense, good taste, and good morals apply to every species of poetry without exception. The date may be in a remote age, or in the present; the story may detail the adventures of a prince or of a peasant. In a word, the author is absolute master of his country and its inhabitants, and everything is permitted to him, excepting to be heavy or prosaic, for which, free and unembarrassed as he is, he has no manner of apology. Those, it is probable, will be found the peculiarities of this species of composition ; and before joining the outcry against the vitiated taste that fosters and encourages it, the justice and grounds of it ought to be made perfectly apparent. If the want of sieges and battles and great military evolutions, in our poetry, is complained of, let us reflect that the campaigns and heroes of our days are perpetuated in a record that neither requires nor admits of the aid of fiction ; and if the complaint refers to the inferiority of our bards, let us pay a just tribute to their modesty, limiting them, as it does, to subjects which, however indifferently treated, have still the interest and charm of novelty, and which thus prevents them from adding insipidity to their other more insuper- able defects. THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN OR THE VALE OF SAINT JOHN A LOVER'S TALE INTRODUCTION Come Lucy ! while 't is 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 vanished from the velvet grass. Curbing the stream, this stony ridge May serve us for a sylvan bridge; For here compelled to disunite, Round petty isles the runnels glide, 10 And chafing off their puny spite, The shallow raurmurers waste their might, Yielding to footstep free and light A dry-shod pass from side to side. 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, 20 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 up- rear, 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 ! in And now we reach the favorite glade, 30 Paled in by copsewood, cliff, aDd stone, Where never harsher sounds invade To break affection's whispering tone Than the deep breeze that waves the shade, Than the small brooklet's feeble moan. Come ! rest thee on thy wonted seat;. Mossed is the stone, the turf is green y A place where lovers best may meet Who would not that their love be seen. The boughs that dim the summer sky 40 Shall hide us from each lurking spy That fain would spread the invidious tale, How Lucy of the lofty eye, Noble in birth, in fortunes high, She for whom lords and barons sigh, Meets her poor Arthur in the dale. IV How deep that blush ! — how deep that And why does Lucy shun mine eye ? Is it because that crimson draws Its color from some secret cause, 50 Some hidden movement of the breast, She would not that her Arthur guessed ? O, quicker far is lovers' 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 hue of pleasure and regret; Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, And shared with Love the crimson glow, 60 Well pleased that thou art Arthur's choice, Yet shamed thine own is placed so low: Thou turn'st thy self-confessing cheek, As if to meet the breezes cooling; Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak, For Love too has his hours of school- ing. Too oft my anxious eye has spied That secret grief thou fain wouldst hide, The passing pang of humbled pride ; 287 288 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN Too oft when through the splendid hall, ■ 7° The loadstar of each heart and eye, My fair one leads the glittering ball, Will her stolen glance on Arthur fall With such a blush and such a sigh ! Thou wouldst 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 80 A nobler name, a wide domain, A baron's birth, a menial train, Since Heaven assigned him for his part A lyre, a falchion, and a heart ? VI 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, 90 Is there to love and honor true, That boasts a pulse so warm as mine ? They praised thy diamonds' lustre rare — Matched with thine eyes, I thought it faded ; They praised the pearls that bound thy hair — I only saw the locks they braided; They talked of wealthy dower and land, Aiid titles of high birth the token — I thought of Lucy's heart and hand, Nor knew the sense of what was spoken. 100 And yet, if ranked in Fortune's roll, I might have learned their choice un- wise Who rate the dower above the soul And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes. VII My lyre — it is an idle toy That borrows accents not its 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; no Its strings no feudal slogan pour, Its heroes draw no broad claymore; No shouting clans applauses raise Because it sung their fathers' praise; On Scottish moor, or English down, It ne'er was graced with fair renown; Nor won — best meed to minstrel true — One favoring smile from fair Buccleuch ! By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, And heard by one dear maid alone. 120 VIII But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell Of errant knight, and damoselle; Of the dread knot a wizard tied In punishment of maiden's pride, In notes of marvel and of fear That best may charm romantic ear For Lucy loves — like Collins, 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, — 130 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 lays she loves — and, such my Lucy's choice, What other song can claim her Poet's voice ? CANTO FIRST Where is the maiden of mortal strain That may match with the Baron of Trier- main ? She must 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 oJ blood — Lovely as the sun's first ray When it breaks the clouds of an April day; Constant and true as the widowed dove, Kind as a minstrel that sings of love; Pure as the fountain in rocky cave Where never sunbeam kissed the wave; Humble as maiden that loves in vain, Holy as hermit's vesper strain; Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies, CANTO FIRST 289 Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs; Courteous as monarch the morn he is crowned, Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground; Noble her blood as the currents that met 19 In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet — Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain, That shall match with Sir Roland of Trier- main. Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep, His blood it was fevered, his breathing was deep. He had been pricking against the Scot, The foray was long and the skirmish 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 30 With the slow soft tunes he loves the best Till sleep sink" down upon his breast, Like the dew on a summer hill. in It was the dawn of an autumn day; The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray That like a silvery crape was spread Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head, And faintly gleamed each painted pane Of the lordly halls of Triermain, When that baron bold awoke. 40 Starting he woke and loudly did call, Rousing his menials in bower and hall While hastily he spoke. IV I Hearken, my minstrels ! Which of ye all Touched his harp with that dying fall, So sweet, so soft, so faint, It seemed an angel's whispered call To an expiring saint ? And hearken, my merry-men ! What time or where Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow, 50 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 passed from my bower e'en now ! ' Answered him Richard de Bretville; he Was chief of the baron's minstrelsy, — ' Silent, noble chieftain, we Have sat since midnight close, When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings Murmured from our melting strings, 60 And hushed 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-formed sigh When she thinks her lover near.' Answered Philip of Fasthwaite tall; He kept guard in the outer-hall, — ' Since at eve our watch took post, Not a foot has thy portal crossed; 70 Else had I heard the steps, though low And light they fell as when earth receives In morn of frost the withered leaves That drop when no winds blow.' VI ' Then come thou hither, Henry, my page, Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage, When that dark castle, tower, and spire, Rose to the skies a pile of fire, And reddened all the Nine-stane Hill, 79 And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke Through devouring flame and smothering 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 Baron 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, 90 And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise. Gifted like his gifted race, He the characters can trace Graven deep in elder time Upon Hellvellyn's cliffs 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 100 To that enchanting shape gave birth, Or if 't was but an airy thing Such as fantastic slumbers bring, Framed from the rainbow's varying dyes 290 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN Or fading tints of western skies. For, by the blessed rood I swear, If that fair form breathe vital air, No other maiden by my side Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride ! ' VII The faithful page he mounts his steed, no And soon he crossed green Irthing's mead, Dashed o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain, And Eden barred bis course in vain. He passed red Penrith's Table Round, For feats of chivalry renowned, Left May burgh's mound and stones of power, By Druids raised in magic hour, And traced the Eamont's winding way Till Ulfo's lake beneath him lay. Onward he rode, the pathway still 120 Winding betwixt the lake and hill; Till, on the fragment of a rock Struck from its base by lightning shock, He saw the hoary sage: The silver moss and lichen twined, With fern and deer -hair checked and lined, A cushion fit for age; And o'er him shook the aspen-tree, A restless rustling canopy. Then sprung young Henry from his selle 130 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. * That maid is born of middle earth And may of man be won, Though there have glided since her birth 140 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 Saint John ? Listen, youth, to what 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 150 Is handed down from Merlin's age. IiYULPH'S TALE * King Arthur has ridden from merry Car- lisle When Pentecost was o'er: He journeyed like errant-knight the while, And sweetly the summer sun did smile On mountain, moss, and moor. Above his solitary track Rose Glaramara's ridgy back, Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun Cast umbered radiance red and dun, 160 Though never sunbeam could discern The surface of that sable tarn, In whose black mirror you may spy The stars while noontide lights the sky. The gallant king he skirted still The margin of that mighty hill; Rock upon rocks incumbent hung, And torrents, down the gullies flung, Joined the rude river that brawled on, Recoiling now from crag and stone, 170 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 planned. ' O, rather he chose, that monarch bold, On venturous quest to ride In plate and mail by wood and wold Than, with ermine trapped and cloth of gold, In princely bower to bide; The bursting crash of a foeman's spear, As it shivered against his mail, Was merrier music to his ear Than courtier's whispered tale: And the clash of Caliburn more dear, When on the hostile casque it rung, Than all the lays To the 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 Guen- ever, 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 his absence on brave Lancelot. - CANTO FIRST 29: He rode till over down and dell The shade more broad and deeper fell; And though around the mountain's head Flowed streams of purple and gold and red, 200 Dark at the base, unblest by beam, Frowned the black rocks and roared the stream. With toil the king his way pursued By lonely Threlkeld'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. Right glad to feel those beams again, The king drew up his charger's rein; 210 With gauntlet raised he screened his sight, As dazzled with the level light, And from beneath his glove of mail Scanned at his ease the lovely vale, While 'gainst the sun his armor bright Gleamed ruddy like the beacon's light. XIII ' Paled in by many a lofty hill, The narrow dale lay smooth and still, And, down its verdant bosom led, A winding brooklet found its bed. 220 But midmost of the vale a mound Arose with airy turrets crowned, Buttress, and rampire's circling bound, And mighty keep and tower; Seemed some primeval giant's hand The castle's massive walls had planned, A ponderous bulwark to withstand Ambitious Nimrod's power. Above the moated entrance slung, The balanced drawbridge trembling m hung, 230 As jealous of a foe; Wicket of oak, as iron hard, With iron studded, clenched, and barred, And pronged portcullis, joined to guard The gloomy pass below. But the gray walls no banners crowned, Upon the watchtower's airy round No warder stood his horn to sound, No guard beside the bridge was found, And where the Gothic gateway frowned 240 Glanced neither bill nor bow. ' 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 the rushing stream That washed the battled mound. He lighted from his goodly steed, 250 And he left him to graze on bank and mead; And slowly he climbed the narrow way That reached the entrance grim and gray, And he stood the outward arch below, 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 guessed the hold Of wizard stern, or goblin grim, 260 Or pagan of gigantic limb, The tyrant of the wold. 'The ivory bugle's golden tip Twice touched the monarch's manly lip, And twice his hand withdrew. — Think not but Arthur's heart was good ! His shield was crossed 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 270 Sunk on his heart, and he paused a space 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 obeyed the blast, And down the trembling drawbridge cast; The vaulted arch before him lay With nought to bar the gloomy way, 280 And onward Arthur paced with hand On Caliburn's resistless brand. XVI ' A hundred torches flashing bright Dispelled at once the gloomy night That loured along the walls, And showed the king's astonished sight The inmates of the halls. Nor wizard stern, nor goblin grim, Nor giant huge of form and limb, Nor heathen knight, was there; 290 But the cressets which odors flung aloft Showed by their yellow light and soft A band of damsels fair. 292 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 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 labored to unhasp 300 Rivet of steel and iron clasp. One wrapped him in a mantle fair, And one flung odors on his hair; His short curled ringlets one smoothed down, One wreathed them with a myrtle crown. A bride upon her wedding-day Was tended ne'er by troop so gay. XVII ' Loud laughed they all, — the king in vain With questions tasked the giddy train; Let him entreat or crave or call, 310 'T was one reply — loud laughed they 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 worn. Four of the train combined to rear 320 The terrors of Tintagel's spear; Two, laughing at their lack of strength, Dragged Caliburn in cumbrous length; One, while she aped a martial stride, Placed on her brows the helmet's pride ; Then screamed 'twixt laughter and sur- prise To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes. With revel-shout and triumph-song Thus gayly marched the giddy throng. XVIII * Through many a gallery and hall 330 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 340 Bewildered with surprise, 350 Their smothered 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, valor high, And wisdom soared 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 mortal 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 passed, Her dark eye on the king she cast 360 That flashed expression strong; The longer dwelt that lingering look, Her cheek the livelier color 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 whispered, " Prince, beware ! From the chafed tiger rend the prey, Rush on the lion when at bay, 370 Bar the fell dragon's blighted way, But shun that lovely snare ! " xx ' At once, that inward strife suppressed, The dame approached 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 380 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 prayed that he would rest That night her castle's honored guest. The monarch meetly thanks expressed; The banquet rose at her behest, With lay and tale, and laugh and jest, 390 Apace the evening flew. CANTO SECOND 2 93 XXI * The lady sate the monarch by, Now in her turn abashed and shy, And with indifference seemed to hear The toys he whispered in her ear. Her bearing modest was and fair, Yet shadows of constraint were there That showed an over-cautious care Some inward thought to hide; Oft did she pause in full reply, 400 And oft cast down her large dark eye, Oft checked the soft voluptuous sigh That heaved her bosom's pride. Slight symptoms these, but shepherds know How hot the mid-day sun shall glow From the mist of morning sky; And so the wily monarch guessed That this assumed restraint expressed More ardent passions in the breast Than ventured to the eye. 410 Closer he pressed while beakers rang, While maidens laughed and minstrels sang, Still closer to her ear — But why pursue the common tale ? Or wherefore show how knights prevail 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 420 How mirth can into folly glide And folly into sin ! ' CANTO SECOND lyulph's tale continued ' Another 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. 1 Another day, another day, And yet another, glides away. Heroic plans in pleasure drowned, He thinks not of the Table Round; 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 honors of his heathen crest; 20 Better to wreathe mid tresses brown The heron's plume her hawk struck down Than o'er the altar give 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 pace in Virtue's toilsome way; 30 But Gwendolen'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 deemed to preside O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride, By youths and virgins worshipped long With festive dance and choral song, Till, when the cross to Britain came, On heathen altars died the flame. Now, deep in Wastdale solitude, The downfall of his rights he rued, And born of his resentment heir, He trained to guile that lady fair, To sink in slothful sin and shame The champions of the Christian name. Well skilled to keep vain thoughts alive, And all to promise, nought to give, The timid youth had hope in store, The bold and pressing gained no more. 50 As wildered children leave their home After the rainbow's arch to roam, Her lovers bartered fair esteem, Faith, fame, and honor, for a dream. ' Her sire's soft arts the soul to tame She practised thus — till Arthur came ; Then frail humanity had part, And all the mother claimed her heart. Forgot each rule her father gave, Sunk from a princess to a slave, 60 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, 40 294 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 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: 7 o Her storied lore she next applies, Taxing her mind to aid her eyes; Now more than mortal wise and then In female softness sunk again; Now raptured with each wish complying, With feigned reluctance now denying; Each charm she varied to retain A varying heart — and all in vain ! ' Thus in the garden's narrow bound Flanked by some castle's Gothic round, 80 Fain would the artist's skill provide The limits of his realms to hide. The walks in labyrinths he twines, Shade after shade with skill combines With many a varied flowery knot, And copse and arbor, decks the spot, Tempting the hasty foot to stay And linger on the lovely way — Vain art ! vain hope ! 't is fruitless all ! At length we reach the bounding wall ! 90 And, sick of flower and trim-dressed tree, Long for rough glades and forest free. VI ' Three summer months had scantly flown When Arthur in embarrassed 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 Guendolen. She listened silently the while, 100 Her mood expressed in bitter smile Beneath her eye must Arthur quail And oft resume the unfinished 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 pressed no The foldings of her silken vest ! VII ' 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, 120 That boy is born a kingdom's heir; But, if a maiden Fate allows, To choose that mate a fitting spouse, A summer-day in lists shall strive My knights — the bravest 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 deigned him not reply. VIII ' At dawn of morn ere on the brake 130 His matins did a warbler make Or stirred his wing to brush away A single dew-drop from the spray, Ere yet a sunbeam through the mist The castle-battlements had kissed, The gates revolve, the drawbridge falls, And Arthur sallies from the walls. Doffed his soft garb of Persia's loom, And steel from spur to helmet plume, His Lybian steed full proudly trode, 140 And joyful neighed beneath his load. The monarch gave a passing sigh To penitence and pleasures by, When, lo ! to his astonished ken Appeared the form of Guendolen. IX ' Beyond the outmost wall she stood, Attired like huntress of the wood: Sandalled her feet, her ankles bare, And eagle-plumage decked her hair; Firm was her look, her bearing bold, 150 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 160 Which Genii love ! " — she said and quaffed ; And strange unwonted lustres fly From her flushed cheek and sparkling eye. CANTO SECOND ! 95 * 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, 170 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 burned and blighted where it fell ! The frantic steed rushed up the dell, As whistles from the bow the reed; Nor bit nor rein could check his speed Until he gained the hill; 180 Then breath and sinew failed 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 frowned The lonely streamlet brawled around A tufted knoll, where dimly shone 190 Fragments of rock 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. ' Full fifteen years and more were sped, Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's head. Twelve bloody fields with glory fought The Saxons to subjection brought: Rython, the mighty giant, slain 200 By his good brand, relieved Bretagne: The Pictish Gillamore in fight And Roman Lucius owned his might; And wide were through the world renowned The glories of his Table Round. 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 complain, 210 Nor there for aid implored in vain. * For this the king with pomp and pride Held solemn court at Whitsuntide, And summoned 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, 220 For many a stranger champion came In lists to break a spear; And not a knight of Arthur's host, Save that he trode some foreign coast, But at this feast of Pentecost Before him must appear. Ah, minstrels ! when the Table Round Arose with all its warriors crowned, There was a theme for bards to sound In triumph to their string 1 230 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 ! XIII ' 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. 240 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, 250 Sir Carodac the keen, The gentle Gawain's courteous lore, Hector de Mares and Pellinore, And Lancelot, that evermore Looked stolen- wise on the queen. ' When wine and mirth did most abound And harpers played their blithest round, A shrilly trumpet shook the ground And marshals cleared the ring; A maiden on a palfrey white, 260 Heading a band of damsels bright, Paced through the circle to alight And kneel before the king. Arthur with strong emotion saw 296 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN Her graceful boldness checked by awe, Her dress like huntress of the wold, Her bow and baldric trapped with gold, Her sandalled feet, her ankles bare, And the eagle-plume that decked her hair. Graceful her veil she backward flung — 270 The king, as from his seat he sprung, Almost cried, " Guendolen ! " But 't was 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 — 280 " Great Prince ! behold an orphan maid, In her departed mother's name, A father's vowed protection claim ! The vow was sworn in desert lone In the deep valley of Saint John." At once the king the suppliant raised, And kissed her brow, her beauty praised; His vow, he said, should well be kept, Ere in the sea the sun was dipped, — Then conscious glanced upon his queen: 290 But she, unruffled at the scene Of human frailty construed mild, Looked upon Lancelot and smiled. ' " Up ! up ! each knight of gallant crest Take buckler, spear, and brand ! He that to-day shall 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 Reged wide, 300 And Carlisle town and tower." Then might you hear each valiant knight To page and squire that cried, "Bring my armor bright and my courser wight ; 'T is not each day that a warrior's might May win a royal 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. 310 Small care had they of their peaceful array, They might gather it that wolde; For brake and bramble glittered gay With pearls and cloth of gold. XVII ' Within trumpet sound of the Table Round, Were fifty champions free, And they all arise to fight that prize, — They all arise but three. Nor love's fond troth nor wedlock's oath One gallant could withhold, 320 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 honor flown. The knights they busied them so fast With buckling spur and belt That sigh and look by ladies cast Were neither seen nor felt. 33c 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 Reged wide, And Carlisle tower and town; She is the loveliest maid, beside, That ever heired a crown." So in haste their coursers they bestride And strike their visors down. 34 o ' The champions, armed in martial sort, Have thronged into the list, And but three knights of Arthur's court Are from the tourney missed. And still these lovers' fame survives For faith so constant shown, — There were two who loved their neighbors' wives, And one who loved his own. The first was Lancelot de Lac, The second Tristrem bold, 350 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, 360 Yet, since but one of that fair court Was true to wedlock's shrine, Brand him who will with base report, He shall be free from mine. CANTO SECOND 297 * Now caracoled the steeds in air, Now plumes and pennons wantoned 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, 370 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 cold was many a gallant heart. His hasty vow he 'gan to rue, And G-yneth then apart he drew; To her his leading-staff resigned, But added caution grave and kind. 380 XX j " Thou see'st, 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 bright Is polar star to valiant knight, As at her word his sword he draws, His fairest guerdon her applause, So gentle maid should never ask Of knighthood vain and dangerous task; 390 , And Beauty's eyes should ever be Like the twin stars that soothe the sea, And Beauty's breath should 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; — No striplings these, who succor need For a razed helm or falling steed. 400 But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm And threatens death or deadly harm, Thy sire entreats, thy king commands, Thou drop 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." ' A proud and discontented glow O'ershadowed Gyneth's brow of snow; 410 She put the warder by: — " Reserve thy boon, my liege," she said, " Thus chaffered down and limited, Debased and narrowed for a maid Of less degree than I. No petty chief but holds his heir At a more honored price and rare Than Britain's King holds me ! Although the sun-burned maid for dower Has but her father's rugged tower, 420 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 sword and crown remain. But think not she will e'er be bride 430 Save to the bravest, proved and tried ; Pendragon's daughter will not fear For clashing sword or splintered spear, Nor shrink though blood should flow; And all too well sad Guendolen Hath taught the faithlessness of men That child of hers should pity when Their meed they undergo." XXII 'He frowned and sighed, the monarch bold: — " I give — what I may not withhold; 440 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 wroug, 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." 450 With that he turned his head aside, Nor brooked to gaze upon her pride, As with the truncheon raised she sate The arbitress of mortal fate; Nor brooked to mark in ranks disposed How the bold champions stood opposed, For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell Upon his ear like passing bell ! Then first from sight of martial fray Did Britain's hero turn away. 460 XXIII ' But Gyneth heard the clangor high As hears the hawk the partridge cry. O, blame her not ! the blood was hers 298 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN That at the trumpet's summons stirs ! — And e'en the gentlest female eye Might the brave strife of chivalry Awhile untroubled view; So well accomplished was each knight To strike and to defend in fight, Their meeting was a goodly sight 470 While plate and mail held true. The lists with painted plumes were strown, Upon the wind at random thrown, But helm and breastplate bloodless shone, It seemed their feathered 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 480 The merry greenwood through. XXIV ' 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 defaced, And steel coats riven and helms unbraced, And pennons streamed with gore. Gone too were fence and fair array, 490 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 clamors seem Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream, The sinking seaman's knell ! XXV ' Seemed in this dismal hour that Fate Would Camlan's ruin antedate, 500 And spare dark Mordred's crime; Already gasping on the ground Lie twenty of the Table Round, Of chivalry the prime. Arthur in anguish tore away From head and beard his tresses gray, And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay And quaked with ruth and fear; But still she deemed her mother's shade Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade 510 The sign that had the slaughter staid, And chid the rising tear. 520 Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell, Helias the White, and Lionel, And many a champion more; Rochemont and Dinadam are down, And Ferrand of the Forest Brown Lies gasping in his gore. Vanoc, by mighty Morolt pressed Even to the confines of the list, Young Vanoc of the beardless face — Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race — O'erpowered at Gyneth's footstool bled, His heart's-blood dyed her sandals red. But then the sky was overcast, Then howled at once a whirlwind's blast, And, rent by sudden throes, Yawned in mid lists the quaking earth, And from the gulf — tremendous birth ! — The form of Merlin rose. 53 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 scorned to feel. 540 Yet, because thy mother's art Warped thine unsuspicious heart, And for love of Arthur's race Punishment is blent with grace, Thou shalt bear thy penance lone In the Valley of Saint John, And this weird shall overtake thee; Sleep until a knight shall wake thee, For feats of arms as far renowned As warrior of the Table Round. 5 Long endurance of thy slumber Well may teach the world to number 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'er her brow her hand she draws; 560 Twice her strength in vain she tries From the fatal chair to rise; CANTO SECOND 299 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, 570 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 seemed 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; 580 Till in necromantic night Gyneth vanished from their sight. XXVIII ' Still she bears her weird alone In the Valley of Saint 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 Liffy, Thames, and Forth. Most have sought in vain the glen, Tower nor castle could they ken; Not 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. 600 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 returned no more. In the lapse of time forgot, Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot; Sound her sleep as in the tomb Till wakened by the trump of doom. 610 END OF LYULPH'S TALE Here pause, my tale ; for all too soon, My Lucy, comes the hour of noon. 590 Already from thy lofty dome Its courtly inmates 'gin to roam, And each, to kill the goodly day That God has granted them, his way Of lazy sauntering has sought; Lordlings and witlings not a few, Incapable of doing aught, Yet ill at ease with nought to do. 620 Here is no longer place for me; For, Lucy, thou wouldst blush to see Some phantom fashionably thin, With limb of lath and kerchiefed chin, And lounging gape or sneering grin, Steal sudden on our privacy. And how should I, so humbly born, Endure the graceful spectre's scorn ? Faith ! ill, I fear, while conjuring wand Of English oak is hard at hand. 630 Or grant the hour be all too soon For Hessian boot and pantaloon, And grant the lounger seldom strays Beyond the smooth and gravelled 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, 640 Damning whate'er of vast and fair Exceeds a canvas three feet square. This thicket, for their gumption fit, May furnish such a happy bit. Bards too are hers, wont to recite Their own sweet lays by waxen light, Half in the salver's tingle drowned, While the chasse-cafe glides around; And such may hither secret stray To labor an extempore: 650 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 we alike must shun regard From painter, player, sportsman, bard. Insects 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. 660 ill But O, 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 ! 3°° THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN No parents thine whose just command 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, trimmed cap-a-pee, 670 Who loves in the saloon to show The arms that never knew a foe; Whose sabre trails along the ground, Whose legs in shapeless boots are drowned; A new Achilles, sure — the steel Fled 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, 680 A walking haberdashery Of feathers, lace, and fur: In Rowley's antiquated phrase, Horse-milliner of modern days ? Or is it he, the wordy youth, So early trained for statesman's part, Who talks of honor, faith and truth, As themes that he has got by heart; Whose ethics Chesterfield can teach, Whose logic is from Single-speech; 690 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,' Who ( craves permission to reply,' Whose ' noble friend is in his eye ; ' Whose loving tender some have reckoned A motion you should gladly second ? What, neither ? Can there be a third, To such resistless swains preferred ? — 700 O why, my Lucy, turn aside With that quick glance of injured pride ? Forgive me, love, I cannot bear That altered and resentful air. Were all the wealth of Russel mine And all the rank of Howard's line, All would I give for leave to dry That dew-drop trembling in thine eye. Think not I fear such fops can wile From Lucy more than careless smile; 710 But yet if wealth and high degree Give gilded counters currency, Must I not fear when rank and birth 720 Stamp the pure ore of genuine worth ? Nobles there are whose martial fires Rival the fame that raised their sires, And patriots, skilled 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. 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 ? O, no ! for on 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. But wouldst thou bid the demons fly Like mist before the dawning sky, There is but one resistless spell — Say, wilt thou guess or must I tell ? 'T were hard to name in minstrel phrase A landaulet and four blood-bays, 740 But bards agree this wizard band Can but be bound in Northern land. 'Tis there — nay, draw not back thy hand ! — 'T is there this slender finger round Must golden amulet be bound, Which, blessed with many a holy prayer, Can change to rapture lovers' care, And doubt and jealousy shall die, And fears give place to ecstasy. VIII Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long Has been thy lover's tale aud song. O, why so silent, love, I pray ? Have I not 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 ! 750 CANTO THIRD: INTRODUCTION 301 CANTO THIRD INTRODUCTION Long loved, long wooed, and lately won, My life's best hope, and now mine own ! Doth not this rude and Alpine glen Recall our favorite 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 crossed, 10 While round Ben-Cruaeh's mighty base Wheel the slow steeds and lingering chase. The keen old carle, with Scottish pride He praised his glen and mountains wide; 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, 20 But when old Allan would expound Of Beal-na-paish the Celtic sound, His bonnet doffed and bow applied His legend to my bonny bride; While Lucy blushed 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. 30 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: 40 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 sighed and sickened as he drew, Despairing they could e'er prove true ! in But, Lucy, turn thee now to view Up the fair glen our destined way: The fairy path that we pursue, Distinguished but by greener hue, 50 Winds round the purple brae, While Alpine flowers of varied dye For carpet serve or tapestry. 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. 60 There 's no illusion there; these flowers, That wailing brook, these lovely bowers, Are, Lucy, all our own; And, since thine Arthur called thee wife, Such seems the prospect of his life, A lovely path on-winding still By gurgling brook and sloping hill. 'T is true that mortals cannot tell What waits them in the distant dell; But be it hap or be it harm, 70 We tread the pathway arm in arm. And now, my Lucy, wot'st thou why I could thy bidding twice deny, When twice you prayed 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. 80 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. 90 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, Worn out by bards of modern days — 302 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN My Muse, then — seldom will she wake, Save by dim wood and silent lake; She is the wild and rustic maid Whose foot unsandalled loves to tread ic 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 murmur dear Of the wild brook hath caught her ear, The glade hath won her eye; She longs to join with each blithe rill u 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 Roland to the dark tower came ! ' CANTO THIRD 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 complain; 10 They lack the sword of brave De Vaux, There comes no aid from Triermain. That lord on high adventure bound Hath wandered forth alone, And day and night keeps watchful round In the Valley of Saint John. AVhen 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, 2c O'er streamlet, dale, and rock, she threw Her light composed and cool. Stretched on the brown hill's heathy breast, Sir Roland eyed the vale ; Chief where, distinguished from the rest, Those clustering rocks upreared their crest, The dwelling of the fair distressed, As told gray Lyulph's tale. Thus as he lay, the lamp of night Was quivering on his armor 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. Ill Ever he watched and oft he deemed, While on the mound the moonlight streamed, It altered to his eyes; Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan change To buttressed walls their shapeless range, Fain think by transmutation strange 40 He saw gray turrets rise. But scarce his heart with hope throbbed high Before the wild illusions fly Which fancy had conceived, Abetted by an anxious eye That longed to be deceived. It was a fond deception all, Such as in solitary hall Beguiles the musing eye When, gazing on the sinking fire, 50 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, Or evening's western flame, In every tide, at every hour, In mist, in sunshine, and in shower, The rocks remained the same. IV Oft has he traced the charmed mound, 60 Oft climbed 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 bore. 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, And when the evening gale is chill 70 He seeks a rocky cell, Like hermit poor to bid his bead, CANTO THIRD 303 And tell his Ave and his Creed, Invoking every saint at need For aid to burst his spell. 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 80 The midnight clouds are driven. The brooklet raved, for on the hills The upland showers had swoln the rills And down the torrents came; Muttered the distant thunder dread, And frequent o'er the vale was spread A sheet of lightning flame. De Vaux within his mountain cave — ISTo human step the storm durst brave — To moody meditation gave 90 Each faculty of soul, Till, lulled by distant torrent sound And the sad winds that whistled round, Upon his thoughts in musing drowned A broken slumber stole. VI 'T was 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, 100 Again he heard in clangor stern That deep and solemn swell, Twelve times in measured tone it spoke, Like some proud minster's pealing clock Or city's larum-bell. What thought was Roland's first when fell In that deep wilderness the knell Upon his startled ear ? To slander warrior were I loath, Yet must I hold my minstrel troth — no It was a thought of fear. But lively was the mingled thrill That chased that momentary chill, For Love's keen wish was there, And eager Hope, and Valor high, And the proud glow of Chivalry That burned to do and dare. Forth from the cave the warrior rushed, Long ere the mountain-voice was hushed That answered to the knell; 1 For long and far the unwonted sound, Eddying in echoes round and round, Was tossed 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. VIII Forth upon trackless darkness gazed The knight, bedeafened and amazed, Till all was hushed and still, 130 Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar, And the night-blast that wildly bore Its course along the hill. Then on the northern sky there came A light as of reflected flame, And over Legbert-head, As if by magic art controlled, A mighty meteor slowly rolled Its orb of fiery red; Thou wouldst have thought some demon dire Came mounted on that car of fire 14 1 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, A dusky light arose: Displayed, yet altered was the scene; Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen, Even the gay thicket's summer green, In bloody tincture glows. 150 IX De Vaux had marked 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 frowned. What sees he by that meteor's lour ? — A bannered castle, keep, and tower Return the lurid gleam, With battled walls and buttress fast, ' 160 And barbican and ballium vast, And airy flanking towers that cast Their shadows on the stream. 'T is no deceit ! distinctly clear Crenell 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, 170 As its wild light withdraws. 3°4 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN Forth from the cave did Roland rush, O'er crag and stream, through brier and bush; Yet far he had not sped Ere sunk 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, 180 A wild and lonely trumpet note, — In middle air it seemed 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 valiant Knight of Triermain Rung forth his challenge-blast again, But answer came there none; And mid the mingled wind and rain 190 Darkling he sought the vale in vain, Until the dawning shone; And when it dawned that wondrous sight Distinctly seen by meteor light, It all had passed away ! And that enchanted mount once more A pile of granite fragments bore As at the close of day. XI Steeled for the deed, De Yaux's heart Scorned from his vent'rous quest to part 200 He walks the vale once more; But only sees by night or day That shattered pile of rocks so gray, Hears but the torrent's roar: Till when, through hills of azure borne, The moon renewed her silver horn, Just at the time her waning ray Had faded in the dawning day, A summer mist arose; Adown the vale the vapors float, 210 And cloudy undulations moat That tufted mound of mystic note, As round 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 seemed a veil of filmy lawn, By some fantastic fairy drawn Around enchanted pile. 220 The breeze came softly down the brook, And, sighing as it blew, The veil of silver mist it shook And to De Vaux's eager look Renewed that wondrous view. For, though the loitering vapor 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, 2 And Gothic battlements between Their gloomy length unrolled. Speed, speed, De Vaux, ere 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 rivalled archer's shaft; 2 But ere the mound he could attain The rocks their shapeless form regain, And, mocking loud his labor vain, The mountain spirits laughed. Far up the echoing dell was borne Their wild unearthly shout of scorn. Wroth waxed the warrior. — ' Am I then Fooled by the enemies of men, Like a poor hind whose homeward way Is haunted by malicious fay ? 250 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 drew, And at the rocks the weapon threw Just where one crag's projected crest Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest. 260 Hurled with main force the weapon's shock Rent a huge fragment of the rock. If by mere strength, 't were hard to tell, Or if the blow dissolved some spell, But down the headlong ruin came With cloud of dust and flash of flame. Down bank, o'er bush, its course was borne, Crushed lay the copse, the earth was torn, Till staid at length the ruin dread Cumbered the torrent's rocky bed, 270 CANTO THIRD 3o5 And bade the waters' high-swoln tide Seek other passage for its pride. XIV When ceased that thunder Triermain Surveyed the mound's rude front again; And lo ! the ruin had laid bare, Hewn in the stone, a winding stair Whose mossed 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, 280 And soon a platform won Where, the wild witchery to close, Within three lances' length arose The Castle of Saint John ! No misty phantom of the air, No meteor- blazoned show was there; In morning splendor full and fair The massive fortress shone. Embattled high and proudly towered, Shaded by ponderous flankers, lowered 290 The portal's gloomy way. Though for six hundred years and more Its strength had brooked the tempest's roar, The scutcheoned emblems which it bore Had suffered no decay: But from the eastern battlement A turret had made sheer descent, And, down in recent ruin renO, In the mid torrent lay. Else, o'er the castle's brow sublime, 300 Insults of violence or of time Unfelt had passed away. In shapeless characters of yore, The gate this stern inscription bore: XVI INSCRIPTION ' Patience waits the destined day, Strength can clear the cumbered way. Warrior, who hast waited long, Firm of soul, of sinew strong, It is given to thee to gaze On the pile of ancient days. 310 Never mortal builder's hand This enduring fabric planned; Sign and sigil, word of power, From the earth raised keep and tower. View it o'er and pace it round, Rampart, turret, battled mound. Dare no more ! To cross the gate Were to tamper with thy fate; Strength and fortitude were vain, View it o'er — and turn again.' 320 XVII ' That would I,' said the warrior bold, ' If that my frame were bent and old, And my thin blood dropped slow and cold As icicle in thaw; But while my heart can feel it dance Blithe as the sparkling wine of France, And this good arm wields sword or lance, I mock these words of awe ! ' He said; the wicket felt the sway Of his strong hand and straight gave way, 330 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 Returned their surly jar. 34 o 1 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 steep descent. XVIII Unbarred, unlocked, unwatched, a port Led to the castle's outer court: There the main fortress, broad and tall, Spread its long range of bower and hall 350 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 An inner moat; Nor bridge nor boat Affords De Vaux the means to cross The clear, profound, and silent fosse. 360 His arms aside in haste he flings, Cuirass of steel and hauberk rings, And down falls helm and down the shield, Rough with the dints of many a field. Fair was his manly form and fair 306 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN His keen dark eye and close curled hair, When all unarmed 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, 370 Whose sullied buff the sable stains Of hauberk and of mail retains, — Roland De Vaux upon the brim Of the broad moat stood prompt to swim. XIX Accoutred thus he dared the tide, And soon he reached the farther side And entered soon the hold, And paced a hall whose walls so wide Were blazoned all with feats of pride By warriors done of old. 380 In middle lists they countered here While trumpets seemed to blow; And there in den or desert drear They quelled 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 seemed of ancient race, Whose deeds of arms and race and name, Forgotten long by later fame, 390 Were here depicted to appall 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 arched portal door, In whose broad folding leaves of state 400 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 knight 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 410 There stood arrayed in sable band Four maids whom Afric bore; And each a Lybian tiger led, Held by as bright and frail a thread As Lucy's golden hair, For the leash that bound these monsters dread Was but of gossamer. Each maiden's short barbaric vest Left all unclosed the knee and breast And limbs of shapely jet; 420 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, Stationed the gazer's soul to scare; But when the wicket oped Each grisly beast 'gan upward draw, Rolled his grim eye, and spread his claw Scented the air, and licked his jaw; While these 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; 44 i Zarah's sands in pillars reeling Join the measure that we tread, When the Moon has donned her cloak And the stars are red to see, Shrill when pipes the sad Siroc, Music meet for such as we. ' Where the shattered 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 ! " ' Ours the scorpion, ours the 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, 460 Pestilence that wastes by day — Dread the race of Zaharak ! Fear the spell of Dahomay ! ' CANTO THIRD 307 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, t The warrior communed with his soul. ' When first I took this venturous quest, 470 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 unarmed 't is 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, 480 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 entered thus the fearful hall. XXIII On high each wayward maiden threw Her swarthy arm with wild halloo ! On either side a tiger sprung — 49 o Against the leftward foe he flung The ready banner to engage With tangling folds the brutal rage ; The right-hand monster in mid air He struck so fiercely and so fair Through gullet and through spinal bone The trenchant blade hath sheerly gone. His grisly brethren ramped and yelled, But the slight leash their rage withheld, Whilst 'twixt their ranks the dangerous road 500 Firmly though swift the champion strode. Safe to the gallery's bound he drew, Safe passed an open portal through; And when against pursuit he flung The gate, judge if the echoes rung ! Onward his daring course he bore, While, mixed 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. 510 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 us from our ward to part, Be as strong in future trial 520 Where resistance is denial. ' Now for Afric's glowing sky, Zwenga wide and Atlas high, Zaharak and Dahomay ! — Mount the winds ! Hurra, hurra ! ' XXV The wizard song at distance died, As if in ether borne astray, While through waste halls and chambers wide The knight pursued his steady way Till to a lofty dome he came 530 That flashed with such a brilliant flame As if the wealth of all the world Were there in rich confusion hurled. For here the gold in sandy heaps With duller earth incorporate sleeps; Was there in ingots piled, and there Coined badge of empery it bare; Yonder, huge bars of silver lay, Dimmed by the diamond's neighboring ray, Like the pale moon in morning day; 540 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 shy, To earth they bent the humbled eye, Folded their arms, and suppliant kneeled, And thus their proffered gifts revealed. 550 XXVI CHORUS ' See the treasures Merlin piled, Portion meet for Arthur's child. Bathe in Wealth's unbounded stream, Wealth that Avarice ne'er could dream ! ' 3 o8 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN FIRST MAIDEN ' See these clots of virgin gold ! Severed 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.' 560 SECOND MADDEN ' See these pearls that long have 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.' THERD MADDEN Does a livelier hue delight ? Here are rubies blazing bright, Here the emerald's fairy green, And the topaz glows between; 570 Here their varied hues unite In the changeful chrysolite.' FOURTH MADDEN Leave these gems of poorer 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.' 1 Warrior, seize the splendid store ; Would 't were all our mountains bore ! 580 We should ne'er in future story Bead, Peru, thy perished glory ! ' XXVII Calmly and unconcerned the knight Waved aside the treasures bright — ' Gentle Maidens, rise, I pray ! Bar not thus my destined way. Let these boasted brilliant toys Braid the hair of girls and boys ! Bid your streams of gold expand O'er proud London's thirsty land. 590 De Yaux of wealth saw never need Save to purvey him arms and steed, And all the ore he deigned to hoard Inlays his helm and hilts his sword.' Thus gently parting from their hold, He left unmoved the dome of gold. XXVIII And now the morning sun was high, De Vaux was weary, faint, and dry; When, lo ! a plashing sound he hears, A gladsome signal that he nears 600 Some frolic water-run: And soon he reached a courtyard square Where, dancing in the sultry air, Tossed high aloft a fountain fair Was sparkling in the sun. On right and left a fair arcade In long perspective view displayed Alleys and bowers for sun or shade : But full in front a door, Low - browed and dark, seemed as it led 610 To the lone dwelling of the dead Whose memory was no more. XXIX Here stopped De Vaux an instant's space To bathe his parched lips and face, And marked with well-pleased eye, Refracted on the fountain stream, In rainbow hues the dazzling beam Of that gay summer sky. His senses felt a mild control, Like that which lulls the weary soul, 620 From contemplation high Relaxing, 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, 630 Seen distant down the fair arcade, These maids enlinked in sister-fold, Who, late at bashful distance staid, Now tripping from the greenwood 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 to say, ' To please be ours, Be yours to tell us how.' 640 Their hue was of the golden glow That sons of Candahar bestow, O'er which in slight suffusion flows A frequent tinge of paly rose; Their limbs were fashioned fair and free CANTO THIRD 309 In nature's justest symmetry; And, wreathed with flowers, with odors graced, Their raven ringlets reached the waist: In eastern pomp its gilding pale The henna lent each shapely nail, 650 And the dark sum ah 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 showed all too much — Too much — yet promised more. XXXI ' Gentle knight, awhile delay,' Thus they sung, ' thy toilsome way, 660 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 boast nor arm nor heart For the assagay or dart, 670 Swains allow each simple girl Ruby lip and teeth of pearl; Or, if dangers more you prize, Flatterers find them in our eyes. ' Stay, then, gentle warrior, stay, Rest till evening steal on day; Stay, 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, 680 Weave our dances till delight Yield to languor, day to night. Then shall she you most approve Sing the lays that best you love, Soft thy 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.' 690 XXXII O, do not hold it for a crime In the bold hero of my rhyme, For Stoic look And meet rebuke He lacked the heart or time ; As round the band of sirens trip, He kissed one damsel's laughing lip, And pressed another's proffered hand, Spoke to them all in accents bland, But broke their magic circle through; 700 ' Kind maids,' he said, ' adieu, adieu ! My fate, my fortune, forward lies.' He said and vanished 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 ! ' XXXIII Downward De Vaux through darksome ways 710 And ruined vaults has gone, Till issue from their wildered maze Or safe retreat seemed none, And e'en the dismal path he strays Grew worse as he went on. For cheerful sun, for living air, Foul vapors rise and mine-fires glare, Whose fearful light the dangers showed That dogged him on that dreadful road. Deep pits and lakes of waters dun 720 They showed, but showed not how to shun. These scenes of desolate despair, These smothering clouds of poisoned air, How gladly had De Vaux exchanged, Though 't were to face yon tigers ranged ! Nay, soothful bards have said, So perilous his state seemed now He wished him under arbor bough With Asia's willing maid. When, joyful sound ! at distance near 730 A trumpet flourished loud and clear, And as it ceased a lofty lay Seemed thus to chide his lagging way. XXXIV ' Son of Honor, theme of story, Think on the reward before ye ! Danger, darkness, toil despise; 'T is Ambition bids thee rise. ' He that would her heights ascend, Many a weary step must wend; Hand and foot and knee he tries; 740 Thus Ambition's minions rise. ' Lag not now, though rough the way, Fortune's mood brooks no delay; 3io THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN Grasp the boon that 's spread before ye, 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 climbed he far its steepy round Till fresher blew the air, 750 And next a welcome glimpse was given That cheered him with the light of hea- ven. At length his toil had won A lofty hall with trophies dressed, Where as to greet imperial guest Four maidens stood whose crimson vest Was bound with golden zone. XXXV Of Europe seemed the damsels all; The first a nymph of lively Gaul Whose easy step and laughing eye 760 Her borrowed air of awe belie; The next a maid of Spain, Dark-eyed, dark-haired, 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, 770 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, Her graceful vesture swept the ground, And in her hand displayed A crown did that fourth maiden hold, But unadorned with gems and gold, Of glossy laurel made. 780 XXXVI At once to brave De Vaux knelt down These foremost maidens three, And proffered 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, 790 A monarch's empire own; Rather, far rather, would he be A free-born knight of England free Than sit on despot's throne.' So passed he on, when that fourth maid, As starting from a trance, Upon the harp her finger laid; Her magic touch the chords obeyed, Their soul awaked at once ! SONG OF THE FOURTH MAIDEN ' Quake to your foundations deep, 800 Stately towers, and bannered 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 810 Spread by Pleasure, Wealth, and Pride. ' Quake to your foundations deep, Bastion huge, and turret steep ! Tremble, keep ! and totter, tower ! This is Gyneth's waking hour.' XXXVII Thus while she sung the venturous knight Has reached a bower where milder light Through crimson curtains fell; Such softened shade the hill receives, Her purple veil when twilight leaves 820 Upon its western swell. That bower, the gazer to bewitch, Had wondrous store of rare and rich As e'er was seen with eye ; For there by magic skill, iwis, Form of each thing that living is Was limned in proper dye. All seemed to sleep — the timid hare On form, the stag upon his lair, The eagle in her eyrie fair 830 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 passed away, Forgot was that fell tourney-day, For as she slept she smiled: CANTO THIRD 3 11 It seemed that the repentant Seer Her sleep of many a hundred year With gentle dreams beguiled. 840 XXXVIII That form of maiden loveliness, 'Twixt childhood and 'twixt youth, That ivory chair, that sylvan dress, The arms and ankles bare, express Of Lyulph's tale the truth. Still upon her garment's hem Vanoc's blood made purple gem, And the warder of command 850 Cumbered still her sleeping hand; Still her dark locks dishevelled flow From net of pearl o'er breast of snow; And so fair the slumberer seems That De Vaux impeached his dreams, Vapid all and void of might, Hiding half her charms from sight. Motionless awhile he stands, Folds his arms and clasps his hands, Trembling in his fitful joy, 860 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. — ' Saint George ! Saint 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 — 870 But the warder leaves her grasp; Lightning flashes, rolls the thunder ! 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 Vaux Safe the princess lay; 880 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 remained 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 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 10 The honors 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 Saint John; But never man since brave De Vaux The charmed portal won. 'T is now a vain illusive show 20 That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow, Or the fresh breeze hath blown. But see, my love, where far below Our lingering wheels are moving slow, The whiles, up- gazing still, Our menials eye our steepy way, Marvelling perchance what whim can stay Our steps when eve is sinking gray On this gigantic hill. So think the vulgar — Life and time 30 Ring all their joys in one dull chime Of luxury and ease; And O, 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 unclose ! But, Lucy, we will love them yet, The mountain's misty coronet, The greenwood and the wold; 40 And love the more that of their maze Adventure high of other days By ancient bards is told, THE LORD OF THE ISLES 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. THE LORD OF THE ISLES A POEM IN SIX CANTOS INTRODUCTORY NOTE When The Lord of the Isles was published, Scott wrote of it to Lady Abercorn : ' I think it is my last poetical venture, at least upon a large scale. I swear not, because I do not make any positive resolution, but I think I have written enough, and it is unlikely I shall change my opinion.' With his healthy mind, Scott was not likely to misread the signs of nature, or the movement which his intellect- ual interest was likely to take. When he wrote these words he had published Waverley, and was projecting Guy Mannering, and the wider range which fiction could take to include the experiences of life which most appealed to him was too evident to permit him ever to re- turn to any considerable poetic effort. As in the case of his earlier work, he drove two horses abreast and was at work alternately on this poem and on the novel, whose early draft he stumbled on at this time. The poem, indeed, had been projected earlier, — before Hokeby was written, — but in the final heat it was despatched with great rapidity, for, begun at Abbotsford in the autumn of 1814, it was ended at Edinburgh the 16th of Decem- ber, and published January 2, 1815. ' It may be mentioned,' says the anonymous editor of the British Poets Edition, ' that those parts of the poem which were written at Abbotsford, were composed almost all in the presence of Sir Walter Scott's family, and many in that of casual visitors also : the original cottage which he then occupied not affording him any means of retirement. Neither conversation nor music seemed to disturb him.' When he was in the midst of his work, he wrote to Morritt : ' My literary tormentor is a certain Lord of the Isles, famed for his tyranny of yore, and not unjustly. I am bothering some tale of him I have had long by me into a sort of romance. I think ^■u you will like it : it is Scottified up to the teeth and somehow I feel myself like the liberated chiefs of the Rolliad, " who boast their na- tive philabeg restored." I believe the frolics one can cut in this loose garb are all set down by you Sassenachs to the real agility of the wearer, and not the brave, free, and independ- ent character of his clothing. It is, in a word, the real Highland fling, and no one is supposed able to dance it but a native.' The poem bore this advertisement when it was printed. ADVERTISEMENT The Scene of this Poem lies, at first, in the Castle of Artornish, on the coast of Argyleshire ; and, afterwards, in the Islands of Skye and Arran, and upon the coast of Ayrshire. Finally it is laid near Stirling. The story opens in the spring of the year 1307, when Bruce, who had been driven out of Scotland by the English, and the Barons who adhered to that foreign interest, returned from the Island of Bachrin on the coast of Ireland, again to assert his claims to the Scottish crown. Many of the personages and incidents introduced are of historical ce- lebrity. The authorities used are chiefly those of the venerable Lord Hailes, as well entitled to be called the restorer of Scottish history, as Bruce the restorer of Scottish Monarchy ; and of Archdeacon Barbour ; a correct edition of whose Metrical History of Robert Bruce will soon, I trust, appear, under the care of my learned friend, the Rev. Dr. Jamieson. Abbotsford, 10th December, 1814. The edition of 1833 had the following in- troduction, those passages being omitted here which relate to The Bridal of Triermain and Harold the Dauntless, since they are printed in connection with those poems. INTRODUCTION I could hardly have chosen a subject more popular in Scotland than anything connected with the Bruce's history, unless I had attempted that of Wallace. But I am decidedly of opin- ion that a popular, or what is called a taking, title, though well qualified to ensure the pub- CANTO FIRST 3i3 lishers against loss, and clear their shelves of the original impression, is rather apt to he hazardous than otherwise to the reputation of the author. He who attempts a subject of dis- tinguished popularity has not the privilege of awakening the enthusiasm of his audience ; on the contrary, it is already awakened, and glows, it may he, more ardently than that of the author himself. In this case the warmth of the author is inferior to that of the party whom he ad- dresses, who has therefore little chance of be- ing, in Bayes's phrase, ' elevated and surprised ' by what he has thought of with more enthusi- asm than the writer. The sense of this risk, joined to the consciousness of striving against wind and tide, made the task of composing the proposed Poem somewhat heavy and hopeless ; out, like the prize-fighter in As You Like It, I was to wrestle for my reputation, and not neglect any advantage. In a most agreeable pleasure-voyage, which I have tried to com- memorate in the Introduction to the new edition of the Pirate, I visited, in social and friendly company, the coasts and islands of Scotland, and made myself acquainted with the localities of which I meant to treat. But this voyage, which was in every other effect so delightful, was in its conclusion saddened by one of those strokes of fate which so often mingle themselves with our pleasures. The accomplished and excellent person who had recommended to me the subject for The Lay of the Last Minstrel, [Harriet, Duchess of Buc- cleuch] and to whom I proposed to inscribe what I already suspected might be the close of my poetical labors, was unexpectedly re- moved from the world, which she seemed only to have visited for purposes of kindness and benevolence. It is needless to say how the author's feelings, or the composition of his trifling work, were affected by a circumstance which occasioned so many tears and so much sorrow. True it is, that The Lord of the Isles was concluded, unwillingly and in haste, under the painful feeling of one who has a task which must be finished, rather than with the ardor of one who endeavors to perform that task well. Although the Poem cannot be said to have made a favorable impression on the pub- lic, the sale of fifteen thousand copies enabled the Author to retreat from the field with the honors of war. In the mean time, what was necessarily to be considered as a failure was much reconciled to my feelings by the success attending my attempt in another species of composition. Waverley had, under strict incognito, taken its flight from the press, just before I set out upon the voyage already mentioned; it had now made its way to popularity, and the success of that work and the volumes which followed was sufficient to have satisfied a greater ap- petite for applause than I have at any time Abbotspord, April, CANTO FIRST Autumn departs — but still his mantle's fold Rests on the groves of noble Somerville, Beneath a shroud of russet drooped with gold Tweed and his tributaries mingle still; Hoarser the wind and deeper sounds the rill, Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell, The deep-toned cushat and the redbreast shrill; And yet some tints of summer splendor tell When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western fell. Autumn departs — from Gala's fields no more Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer; Blent with the stream and gale that wafts it o'er, No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear. The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear, And harvest-home hath hushed the clanging wain, On the waste hill no forms of life appear, Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal strain, Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain. Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still, Lov'st thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, To see the heath-flower withered on the hill, 3 J 4 THE LORD OF THE ISLES To listen to the woods' expiring lay, To note the red leaf shivering on the spray, To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, And moralize on mortal joy and pain ? — O, if such scenes thou lov'st, scorn not the minstrel strain ! No ! do not scorn, although its hoarser note Scarce with the cushat's homely song can vie, Though faint its beauties as the tints remote That gleam through mist in autumn's evening sky, And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry, When wild November hath his bugle wound; Nor mock my toil — a lonely gleaner I Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found. So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved, To a wild tale of Albyn's warrior day; In distant lands, by the rough West reproved, Still live some relics of the ancient lay. For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay, With such the Seer of Skye the eve beguiles; 'T is known amid the pathless wastes of Reay, In Harries known and in Iona's piles, Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. V * Wake, Maid of Lorn ! ' the minstrels sung. — Thy rugged halls, Artornish, rung, And the dark seas thy towers that lave Heaved on the beach a softer wave, As mid the tuneful choir to keep 50 The diapason of the deep. Lulled were the winds on Inninmore And green Loch-Alliue's woodland shore, As if wild woods and waves had pleasure In listing to the lovely measure. And ne'er to symphony more sweet Gave mountain echoes answer meet Since, met from mainland and from isle, Ross, Arran, Islay, and Argyle, Each minstrel's tributary lay 60 Paid homage to the festal day. Dull and dishonored were the bard, Worthless of guerdon and regard, Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame, Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim, Who on that morn's resistless call Was silent in Artornish hall. * Wake, Maid of Lorn ! ' — 't was thus they sung, And yet more proud the descant rung, 69 ' Wake, Maid of Lorn ! high right is ours To charm dull sleep from Beauty's bowers; Earth, ocean, air, have nought so shy But owns the power of minstrelsy. In Lettermore the timid deer Will pause the harp's wild chime to hear; Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark Will long pursue the minstrel's bark; To list his notes the eagle proud Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud; Then let not maiden's ear disdain The summons of the minstrel train, But while our harps wild music make, Edith of Lorn, awake, awake ! in ' O, wake while Dawn with dewy shine Wakes nature's charms to vie with thine She bids the mottled thrush rejoice To mate thy melody of voice; The dew that on the violet lies Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes ; But, Edith, wake, and all we see Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee ! ' — ' She comes not yet,' gray Ferrand cried; ' Brethren, let softer spell be tried, Those notes prolonged, that soothing theme, Which best may mix with Beauty's dream, CANTO FIRST 3i5 And whisper with their silvery tone The hope she loves yet fears to own.' He spoke, and on the harp-strings died The strains of flattery and of pride; More soft, more low, more tender fell 100 The lay of love he bade them tell. IV I Wake, Maid of Lorn ! the moments fly Which yet that maiden-name allow; Wake, Maiden, wake ! the hour is nigh . When love shall claim a plighted vow. By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest, By Hope, that soon shall fears remove, We bid thee break the bonds of rest, And wake thee at the call of Love ! ' Wake, Edith, wake ! in yonder bay no Lies many a galley gayly manned, We hear the merry pibroch's play, We see the streamers' silken band. What chieftain's praise these pibrochs swell, What crest is on these banners wove, The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell — The riddle must be read by Love ! ' Retired her maiden train among, Edith of Lorn received the song, n 9 But tamed the minstrel's pride had been That had her cold demeanor seen; For not upon her cheek awoke The glow of pride when Flattery spoke, Nor could their tenderest numbers bring One sigh responsive to the string. As vainly had her maidens vied In skill to deck the princely bride. Her locks in dark-brown length arrayed, Cathleen of Ulne, 't was thine to braid; Young Eva with meet reverence drew 130 On the light foot the silken shoe, While on the ankle's slender round Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound That, bleached Lochryan's depths within, Seemed dusky still on Edith's skin. But Einion, of experience old, Had weightiest task — the mantle's fold In many an artful plait she tied To show the form it seemed to hide, Till on the floor descending rolled 140 Its waves of crimson blent with gold. VI O, lives there now so cold a maid, Who thus in beauty's pomp arrayed, In beauty's proudest pitch of power, And conquest won — the bridal hour — With every charm that wins the heart, By Nature given, enhanced by Art, Could yet the fair reflection view In the bright mirror pictured true, And not one dimple on her cheek 150 A telltale consciousness bespeak ? — Lives still such maid ? — Fair damsels, say, For further vouches not my lay Save that such lived in Britain's isle When Lorn's bright Edith scorned to smile. VII But Morag, to whose fostering care Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair, Morag, who saw a mother's aid By all a daughter's love repaid — Strict was that bond, most kind of all, 160 Inviolate in Highland hall — Gray Morag sate a space apart, In Edith's eyes to read her heart. In vain the attendant's fond appeal To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal; She marked her child receive their care, Cold as the image sculptured fair — Form of some sainted patroness — Which cloistered maids combine to dress; She marked — and knew her nursling's heart i 70 In the vain pomp took little part. Wistful awhile she gazed — then pressed The maiden to her anxious breast In finished loveliness — and led To where a turret's airy head, Slender and steep and battled round, O'erlooked, dark Mull, thy mighty Sound, Where thwarting tides with mingled roar Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore. VIII ' Daughter,' she said, 'these seas behold, 180 Round twice a hundred islands rolled, From Hirt that hears their northern roar To the green Hay's fertile shore; Or mainland turn where many a tower Owns thy bold brother's feudal power, Each on its own dark cape reclined And listening to its own wild wind, From where Mingarry sternly placed O'erawes the woodland and the waste, 189 To where Dunstaffnage hears the raging Of Connal with its rocks engaging. Think'st thou amid this ample round 316 THE LORD OF THE ISLES A single brow but thine has frowned, To sadden this auspicious morn That bids the daughter of high Lorn Impledge her spousal faith to wed The heir of mighty Somerled ? Ronald, from many a hero sprung, The fair, the valiant, and the young, Lokd of the Isles, whose lofty name 200 A thousand bards have given to fame, The mate of monarchs, and allied On equal terms with England's pride. — From chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot, Who hears the tale, and triumphs not ? The damsel dons her best attire, The shepherd lights his beltane fire, J°y • j°y • each warder's horn hath sung, J°y • j°y • eacn m atin bell hath rung; The holy priest says grateful mass, 210 Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass, No mountain den holds outcast boor Of heart so dull, of soul so poor, But he hath flung his task aside, And claimed this morn for holy-tide; Yet, empress of this joyful day, Edith is sad while all are gay.' Proud Edith's soul came to her eye, Resentment checked the struggling sigh. Her hurrying hand indignant dried 220 The burning tears of injured pride — ' Morag, forbear ! or lend thy praise To swell yon hireling harpers' lays; Make to yon maids thy boast of power, That they may waste a wondering hour Telling of banners proudly borne, Of pealing bell and bugle horn, Or, theme more dear, of robes of price, Crownlets and gauds of rare device. But thou, experienced as thou art, 230 Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart That, bound in strong affection's chain, Looks for return and looks in vain ? No ! sum thine Edith's wretched lot In these brief words — He loves her not ! ' Debate it not — too long I strove To call his cold observance love, All blinded by the league that styled Edith of Lorn — while yet a child She tripped the heath by Morag's side — 240 The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride. Ere yet I saw him, while afar His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war, Trained to believe our fates the same, My bosom throbbed when Ronald's name Came gracing Fame's heroic tale, Like perfume on the summer gale. What pilgrim sought our halls nor told Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold; Who touched the harp to heroes' praise 250 But his achievements swelled the lays ? Even Morag — not a tale of fame Was hers but closed with Ronald's name. He came ! and all that had been told Of his high worth seemed poor and cold, Tame, lifeless, void of energy, Unjust to Ronald and to me ! XI ' Since then, what thought had Edith's heart And gave not plighted love its part ! — And what requital ? cold delay — 260 Excuse that shunned the spousal day. — It dawns and Ronald is not here ! — Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer, Or loiters he in secret dell To bid some lighter love farewell, And swear that though he may not scorn A daughter of the House of Lorn, Yet. when these formal rites are o'er, Again they meet to part no more ? ' ' Hush, daughter, hush ! thy doubts re- move, 2; More nobly think of Ronald's love. Look, where beneath the castle gray His fleet unmoor from Aros bay ! See'st not each galley's topmast bend As on the yards the sails ascend ? Hiding the dark-blue land they rise, Like the white clouds on April skies; The shouting vassals man the oars, Behind them sink Mull's mountain shores. Onward their merry course they keep 280 Through whistling breeze and foaming deep. And mark the headmost, seaward cast, Stoop to the freshening gale her mast, As if she veiled its bannered pride To greet afar her prince's bride ! Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed His galley mates the flying steed, He chides her sloth ! ' — Fair Edith sighed Blushed, sadly smiled, and thus replied: CANTO FIRST 317 XIII [ Sweet thought, but vain ! — No, Morag ! mark, 290 Type of his course, yon lonely bark, That oft hath shifted helm and sail To win its way against the gale. Since peep of morn my vacant eyes Have viewed by fits the course she tries; Now, though the darkening scud comes on, And dawn's fair promises be gone, And though the weary crew may see Our sheltering haven on their lee, Still closer to the rising wind 300 They strive her shivering sail to bind, Still nearer to the shelves' dread verge At every tack her course they urge, As if they feared Artornish more Than adverse winds and breakers' roar.' XIV Sooth spoke the maid. Amid the tide The skiff she marked lay tossing sore, And shifted oft her stooping side, In weary tack from shore to shore. Yet on her destined course no more 3 10 She gained of forward way Than what a minstrel may compare To the poor meed which peasants share Who toil the livelong day; And such the risk her pilot braves That oft, before she wore, Her boltsprit kissed the broken waves Where in white foam the ocean raves Upon the shelving shore. Yet, to their destined purpose true, 320 Undaunted toiled her hardy crew, Nor looked where shelter lay, Nor for Artornish Castle drew, Nor steered for Aros bay. xv Thus while they strove with wind and seas, Borne onward by the willing breeze, Lord Ronald's fleet swept by, Streamered with silk and tricked with gold, Manned with the noble and the bold Of Island chivalry. 330 Around their prows the ocean roars, And chafes beneath their thousand oars, Yet bears them on their way: So chafes the war-horse in his might That fieldward bears some valiant knight, Champs till both bit and boss are white, But foaming must obey. On each gay deck they might behold Lances of steel and crests of gold, And hauberks with their burnished fold 340 That shimmered fair and free ; And each proud galley as she passed To the wild cadence of the blast Gave wilder minstrelsy. Full many a shrill triumphant note Saline and Scallastle bade float Their misty shores around; And Morven's echoes answered well, And Duart heard the distant swell Come down the darksome Sound. 350 So bore they on with mirth and pride, And if that laboring bark they spied, 'T was with such idle eye As nobles cast on lowly boor When, toiling in his task obscure, They pass him careless by. Let them sweep on with heedless eyes ! But had they known what mighty prize In that frail vessel lay, The famished wolf that prowls the wold 360 Had scathless passed the unguarded fold, Ere, drifting by these galleys bold, Unchallenged were her way ! And thou, Lord Ronald, sweep thou on With mirth and pride and minstrel tone ! But hadst thou known who sailed so nigh, Far other glance were in thine eye ! Far other flush were on thy brow, That, shaded by the bonnet, now Assumes but ill the blithesome cheer 370 Of bridegroom when the bride is near ! XVII Yes, sweep they on ! — We will not leave, For them that triumph, those who grieve. With that armada gay Be laughter loud and jocund shout, And bards to cheer the wassail rout With tale, romance, and lay; And of wild mirth each clamorous art, Which, if it cannot cheer the heart, May stupefy and stun its smart 380 For one loud busy day. Yes, sweep they on ! — But with that skiff Abides the minstrel tale, Where there was dread of surge and cliff, Labor that strained each sinew stiff, And one sad maiden's wail. 3i» THE LORD OF THE ISLES XVIII All day with fruitless strife they toiled, With eve the ebbing currents boiled More fierce from strait and lake; And midway through the channel met 390 Conflicting tides that foam and fret, And high their mingled billows jet, As spears that in the battle set Spring upward as they break. Then too the lights of eve were past, And louder sung the western blast On rocks of Inninmore; Rent was the sail, and strained the mast, And many a leak was gaping fast, And the pale steersman stood aghast 400 And gave the conflict o'er. 'T was then that One whose lofty look Nor labor dulled nor terror shook Thus to the leader spoke : — 'Brother, how hop'st thou to abide The fury of this wildered tide, Or how avoid the rock's rude side Until the day has broke ? Didst thou not mark the vessel reel 409 With quivering planks and groaning keel At the last billow's shock ? Yet how of better counsel tell, Though here thou see'st poor Isabel Half dead with want and fear; For look on sea, or look on land, Or yon dark sky, on every hand Despair and death are near. For her alone I grieve — on me Danger sits light by land and sea, I follow where thou wilt; 420 Either to bide the tempest's lour, Or wend to yon unfriendly tower, Or rush amid their naval power, With war-cry wake their wassail-hour, And die with hand on hilt.' XX That elder leader's calm reply In steady voice was given, ' In man's most dark extremity Oft succor dawns from heaven. Edward, trim thou the shattered sail, 430 The helm be mine, and down the gale Let our free course be driven; So shall we 'scape the western bay, The hostile fleet, the unequal fray, So safely hold our vessel's way Beneath the castle wall; For if a hope of safety rest, 'T is on the sacred name of guest, Who seeks for shelter storm-distressed Within a chieftain's hall. If not — it best beseems our worth, Our name, our right, our lofty birth, By noble hands to fall.' The helm, to his strong arm consigned, Gave the reefed sail to meet the wind, And on her altered way Fierce bounding forward sprung the ship, Like greyhound starting from the slip To seize his flying prey. Awaked before the rushing prow 45 The mimic fires of ocean glow, Those lightnings of the wave; Wild sparkles crest the broken tides, And flashing round the vessel's sides With elfish lustre lave, While far behind their livid light To the dark billows of the night A gloomy splendor gave, It seems as if old Ocean shakes From his dark brow the lucid flakes In envious pageantry, To match the meteor-light that streaks Grim Hecla's midnight sky. XXII Nor lacked they steadier light to keep Their course upon the darkened deep;- Artornish, on her frowning steep 'Twixt cloud and ocean hung, Glanced with a thousand lights of glee, And landward far, and far to sea Her festal radiance flung. By that blithe beacon-light they steered, Whose lustre mingled well With the pale beam that now appeared, As the cold moon her head upreared Above the eastern fell. XXIII Thus guided, on their course they bore Until they neared the mainland shore, When frequent on the hollow blast Wild shouts of merriment were cast, And wind and wave and sea-birds' cry 480 With wassail sounds in concert vie, Like funeral shrieks with revelry, Or like the battle-shout By peasants heard from cliffs on high CANTO FIRST 3i9 When Triumph, Rage, and Agony- Madden the fight and rout. Now nearer yet through mist and storm Dimly arose the castle's form And deepened shadow made, Far lengthened on the main below, 49° Where dancing in reflected glow A hundred torches played, Spangling the wave with lights as vain As pleasures in this vale of pain, That dazzle as they fade. XXIV Beneath the castle's sheltering lee They staid their course in quiet sea. Hewn in the rock, a passage there Sought the dark fortress by a stair, So strait, so high, so steep, 500 With peasant's staff one valiant hand Might well the dizzy pass have manned 'Gainst hundreds armed with spear and brand And plunged them in the deep. His bugle then the helmsman wound: Loud answered every echo round From turret, rock, and bay; The postern's hinges crash and groan, And soon the warder's cresset shone On those rude steps of slippery stone, 510 To light the upward way. ' Thrice welcome, holy Sire ! ' he said; r Full long the spousal train have staid, And, vexed at thy delay, Feared lest amidst these wildering seas The darksome night and freshening breeze Had driven thy bark astray.' — XXV j Warder,' the younger stranger said, * Thine erring guess some mirth had made In mirthful hour; but nights like these, 520 When the rough winds wake western seas, Brook not of glee. We crave some aid And needful shelter for this maid Until the break of day; For to ourselves the deck's rude plank Is easy as the mossy bank That 's breathed upon by May. And for our storm-tossed skiff we seek Short shelter in this leeward creek, 529 Prompt when the dawn the east shall streak Again to bear away.' Answered the warder, 'In what name Assert ye hospitable claim ? Whence come or whither bound ? Hath Erin seen your parting sails, Or come ye on Norweyan gales ? And seek ye England's fertile vales, Or Scotland's mountain ground ? ' XXVI ' Warriors — for other title none For some brief space we list to own, 540 Bound by a vow — warriors are we ; In strife by land and storm by sea We have been known to fame; And these brief words have import dear, When sounded in a noble ear, To harbor safe and friendly cheer That gives us rightful claim. Grant us the trivial boon we seek, And we in other realms will speak Fair of your courtesy; 550 Deny — and be your niggard hold Scorned by the noble and the bold, Shunned by the pilgrim on the wold And wanderer on the lea ! ' XXVII 'Bold stranger, no — 'gainst claim like thine No bolt revolves by hand of mine, Though urged in tone that more expressed A monarch than a suppliant guest. Be what ye will, Artornish Hall On this glad eve is free to all. 560 Though ye had drawn a hostile sword 'Gainst our ally, great England's Lord, Or mail upon your shoulders borne To battle with the Lord of Lorn, Or outlawed dwelt by greenwood tree With the fierce Knight of Ellerslie, Or aided even the murderous strife When Comyn fell beneath the knife Of that fell homicide the Bruce, This night had been a term of truce. — 570 Ho, vassals ! give these guests your care, And show the narrow postern stair.' XXVIII To land these two bold brethren leapt — The weary crew their vessel kept — And, lighted by the torches' flare That seaward flung their smoky glare, The younger knight that maiden bare Half lifeless up the rock; On his strong shoulder leaned her head, And down her long dark tresses shed, 580 As the wild vine in tendrils spread Droops from the mountain oak. 320 THE LORD OF THE ISLES Him followed close that elder lord, And in his hand a sheathed sword Such as few arms could wield; But when he bouned him to such task Well could it cleave the strongest casque And rend the surest shield. XXIX The raised portcullis' arch they pass, The wicket with its bars of brass, 590 The entrance long and low, Flanked at each turn by loop-holes strait, Where bowmen might in ambush wait — If force or fraud should burst the gate — To gall an entering foe. But every jealous post of ward Was now defenceless and unbarred, And all the passage free To one low-browed and vaulted room Where squire and yeoman, page and groom, 600 Plied their loud revelry. And ' Rest ye here,' the warder bade, ' Till to our lord your suit is said. — And, comrades, gaze not on the maid And on these men who ask our aid, As if ye ne'er had seen A damsel tired of midnight bark Or wanderers of a moulding stark And bearing martial mien.' But not for Eachin's reproof 610 Would page or vassal stand aloof, But crowded on to stare, As men of courtesy untaught, Till Fiery Edward roughly caught From one the foremost there His chequered plaid, and in its shroud, To hide her from the vulgar crowd, Involved his sister fair. His brother, as the clansman bent His sullen brow in discontent, 620 Made brief and stern excuse: ' Vassal, were thine the cloak of pall That decks thy lord in bridal hall, 'T were honored by her use.' XXXI Proud was his tone but calm; his eye Had that compelling dignity, His mien that bearing haught and high, Which common spirits fear; Needed nor word nor signal more, Nod, wink, and laughter, all were o'er; 630 Upon each other back they bore And gazed like startled deer. But now appeared the seneschal, Commissioned by his lord to call The strangers to the baron's hall, Where feasted fair and free That Island Prince in nuptial tide With Edith there his lovely bride, And her bold brother by her side, And many a chief, the flower and pride 640 Of Western land and sea. Here pause we, gentles, for a space; And, if our tale hath won your grace, Grant us brief patience and again We will renew the minstrel strain. CANTO SECOND Fill the bright goblet, spread the festive board ! Summon the gay, the noble, and the fair ! Through the loud hall in joyous concert poured, Let mirth and music sound the dirge of Care ! But ask thou not if Happiness be there, If the loud laugh disguise convulsive throe, Or if the brow the heart's true livery wear; Lift not the festal mask ! — enough to know, No scene of mortal life but teems with mortal woe. With beakers' clang, with harpers' lay, 10 With all that olden time deemed gay, The Island Chieftain feasted high; But there was in his troubled eye A gloomy fire, and on his brow Now sudden flushed and faded now Emotions such as draw their birth From deeper source than festal mirth. By fits he paused, and harper's strain And jester's tale went round in vain, Or fell but on his idle ear 20 Like distant sounds which dreamers hear. Then would he rouse him, and employ Each art to aid the clamorous joy, And call for pledge and lay, CANTO SECOND 321 And, for brief space, of all the crowd, As he was loudest of the loud, Seem gayest of the gay. in Yet nought amiss the bridal throng Marked in brief mirth or musing long; The vacant brow, the unlistening ear, 30 They gave to thoughts of raptures near, And his fierce starts of sudden glee Seemed bursts of bridegroom's ecstasy. Nor thus alone misjudged the crowd, Since lofty Lorn, suspicious, proud, And jealous of his honored line, And that keen knight, De Argentine — From England sent on errand high The western league more firm to tie — Both deemed in Ronald's mood to find 40 A lover's transport-troubled mind. But one sad heart, one tearful eye, Pierced deeper through the mystery, And watched with agony and fear Her wayward bridegroom's varied cheer. IV She watched — yet feared to meet his glance, And he shunned hers; — till when by chance They met, the point of foeman's lance Had given a milder pang ! Beneath the intolerable smart 50 He writhed; — then sternly manned his heart To play his hard but destined part, And from the table sprang. * Fill me the mighty cup,' he said, * Erst owned by royal Somerled ! Fill it, till on the studded brim In burning gold the bubbles swim, And every gem of varied shine Glow doubly bright in rosy wine ! To you, brave lord, and brother mine, 60 Of Lorn, this pledge I drink — The Union of Our House with thine, By this fair bridal-link ! ' * Let it pass round ! ' quoth he of Lorn, ' And in good time — that winded horn Must of the abbot tell; The laggard monk is come at last.' Lord Ronald heard the bugle-blast, And on the floor at random cast The untasted goblet fell. 70 But when the warder in his ear Tells other news, his blither cheer Returns like sun of May When through a thunder-cloud it beams ! — Lord of two hundred isles, he seems As glad of brief delay As some poor criminal might feel When from the gibbet or the wheel Respited for a day. VI K ' Brother of Lorn,' with hurried voice 80 He said, l and you, fair lords, rejoice ! Here, to augment our glee, Come wandering knights from travel far, Well proved, they say, in strife of war And tempest on the sea. — Ho ! give them at your board such place As best their presences may grace, And bid them welcome free ! ' With solemn step and silver wand, The seneschal the presence scanned 90 Of these strange guests, and well he knew How to assign their rank its due; For though the costly furs That erst had decked their caps were torn, And their gay robes were over-worn, And soiled their gilded spurs, Yet such a high commanding grace Was in their mien and in their face As suited best the princely dais And royal canopy; i 00 And there he marshalled them their place, First of that company. Then lords and ladies spake aside, And angry looks the error chide That gave to guests unnamed, unknown, A place so near their prince's throne; But Owen Erraught said, ' For forty years a seneschal, To marshal guests in bower and hall Has been my honored trade. i Worship and birth to me are known, By look, by bearing, and by tone, Not by furred robe or broidered zone; And 'gainst an oaken bough I '11 gage my silver wand of state That these three strangers oft have sate In higher place than now.' VIII I too,' the aged Ferrand said, Am qualified by minstrel trade 322 THE LORD OF THE ISLES Of rank and place to tell; — 120 Marked ye the younger stranger's eye, My mates, how quick, how keen, how high* How fierce its flashes fell, Glancing among the noble rout As if to seek the noblest out, Because the owner might not brook On any save his peers to look ? And yet it moves me more, That steady, calm, majestic brow, With which the elder chief even now 130 Scanned the gay presence o'er, Like being of superior kind, In whose high-toned impartial mind Degrees of mortal rank and state Seem objects of indifferent weight. The lady too — though closely tied The mantle veil both face and eye, Her motions' grace it could not hide, Nor cloud her form's fair symme- try.' IX Suspicious doubt and lordly scorn 140 I Loured on the haughty front of Lorn. From underneath his brows of pride The stranger guests he sternly eyed, And whispered closely what the ear Of Argentine alone might hear; Then questioned, high and brief, If in their voyage aught they knew Of the rebellious Scottish crew Who to Rath-Erin's shelter drew With Carrick's outlawed Chief ? 150 And if, their winter's exile o'er, They harbored still by Ulster's shore, Or launched their galleys on the main To vex their native land again ? That younger stranger, fierce and high, At once confronts the chieftain's eye With look of equal scorn: ' Of rebels have we nought to show; But if of royal Bruce thou 'dst know, I warn thee he has sworn, 160 Ere thrice three days shall come and go, His banner Scottish winds shall blow, Despite each mean or mighty foe, From England's every bill and bow To Allaster of Lorn.' Kindled the mountain chieftain's ire, But Ronald quenched the rising fire : * Brother, it better suits the time To chase the night with Ferrand's rhyme Than wake midst mirth and wine the jars That flow from these unhappy wars.' 'Content,' said Lorn; and spoke apart With Ferrand, master of his art, Then whispered Argentine, ' The lay I named will carry smart To these bold strangers' haughty heart, If right this guess of mine.' He ceased, and it was silence all Until the minstrel waked the hall. XI THE BROOCH OF LORN ' Whence the brooch of burning gold 18 That clasps the chieftain's mantle-fold, On the varied tartans beaming, Wrought and chased with rare device, Studded fair with gems of price, As, through night's pale rainbow gleam Fainter now, now seen afar, Fitful shines the northern star ? ' Gem ! ne'er wrought on Highland moun- tain, Did the fairy of the fountain Or the mermaid of the wave Frame thee in some coral cave ? Did, in Iceland's darksome mine, Dwarf's swart hands thy metal twine ? Or, mortal-moulded, comest thou here From England's love or France's fear ? XII SONG CONTINUED ' No ! — thy splendors nothing tell Foreign art or faery spell. Moulded thou for monarch's use, By the overweening Bruce, When the royal robe he tied 20c O'er a heart of wrath and pride; Thence in triumph wert thou torn By the victor hand of Lorn ! ' When the gem was won and lost, Widely was the war-cry tossed ! Rung aloud Bendourish fell, Answered Douchart's sounding dell, Fled the deer from wild Teyndrum, When the homicide o'ercome Hardly 'scaped with scathe and scorn, 21c Left the pledge with conquering Lorn ! CANTO SECOND 3 2 S XIII SONG CONCLUDED * Vain was then the Douglas brand, Vain the Campbell's vaunted hand, Vain Kirkpatrick's bloody dirk, Making sure of murder's work; Barendown fled fast away, Fled the fiery De la Haye, When this brooch triumphant borne Beamed upon the breast of Lorn. * Farthest fled its former lord, Left his men to brand and cord, Bloody brand of Highland steel, English gibbet, axe, and wheel. Let him fly from coast to coast, Dogged by Corny n's vengeful ghost, While his spoils in triumph worn Long shall grace victorious Lorn ! ' As glares the tiger on his foes, Hemmed in by hunters, spears, and bows, And, ere he bounds upon the ring, 230 Selects the object of his spring, — Now on the bard, now on his lord, So Edward glared and grasped his sword — But stern his brother spoke, ' Be still. What ! art thou yet so wild of will, After high deeds and sufferings long, To chafe thee for a menial's song ? — Well hast thou framed, old man, thy strains, To praise the hand that pays thy pains ! Yet something might thy song have told 240 Of Lorn's three vassals, true and bold, Who rent their lord from Bruce's hold As underneath his knee he lay, And died to save him in the fray. I 've heard the Bruce's cloak and clasp Was clenched within their dying grasp, What time a hundred foemen more Rushed in and back the victor bore, Long after Lorn had left the strife, Full glad to 'scape with limb and life. — 250 Enough of this — and, minstrel, hold As minstrel-hire this chain of gold, For future lays a fair excuse To speak more nobly of the Bruce.' — I Now, by Columba's shrine, I swear, And every saint that 's buried there, 'T is he himself ! ' Lorn sternly cries, ' And for my kinsman's death he dies.' As loudly Ronald calls, ' Forbear ! Not in my sight while brand I wear, 26c O'ermatched by odds, shall warrior fall, Or blood of stranger stain my hall ! This ancient fortress of my race Shall be misfortune's resting-place, Shelter and shield of the distressed, No slaughter-house for shipwrecked guest.' * Talk not to me,' fierce Lorn replied, ' Of odds or match ! — when Comyn died, Three daggers clashed within his side ! Talk not to me of sheltering hall, 270 The Church of God saw Comyn fall ! On God's own altar streamed his blood, While o'er my prostrate kinsman stood The ruthless murderer — e'en as now — With armed hand and scornful brow ! — Up, all who love me ! blow on blow ! And lay the outlawed felons low ! ' Then up sprang many a mainland lord, Obedient to their chieftain's word. Barcaldine's arm is high in air, 280 And Kinloch-Alline's blade is bare, Black Murthok's dirk has left its sheath, And clenched is Dermid's hand of death. Their muttered threats of vengeance swell Into a wild and warlike yell; Onward they press with weapons high, The affrighted females shriek and fly, And, Scotland, then thy brightest ray Had darkened ere its noon of day, But every chief of birth and fame 290 That from the Isles of Ocean came At Ronald's side that hour withstood Fierce Lorn's relentless thirst for blood. XVII Brave Torquil from Dunvegan high, Lord of the misty hills of Skye, Mac-Niel, wild Bara's ancient thane, Duart of bold Clan-Gillian's strain, Fergus of Canna's castled bay, Mac-Duffith, Lord of Colonsay, 299 Soon as they saw the broadswords glance, With ready weapons rose at once, More prompt that many an ancient feud, Full oft suppressed, full oft renewed, Glowed 'twixt the chieftains of Argyle, And many a lord of ocean's isle. Wild was the scene — each sword was bare, Back streamed each chieftain's shaggy hair, X 3 2 4 THE LORD OF THE ISLES In gloomy opposition set, Eyes, hands, and brandished weapons met; Blue gleaming o'er the social board, 310 Flashed to the torches many a sword; And soon those bridal lights may shine On purple blood for rosy wine. While thus for blows and death prepared, Each heart was up, each weapon bared, Each foot advanced, — a surly pause Still reverenced hospitable laws. All menaced violence, but alike Reluctant each the first to strike — For aye accursed in minstrel line 320 Is he who brawls mid song and wine, And, matched in numbers and in might, Doubtful and desperate seemed the fight. Thus threat and murmur died away, Till on the crowded hall there lay Such silence as the deadly still Ere bursts the thunder on the hill. With blade advanced, each chieftain bold Showed like the Sworder's form of old, As wanting still the torch of life 330 To wake the marble into strife. XIX That awful pause the stranger maid And Edith seized to pray for aid. As to De Argentine she clung, Away her veil the stranger flung, And, lovely mid her wild despair, Fast streamed her eyes, wide flowed her hair: ' O thou, of knighthood once the flower, Sure refuge in distressful hour, Thou who in Judah well hast fought 340 For our dear faith and oft hast sought Renown in knightly exercise When this poor hand has dealt the prize, Say, can thy soul of honor brook On the unequal strife to look, When, butchered thus in peaceful hall, Those once thy friends, my brethren, fall ! ' To Argentine she turned her word, But her eye sought the Island Lord. A flush like evening's setting flame 350 Glowed on his cheek ; his hardy frame As with a brief convulsion shook: With hurried voice and eager look, ' Fear not,' he said, « my Isabel ! What said I — Edith ! — all is well — Nay, fear not — I will well provide The safety of my lovely bride — My bride ?' — but there the accents clung In tremor to his faltering tongue. xx Now rose De Argentine to claim 360 The prisoners in his sovereign's name To England's crown, who, vassals sworn, 'Gainst their liege lord had weapon borne — Such speech, I ween, was but to hide His care their safety to provide; For knight more true in thought and deed Than Argentine ne'er spurred a steed — And Ronald who his meaning guessed Seemed half to sanction the request. This purpose fiery Torquil broke: 37 o 'Somewhat we 've heard of England's yoke,' He said, ' and in our islands Fame Hath whispered of a lawful claim That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's lord, Though dispossessed by foreign sword. This craves reflection — but though right And just the charge of England's Knight, Let England's crown her rebels seize Where she has power; — in towers like these, 379 Midst Scottish chieftains summoned here To bridal mirth and bridal cheer, Be sure, with no consent of mine Shall either Lorn or Argentine With chains or violence, in our sight, Oppress a brave and banished knight.' XXI Then waked the wild debate again With brawling threat and clamor vain. Vassals and menials thronging in Lent their brute rage to swell the din ; When far and wide a bugle-clang 390 From the dark ocean upward rang. ' The abbot comes ! ' they cry at once, ' The holy man, whose favored glance Hath sainted visions known; Angels have met him on the way, Beside the blessed martyr's bay, And by Columba's stone. His monks have heard their hymnings high Sound from the summit of Dun-Y, To cheer his penance lone, 400 When at each cross, on girth and wold — Their number thrice a hundred-fold — His prayer he made, his beads he told, With Aves many a one — CANTO SECOND 325 He comes our feuds to reconcile, A sainted man from sainted isle; We will his holy doom abide, The abbot shall our strife decide.' XXII Scarcely this fair accord was o'er When through the wide revolving door 410 The black-stoled brethren wind; Twelve sandalled monks who relics bore, With many a torch-bearer before And many a cross behind. Then sunk each fierce uplifted hand, And dagger bright and flashing brand Dropped swiftly at the sight; They vanished from the Churchman's eye, As shooting stars that glance and die Dart from the vault of night. 420 XXIII The abbot on the threshold stood, And in his hand the holy rood; Back on his shoulders flowed his hood, The torch's glaring ray Showed in its red and flashing light His withered cheek and amice white, His blue eye glistening cold and bright, His tresses scant and gray. I Fair Lords,' he said, ' Our Lady's love, And peace be with you from above, 430 And Benedicite ! — But what means this ? — no peace is here ! — Do dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer ? Or are these naked brands A seemly show for Churchman's sight When he comes summoned to unite Betrothed hearts and hands ? ' XXIV Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal, Proud Lorn first answered the appeal: 'Thou com'st, O holy man, 44 o True sons of blessed church to greet, But little deeming here to meet A wretch beneath the ban Of Pope and Church for murder done Even on the sacred altar-stone — Well mayst thou wonder we should know Such miscreant here, nor lay him low, Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce, With excommunicated Bruce ! Yet well I grant, to end debate, 45 o Thy sainted voice decide his fate.' Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause, And knighthood's oath and honor's laws; And Isabel on bended knee Brought prayers and tears to back the plea; And Edith lent her generous aid, And wept, and Lorn for mercy prayed. 'Hence,' he exclaimed, 'degenerate maid ! Was 't not enough to Ronald's bower I brought thee, like a paramour, 460 Or bond-maid at her master's gate, His careless cold approach to wait ? — But the bold Lord of Cumberland, The gallant Clifford, seeks thy hand; His it shaM be — Nay, no reply ! Hence ! till those rebel eyes be dry.' With grief the abbot heard and saw, Yet nought relaxed his brow of awe. XXVI Then Argentine, in England's name, So highly urged his sovereign's claim 470 He waked a spark that long suppressed Had smouldered in Lord Ronald's breast; And now, as from the flint the fire, Flashed forth at once his generous ire. ' Enough of noble blood,' he said, ' By English Edward had been shed, Since matchless Wallace first had been In mockery crowned with wreaths of green, And done to death by felon hand For guarding well his father's land. 480 Where 's Nigel Bruce ? and De la Haye, And valiant Seton — where are they ? Where Somerville, the kind and free ? And Fraser, flower of chivalry ? Have they not been on gibbet bound, Their quarters flung to hawk and hound, And hold we here a cold debate To yield more victims to their fate ? What ! can the English Leopard's mood Never be gorged with northern blood ? 490 Was not the life of Athole shed To soothe the tyrant's sickened bed ? And must his word till dying day Be nought but quarter, hang, and slay ! — Thou frown'st, De Argentine, — my gage Is prompt to prove the strife I wage.' XXVII ' Nor deem,' said stout Dunvegan's knight, ' That thou shalt brave alone the fight ! By saints of isle and mainland both, 326 THE LORD OF THE ISLES By Woden wild — my grandsire's oath — 500 Let Rome and England do their worst, Howe'er attainted or accursed, If Bruce shall e'er find friends again Once more to brave a battle-plain, If Douglas couch again his lance, Or Randolph dare another chance, Old Torquil will not be to lack With twice a thousand at his back. — Nay, chafe not at my bearing bold, Good abbot ! for thou know'st of old, 510 Torquil's rude thought and stubborn will Smack of the wild Norwegian still; Nor will I barter Freedom's cause For England's wealth or Rome's ap- plause.' XXVIII The abbot seemed with eye severe The hardy chieftain's speech to hear; Then on King Robert turned the monk, But twice his courage came and sunk, Confronted with the hero's look; Twice fell his eye, his accents shook; 520 At length, resolved in tone and brow, Sternly he questioned him — ' And thou, Unhappy ! what hast thou to plead, Why I denounce not on thy deed That awful doom which canons tell Shuts paradise and opens hell; Anathema of power so dread It blends the living with the dead, Bids each good angel soar away And every ill one claim his prey; 530 Expels thee from the church's care And deafens Heaven against thy prayer; Arms every hand against thy life, Bans all who aid thee in the strife, Nay, each whose succor, cold and scant, With meanest alms relieves thy want; Haunts thee while living, — and when dead Dwells on thy yet devoted head, Rends Honor's scutcheon from thy hearse, Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse, 540 And spurns thy corpse from hallowed'' ground, Flung like vile carrion to the hound: Such is the dire and desperate doom For sacrilege, decreed by Rome: And such the well-deserved meed Of thine unhallowed, ruthless deed.' XXIX ' Abbot ! ' the Bruce replied, ' thy charge It boots not to dispute at large. This much, howe'er, I bid thee know, No selfish vengeance dealt the blow, 550 For Comyn died his country's foe. Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed Fulfilled my soon-repented deed, Nor censure those from whose stern tongue The dire anathema has rung. I only blame mine own wild ire, By Scotland's wrongs incensed to fire. Heaven knows my purpose to atone, Far as I may, the evil done, And hears a penitent's appeal 560 From papal curse and prelate's zeal. My first and dearest task achieved, Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved, Shall many a priest in cope and stole Say requiem for Red Comyn's soul, While I the blessed cross advance And expiate this unhappy chance In Palestine with sword and lance. But, while content the Church should know My conscience owns the debt I owe, 57c Unto De Argentine and Lorn The name of traitor I return, Bid them defiance stern and high, And give them in their throats the lie ! These brief words spoke, I speak no more. Do what thou wilt ; my shrift is o'er.' xxx Like man by prodigy amazed, Upon the king the abbot gazed; Then o'er his pallid features glance Convulsions of ecstatic trance. 580 His breathing came more thick and fast, And from his pale blue eyes were cast Strange rays of wild and wandering light; Uprise his locks of silver white, Flushed is his brow, through every vein In azure tide the currents strain, And undistinguished accents broke The awful silence ere he spoke. XXXI ' De Bruce ! I rose with purpose dread To speak my curse upon thy head, 590 And give thee as an outcast o'er To him who burns to shed thy gore; — But, like the Midianite of old Who stood on Zophim, Heaven-controlled, I feel within mine aged breast A power that will not be repressed. It prompts my voice, it swells my veins, It burns, it maddens, it constrains ! — De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow CANTO THIRD 327 Hath at God's altar slain thy foe: 600 O'ermastered yet by high behest, I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed ! ' He spoke, and o'er the astonished throng Was silence, awful, deep, and long. XXXII Again that light has fired his eye, » Again his form swells bold and high, The broken voice of age is gone, 'T is vigorous manhood's lofty tone: ' Thrice vanquished on the battle-plain, Thy followers slaughtered, fled, or ta'en, 610 A hunted wanderer on the wild, On foreign shores a man exiled, Disowned, deserted, and distressed, I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed ! Blessed in the hall and in the field, Under the mantle as the shield. Avenger of thy country's shame, Restorer of her injured fame, Blessed in thy sceptre and thy sword, De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful lord, 620 Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame, What lengthened honors wait thy name ! In distant ages sire to son Shall tell thy tale of freedom won, And teach his infants in the use Of earliest speech to falter Bruce. Go, then, triumphant ! sweep along Thy course, the theme of many a song ! The Power whose dictates swell my breast Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt be blessed ! — 630 Enough — my short-lived strength de- cays, And sinks the momentary blaze. — Heaven hath our destined purpose broke, Not here must nuptial vow be spoke ; Brethren, our errand here is o'er, Our task discharged. — Unmoor, unmoor ! ' His priests received the exhausted monk, As breathless in their arms he sunk. Punctual his orders to obey, The train refused all longer stay, 640 Embarked, raised sail, and bore away. CANTO THIRD Hast thou not marked when o'er thy startled head Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has rolled, How, when its echoes fell, a silence dead Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and the wold? The rye-grass shakes not on the sod-built fold, The rustling aspen's leaves are mute and still, The wall-flower waves not on the ruined hold, Till, murmuring distant first, then near and shrill, The savage whirlwind wakes and sweeps the groaning hill. Artornish ! such a silence sunk 10 Upon thy halls, when that gray monk His prophet-speech had spoke; And his obedient brethren's sail Was stretched to meet the southern gale Before a whisper woke. Then murmuring sounds of doubt and fear, Close poured in many an anxious ear, The solemn stillness broke; And still they gazed with eager guess Where in an oriel's deep recess 20 The Island Prince seemed bent to press What Lorn, by his impatient cheer And gesture fierce, scarce deigned to hear. Starting at length with frowning look, His hand he clenched, his head he shook, And sternly flung apart: ' And deem'st thou me so mean of mood As to forget the mortal feud, And clasp the hand with blood imbrued From my dear kinsman's heart ? 30 Is this thy rede ? — a due return For ancient league and friendship sworn ! But well our mountain proverb shows The faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows. Be it even so — believe ere long He that now bears shall wreak the wrong. — Call Edith — call the Maid of Lorn ! My sister, slaves ! — for further scorn, Be sure nor she nor I will stay. — Away, De Argentine, away ! — 4 o We nor ally nor brother know In Bruce's friend or England's foe.' IV But who the chieftain's rage can tell When, sought from lowest dungeon cell < 328 THE LORD OF THE ISLES To highest tower the castle round, No Lady Edith was there found ! He shouted, ' Falsehood ! — treachery ! — Revenge and blood ! — a lordly meed To him that will avenge the deed ! A baron's lands ! ' — His frantic mood 50 Was scarcely by the news withstood That Morag shared his sister's flight, And that in hurry of the night, 'Scaped noteless and without remark, Two strangers sought the abbot's bark. — ' Man every galley ! — fly — pursue ! The priest his treachery shall rue ! Ay, and the time shall quickly come When we shall hear the thanks that Rome Will pay his feigned prophecy ! ' 60 Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry; And Cormac Doil in haste obeyed, Hoisted his sail, his anchor weighed — For, glad of each pretext for spoil, A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil. j But others, lingering, spoke apart, 1 The maid has given her maiden heart To Ronald of the Isles, And, fearful lest her brother's word Bestow her on that English lord, 70 She seeks Iona's piles, And wisely deems it best to dwell A votaress in the holy cell Until these feuds so fierce and fell The abbot reconciles.' As, impotent of ire, the hall Echoed to Lorn's impatient call — ' My horse, my mantle, and my train ! Let none who honors Lorn remain ! ' — Courteous but stern, a bold request 80 To Bruce De Argentine expressed: ' Lord Earl,' he said, * I cannot chuse But yield such title to the Bruce, Though name and earldom both are gone Since he braced rebel's armor on — But, earl or serf — rude phrase was thine Of late, and launched at Argentine ; Such as compels me to demand Redress of honor at thy hand. We need not to each other tell 90 That both can wield their weapons well; Then do me but the soldier grace This glove upon thy helm to place Where we may meet in fight; And I will say, as still I 've said, Though by ambition far misled, Thou art a noble knight.' ' And I, ' the princely Bruce replied, 1 Might term it stain on knighthood's pride That the bright sword of Argentine 100 Should in a tyrant's quarrel shine; But, for your brave request, Be sure the honored pledge you gave In every battle-field shall wave Upon my helmet-crest; Believe that if my hasty tongue Hath done thine honor causeless wrong, It shall be well redressed. Not dearer to my soul was glove Bestowed in youth by lady's love nc Than this which thou hast given ! Thus then my noble foe I greet; Health and high fortune till we meet, And then — what pleases Heaven.' VII Thus parted they — for now, with sound Like waves rolled back from rocky ground, The friends of Lorn retire; Each mainland chieftain with his train Draws to his mountain towers again, 119 Pondering how mortal schemes prove vain And mortal hopes expire. But through the castle double guard By Ronald's charge kept wakeful ward, Wicket and gate were trebly barred By beam and bolt and chain; Then of the guests in courteous sort He prayed excuse for mirth broke short, And bade them in Artornish fort In confidence remain. Now torch and menial tendance led 130 Chieftain and knight to bower and bed, And beads were told and Aves said, And soon they sunk away Into such sleep as wont to shed Oblivion on the weary head After a toilsome day. VIII But soon uproused, the monarch cried To Edward slumbering by his side, * Awake, or sleep for aye ! Even now there jarred a secret door — 140 A taper-light gleams on the floor — Up, Edward ! up, I say ! Some one glides in like midnight ghost — Nay, strike not ! 't is our noble host.' Advancing then his taper's flame, Ronald stept forth, and with him came CANTO THIRD 329 Dunvegan's chief — each bent the knee To Bruce in sign of fealty And proffered him his sword, And hailed him in a monarch's style 150 As king of mainland and of isle And Scotland's rightful lord. ' And O,' said Ronald, ' Owned of Heaven ! Say, is my erring youth forgiven, By falsehood's arts from duty driven, Who rebel falchion drew, Yet ever to thy deeds of fame, Even while I strove against thy claim, Paid homage just and true ? ' — * Alas ! dear youth, the unhappy time,' 160 Answered the Bruce, ' must bear the crime Since, guiltier far than you, Even I ' — he paused; for Falkirk's woes Upon his conscious soul arose. The chieftain to his breast he pressed, And in a sigh concealed the rest. IX They proffered aid by arms and might To repossess him in his right; But well their counsels must be weighed Ere banners raised and musters made, 170 For English hire and Lorn's intrigues Bound many chiefs in southern leagues. In answer Bruce his purpose bold To his new vassals frankly told: * The winter worn in exile o'er, I longed for Carrick's kindred shore. I thought upon my native Ayr And longed to see the burly fare That Clifford makes, whose lordly call Now echoes through my father's hall. 180 But first my course to Arran led Where valiant Lennox gathers head, And on the sea by tempest tossed, Our barks dispersed, our purpose crossed, Mine own, a hostile sail to shun, Far from her destined course had run, When that wise will which masters ours Compelled us to your friendly towers.' Then Torquil spoke : ' The time craves speed ! We must not linger in our deed, 190 But instant pray our sovereign liege To shun the perils of a siege. The vengeful Lorn with all his powers Lies but too near Artornish towers, And England's light-armed vessels ride Not distant far the waves of Clyde, Prompt at these tidings to unmoor, And sweep each strait and guard each shore. Then, till this fresh alarm pass by, Secret and safe my liege must lie 200 In the far bounds of friendly Skye, Torquil thy pilot and thy guide.' — ' Not so, brave chieftain,' Ronald cried; ' Myself will on my sovereign wait, And raise in arms the men of Sleate, Whilst thou, renowned where chiefs debate, Shalt sway their souls by council sage And awe them by thy locks of age.' — ' And if my words in weight shall fail, 209 This ponderous sword shall turn the scale.' XI ' The scheme,' said Bruce, ' contents me well; Meantime, 't were best that Isabel For safety with my bark and crew Again to friendly Erin drew. There Edward too shall with her wend, In need to cheer her and defend And muster up each scattered friend.' Here seemed it as Lord Ronald's ear Would other counsel gladlier hear; But, all achieved as soon as planned, 220 Both barks, in secret armed and manned, From out the haven bore; On different voyage forth they ply, This for the coast of winged Skye And that for Erin's shore. XII With Bruce and Ronald bides the tale. — To favoring winds they gave the sail Till Mull's dark headlands scarce they knew And Ardnamurchan's hills were blue. 229 But then the squalls blew close and hard, And, fain to strike the galley's yard And take them to the oar, With these rude seas in weary plight They strove the livelong day and night, Nor till the dawning had a sight Of Skye's romantic shore. Where Coolin stoops him to the west, They saw upon his shivered crest The sun's arising gleam; But such the labor and delay, 240 Ere they were moored in Scavigh bay — For calmer heaven compelled to stay — He shot a western beam. Then Ronald said, ' If true mine eye, 33° THE LORD OF THE ISLES These are the savage wilds that lie North of Strathnardill and Dunskye; No human foot comes here, And, since these adverse breezes blow, If my good liege love hunter's bow, What hinders that on land we go 250 And strike a mountain-deer ? Allan, my page, shall with us wend; A bow full deftly can he bend, And,, if we meet a herd, may send A shaft shall mend our cheer.' Then each took bow and bolts in hand, Their row-boat launched and leapt to land, And left their skiff and train, Where a wild stream with headlong shock Came brawling down its bed of rock 260 To mingle with the main. Awhile their route they silent made, As men who stalk for mountain-deer, Till the good Bruce to Ronald said, — * Saint Mary ! what a scene is here ! I 've traversed many a mountain-strand, Abroad and in my native land, And it has been my lot to tread Where safety more than pleasure led; 269 Thus, many a waste I 've wandered o'er, Clomb many a crag, crossed many a moor, But, by my halidome, A scene so rude, so wild as this, Yet so sublime in barrenness, Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press Where'er I happed to roam.' XIV No marvel thus the monarch spake; For rarely human eye has known A scene so stern as that dread lake With its dark ledge of barren stone. 280 Seems that primeval earthquake's sway Hath rent a strange and shattered way Through the rude bosom of the hill, And that each naked precipice, Sable ravine, and dark abyss, Tells of the outrage still. The wildest glen but this can show Some touch of Nature's genial glow; On high Benmore green mosses grow, And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe, 290 And copse on Cruchan-Ben; But here, — above, around, below, On mountain or in glen, Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, Nor aught of vegetative power, The weary eye may ken. For all is rocks at random thrown, Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone, As if were here denied 299 The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew, That clothe with many a varied hue The bleakest mountain-side. xv And wilder, forward as they wound, Were the proud cliffs and lake profound. Huge terraces of granite black Afforded rude and cumbered track; For from the mountain hoar, Hurled headlong in some night of fear, When yelled the wolf and fled the deer, Loose crags had toppled o'er; 310 And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay So that a stripling arm might sway A mass no host could raise, In Nature's rage at random thrown Yet trembling like the Druid's stone On its precarious base. The evening mists with ceaseless change Now clothed the mountains' lofty range, Now left their foreheads bare, 3 19 And round the skirts their mantle furled, Or on the sable waters curled; Or on the eddying breezes whirled, Dispersed in middle air. And oft condensed at once they lower When, brief and fierce, the mountain shower Pours like a torrent down, And when return the sun's glad beams, Whitened with foam a thousand streams Leap from the mountain's crown. 330 i This lake,' said Bruce, ' whose barriers drear Are precipices sharp and sheer, Yielding no track for goat or deer Save the black shelves we tread, How term you its dark waves ? and how Yon northern mountain's pathless brow, And yonder peak of dread That to the evening sun uplifts The griesly gulfs and slaty rifts Which seam its shivered, head ? ' - 1 Coriskin call the dark lake's name Coolin the ridge, as bards proclaim From old Cuchullin, chief of fame. But bards, familiar in our isles 34c CANTO THIRD 33* Rather with Nature's frowns than smiles, Full oft their careless humors please By sportive names from scenes like these. I would old Torquil were to show His Maidens with their breasts of snow, Or that my noble liege were nigh To hear his Nurse sing lullaby ! — 350 The Maids — tall cliffs with breakers white, The Nurse — a torrent's roaring might — Or that your eye could see the mood Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool rude, When dons the Hag her whitened hood — 'T is thus our islesmen's fancy frames For scenes so stern fantastic names.' XVII Answered the Bruce, ' And musing mind Might here a graver moral find. These mighty cliffs that heave on high 360 Their naked brows to middle sky, Indifferent to the sun or snow, Where nought can fade and nought can blow May they not mark a monarch's fate, — Raised high mid storms of strife and state, Beyond life's lowlier pleasures placed, His soul a rock, his heart a waste ? O'er hope and love and fear aloft High rears his crowned head — But soft ! Look, underneath yon jutting crag 370 Are hunters and a slaughtered stag. Who may they be ? But late you said No steps these desert regions tread ? ' — XVIII ' So said I — and believed in sooth,' Ronald replied, ' I spoke the truth. Yet now I spy, by yonder stone, Five men — they mark us and come on; And by their badge on bonnet borne I guess them of the land of Lorn, Foes to my liege.' — ' So let it be; 380 I 've faced worse odds than five to three — But the poor page can little aid; Then be our battle thus arrayed, If our free passage they contest; Cope thou with two, I '11 match the rest.' — * Not so, my liege — for, by my life, This sword shall meet the treble strife; My strength, my skill in arms, more small, And less the loss should Ronald fall. But islesmen soon to soldiers grow, 390 Allan has sword as well as bow, And were my monarch's order given, Two shafts should make our number even.' — ' No ! not to save my life ! ' he said; ' Enough of blood rests on my head Too rashly spilled — we soon shall know, Whether they come as friend or foe.' XIX Nigh came the strangers and more nigh; — Still less they pleased the monarch's eye. Men were they all of evil mien, 400 Down-looked, unwilling to be seen; They moved with half-resolved pace, And bent on earth each gloomy face. The foremost two were fair arrayed With brogue and bonnet, trews and plaid, And bore the arms of mountaineers, Daggers and broadswords, bows and spears. The three that lagged small space behind Seemed serfs of more degraded kind ; Goat-skins or deer-hides o'er them cast 410 Made a rude fence against the blast; Their arms and feet and heads were bare, Matted their beards, unshorn their hair; For arms the caitiffs bore in hand A club, an axe, a rusty brand. xx Onward still mute, they kept the track ; — ' Tell who ye be, or else stand back,' Said Bruce; ' in deserts when they meet, Men pass not as in peaceful street.' Still at his stern command they stood, 420 And proffered greeting brief and rude, But acted courtesy so ill As seemed of fear and not of will. ' Wanderers we are, as you may be; Men hither driven by wind and sea, Who, if you list to taste our cheer, Will share with you this fallow deer.' — * If from the sea, where lies your bark ? ' — ' Ten fathom deep in ocean dark ! Wrecked yesternight: but we are men 43 o Who little sense of peril ken. The shades come down — the day is shut — Will you go with us to our hut ? ' — ' Our vessel waits us in the bay; Thanks for your proffer — have good- day.' — * Was that your galley, then, which rode Not far from shore when evening glowed ? ' — * It was.' — ' Then spare your needless pain, 33* THE LORD OF THE ISLES There will she now be sought in vain. We saw her from the mountain head 440 When, with Saint George's blazon red A southern vessel bore in sight, And yours raised sail and took to flight.' — ' Now, by the rood, unwelcome news ! ' Thus with Lord Ronald communed Bruce; ' Nor rests there light enough to show If this their tale be true or no. The men seem bred of churlish kind, Yet mellow nuts have hardest rind; We will go with them ■ — food and fire 450 And sheltering roof our wants require. Sure guard 'gainst treachery will we keep, And watch by turns our comrades' sleep. — Good fellows, thanks ; your guests we '11 be, And well will pay the courtesy. Come, lead us where your lodging lies — Nay, soft ! we mix not companies. — Show us the path o'er crag and stone, And we will follow you; — lead on.' They reached the dreary cabin, made 460 Of sails against a rock displayed, And there on entering found A slender boy, whose form and mien 111 suited with such savage scene, In cap and cloak of velvet green, Low seated on the ground. His garb was such as minstrels wear, Dark was his hue, and dark his hair, His youthful cheek was marred by care, His eyes in sorrow drowned. 470 ' Whence this poor boy ? ' — As Ronald spoke, The voice his trance of anguish broke; As if awaked from ghastly dream, He raised his head with start and scream, And wildly gazed around; Then to the wall his face he turned, And his dark neck with blushes burned. XXIII ' Whose is the boy ? ' again he said. ' By chance of war our captive made ; He may be yours, if you should hold 480 That music has more charms than gold; For, though from earliest childhood mute, The lad can deftly touch the lute, And on the rote and viol play, And well can drive the time away For those who love such glee; For me the favoring breeze, when loud It pipes upon the galley's shroud, Makes blither melody.' — ' Hath he, then, sense of spoken sound ? ' — 'Ay; so his mother bade us know, 491 A crone in our late shipwreck drowned, And hence the silly stripling's woe. More of the youth I cannot say, Our captive but since yesterday; When wind and weather waxed so grim, We little listed think of him. — But why waste time in idle words ? Sit to your cheer — unbelt your swords.' Sudden the captive turned his head, 500 And one quick glance to Ronald sped. It was a keen and warning look, And well the chief the signal took. XXIV ' Kind host,' he said, ' our needs require A separate board and separate fire; For know that on a pilgrimage Wend I, my comrade, and this page. And, sworn to vigil and to fast Long as this hallowed task shall last, We never doff the plaid or sword, 510 Or feast us at a stranger's board, And never share one common sleep, But one must still his vigil keep. Thus, for our separate use, good friend, We '11 hold this hut's remoter end.' — 1 A churlish vow,' the elder said, 1 And hard, methinks, to be obeyed. How say you, if, to wreak the scorn That pays our kindness harsh return, We should refuse to share our meal ? ' — 520 ' Then say we that our swords are steel ! And our vow binds us not to fast Where gold or force may buy repast.' — N Their host's dark brow grew keen and fell, His teeth are clenched, his features swell; Yet sunk the felon's moody ire Before Lord Ronald's glance of fire, Nor could his craven courage brook The monarch's calm and dauntless look. With laugh constrained — 'Let every man 530 Follow the fashion of his clan ! Each to his separate quarters keep, And feed or fast, or wake or sleep.' XXV Their fire at separate distance burns, By turns they eat, keep guard by turns; CANTO THIRD 333 For evil seemed that old man's eye, Dark and designing, fierce yet shy. Still he avoided forward look, But slow and circumspectly took A circling, never-ceasing glance, 540 By doubt and cunning marked at once, Which shot a mischief-boding ray From under eyebrows shagged and gray. The younger, too, who seemed his son, Had that dark look the timid shun; The half-clad serfs behind them sate, And scowled a glare 'twixt fear and hate — Till all, as darkness onward crept, Couched down, and seemed to sleep or slept. Nor he, that boy, whose powerless tongue 550 Must trust his eyes to wail his wrong, A longer watch of sorrow made, But stretched his limbs to slumber laid. XXVI Not in his dangerous host confides The king, but wary watch provides. Ronald keeps ward till midnight past, Then wakes the king, young Allan last; Thus ranked, to give the youthful page The rest required by tender age. What is Lord Ronald's wakeful thought 560 To chase the languor toil had brought ? — For deem not that he deigned to throw Much care upon such coward foe — He thinks of lovely Isabel When at her foeman's feet she fell, Nor less when, placed in princely selle, She glanced on him with favoring eyes At Woodstock when he won the prize. Nor, fair in joy, in sorrow fair, In pride of place as mid despair, 570 Must she alone engross his care. His thoughts to his betrothed bride, To Edith, turn — O, how decide, When here his love and heart are given, And there his faith stands plight to Heaven ! No drowsy ward 't is his to keep, For seldom lovers long for sleep. Till sung his midnight hymn the owl, Answered the dog-fox with his howl, Then waked the king — at his request, 580 Lord Ronald stretched himself to rest. XXVII What spell was good King Robert's, say, To drive the weary night away ? His was the patriot's burning thought Of freedom's battle bravely fought, Of castles stormed, of cities freed, Of deep design and daring deed, Of England's roses reft and torn, And Scotland's cross in triumph worn, Of rout and rally, war and truce, — 590 As heroes think, so thought the Bruce. No marvel, mid such musings high Sleep shunned the monarch's thoughtful eye. Now over Coolin's eastern head The grayish light begins to spread, The otter to his cavern drew, And clamored shrill the wakening mew; Then watched the page — to needful rest The king resigned his anxious breast. To Allan's eyes was harder task 600 The weary watch their safeties ask. He trimmed the fire and gave to shine With bickering light the splintered pine ; Then gazed awhile where silent laid Their hosts were shrouded by the plaid. But little fear waked in his mind, For he was bred of martial kind, And, if to manhood he arrive, May match the boldest knight alive. Then thought he of his mother's tower, 610 His little sister's greenwood bower, How there the Easter-gambols pass, And of Dan Joseph's lengthened mass. But still before his weary eye In rays prolonged the blazes die — Again he roused him — on the lake Looked forth where now the twilight-flake Of pale cold dawn began to wake. On Coolin's cliffs the mist lay furled, The morning breeze the lake had curled, 620 The short dark waves, heaved to the land, With ceaseless plash kissed cliff or sand; — It was a slumbrous sound — he turned To tales at which his youth had burned, Of pilgrim's path by demon crossed, Of sprightly elf or yelling ghost, Of the wild witch's baneful cot, And mermaid's alabaster grot, Who bathes her limbs in sunless well Deep in Strathaird's enchanted cell. 630 Thither in fancy rapt he flies, And on his sight the vaults arise; That hut's dark walls he sees no more, His foot is on the marble floor, And o'er his head the dazzling spars 334 THE LORD OF THE ISLES Gleam like a firmament of stars ! — Hark ! hears he not the sea-nymph speak Her anger in that thrilling shriek ! — No ! all too late, with Allan's dream Mingled the captive's warning scream. 640 As from the ground he strives to start, A ruffian's dagger finds his heart ! Upwards he casts his dizzy eyes — Murmurs his master's name — and dies ! XXIX Not so awoke the king ! his hand Snatched from the flame a knotted brand, The nearest weapon of his wrath; With this he crossed the murderer's path And venged young Allan well ! The spattered brain and bubbling blood 650 Hissed on the half-extinguished wood, The miscreant gasped and fell ! Nor rose in peace the Island Lord; One caitiff died upon his sword, And one beneath his grasp lies prone In mortal grapple overthrown. But while Lord Ronald's dagger drank The life-blood from his panting flank, The father-ruffian of the band Behind him rears a coward hand ! — 660 O for a moment's aid, Till Bruce, who deals no double blow, Dash to the earth another foe, Above his comrade laid ! — And it is gained — the captive sprung On the raised arm and closely clung, And, ere he shook him loose, The mastered felon pressed the ground, And gasped beneath a mortal wound, While o'er him stands the Bruce. 670 xxx ' Miscreant ! while lasts thy flitting spark, Give me to know the purpose dark That armed thy hand with murderous knife Against offenceless stranger's life ? ' — ' No stranger thou ! ' with accent fell, Murmured the wretch; ' I know thee well, And know thee for the foeman sworn Of my high chief, the mighty Lorn.' — ' Speak yet again, and speak the truth For thy soul's sake ! — from whence this youth ? 680 His country, birth, and name declare, And thus one evil deed repair.' — ' Vex me no more ! — my blood runs cold — No more I know than I have told. We found him in a bark we sought With different purpose — and I thought ' — Fate cut him short; in blood and broil, As he had lived, died Cormac Doil. XXXI Then resting on his bloody blade, The valiant Bruce to Ronald said, 690 ' Now shame upon us both ! — that boy Lifts his mute face to heaven And clasps his hands, to testify His gratitude to God on high For strange deliverance given. His speechless gesture thanks hath paid, Which our free tongues have left unsaid ! ' He raised the youth with kindly word, But marked him shudder at the sword: He cleansed it from its hue of death, 700 And plunged the weapon in its sheath. ' Alas, poor child ! unfitting part Fate doomed when with so soft a heart And form so slight as thine She made thee first a pirate's slave, Then in his stead a patron gave Of wayward lot like mine; A landless prince, whose wandering life Is but one scene of blood and strife — Yet scant of friends the Bruce shall be, 710 But he '11 find resting-place for thee. — Come, noble Ronald ! o'er the dead Enough thy generous grief is paid, And well has Allan's fate been wroke; Come, wend we hence — the day has broke. Seek we our bark — I trust the tale Was false that she had hoisted sail. ' XXXII Yet, ere they left that charnel-cell, The Island Lord bade sad farewell To Allan: * Who shall tell this tale,' 720 He said, ' in halls of Donagaile ? O, who his widowed mother tell That, ere his bloom, her fairest fell ? — Rest thee, poor youth ! and trust my care For mass and knell and funeral prayer; While o'er those caitiffs where they lie The wolf shall snarl, the raven cry ! ' And now the eastern mountain's head On the dark lake threw lustre red; Bright gleams of gold and purple streak 730 Ravine and precipice and peak — So earthly power at distance shows; Reveals his splendor, hides his woes. O'er sheets of granite, dark and broad, CANTO FOURTH 335 Rent and unequal, lay the road. In sad discourse the warriors wind, And the mute captive moves behind. CANTO FOURTH Stranger ! if e'er thine ardent step hath traced The northern realms of ancient Caledon, Where the proud Queen of Wilderness hath placed By lake and cataract her lonely throne, Sublime but sad delight thy soul hath known, Gazing on pathless glen and mountain high, Listing where from the cliffs the torrents thrown Mingle their echoes with the eagle's cry, And with the sounding lake and with the moaning sky. Yes ! 't was sublime, but sad. — The loneliness 10 Loaded thy heart, the desert tired thine eye; And strange and awful fears began to press Thy bosom with a stern solemnity. Then hast thou wished some woodman's cottage nigh, Something that showed of life, though low and mean; Glad sight, its curling wreath of smoke to spy, Glad sound, its cock's blithe carol would have been, Or children whooping wild beneath the willows green. / Such are the scenes where savage gran- deur wakes An awful thrill that softens into sighs; 20 Such feelings rouse them by dim Ran- noch's lakes, In dark Glencoe such gloomy raptures rise: Or farther, where beneath the northern skies Chides wild Loch-Eribol his caverns hoar — But, be the minstrel judge, they yield the prize Of desert dignity to that dread shore That sees grim Coolin rise and hears Coris- kin roar. Through such wild scenes the champion When bold halloo and bugle-blast Upon the breeze came loud and fast. 30 ' There,' said the Bruce, ' rung Edward's horn ! What can have caused such brief return ? And see, brave Ronald, — see him dart O'er stock and stone like hunted hart, Precipitate, as is the use, In war or sport, of Edward Bruce. He marks us, and his eager cry Will tell his news ere he be nigh.' in Loud Edward shouts, ' What make ye here, Warring upon the mountain-deer, 4 o When Scotland wants her king ? A bark from Lennox crossed our track, With her in speed I hurried back, These joyful news to bring — The Stuart stirs in Teviotdale, And Douglas wakes his native vale; Thy storm-tossed fleet hath won its way With little loss to Brodick-Bay, And Lennox with a gallant band Waits but thy coming and command 50 To waft them o'er to Carrick strand. There are blithe news ! — but mark the close ! Edward, the deadliest of our foes, As with his host he northward passed, Hath on the borders breathed his last.' Still'stood the Bruce — his steady cheek Was little wont his joy to speak, But then his color rose : — ' Now, Scotland ! shortly shalt thou see, With God's high will, thy children free 60 And vengeance on thy foes ! Yet to no sense of selfish wrongs, Bear witness with me, Heaven, belongs My joy o'er Edward's bier; I took my knighthood at his hand, And lordship held of him and land, And well may vouch it here, That, blot the story from his page Of Scotland ruined in his rage, 336 THE LORD OF THE ISLES You read a monarch brave and sage 70 And to his people dear.' — * Let London's burghers mourn her lord And Croydon monks his praise record,' The eager Edward said; 1 Eternal as his own, my hate Surmounts the bounds of mortal fate And dies not with the dead ! Such hate was his on Solway's strand When vengeance clenched his palsied hand, That pointed yet to Scotland's land, 80 As his last accents prayed Disgrace and curse upon his heir If he one Scottish head should spare Till stretched upon the bloody lair Each rebel corpse was laid ! Such hate was his when his last breath Renounced the peaceful house of death, And bade his bones to Scotland's coast Be borne by his remorseless host, As if his dead and stony eye 90 Could still enjoy her misery ! Such hate was his — dark, deadly, long; Mine — as enduring, deep, and strong ! ' — * Let women, Edward, war with words, With curses monks, but men with swords: Nor doubt of living foes to sate Deepest revenge and deadliest hate. Now to the sea ! Behold the beach, And see the galley's pendants stretch Their fluttering length down favoring Aboard, aboard ! and hoist the sail. Hold we our way for Arran first, Where meet in arms our friends dispersed; Lennox the loyal, De la Haye, And Boyd the bold in battle fray. I long the hardy band to head, And see once more my standard spread. — Does noble Ronald share our course, Or stay to raise his island force ? ' — ' Come weal, come woe, by Bruce's side,' no Replied the chief, ' will Ronald bide. And since two galleys yonder ride, Be mine, so please my liege, dismissed To wake to arms the clans of Uist, And all who hear the Minche's roar On the Long Island's lonely shore. The nearer Isles with slight delay Ourselves may summon in our way; And soon on Arran's shore shall meet With Torquil's aid a gallant fleet, 120 If aught avails their chieftain's hest Among the islesmen of the west.' Thus was their venturous council said. But, ere their sails the galleys spread, Coriskin dark and Coolin high Echoed the dirge's doleful cry. Along that sable lake passed slow — Fit scene for such a sight of woe — The sorrowing islesmen as they bore The murdered Allan to the shore. 130 At every pause with dismal shout Their coronach of grief rung out, And ever when they moved again The pipes resumed their clamorous strain, And with the pibroch's shrilling wail Mourned the young heir of Donagaile. Round and around, from cliff and cave His answer stern old Coolin gave, Till high upon his misty side 139 Languished the mournful notes and died. For never sounds by mortal made Attained his high and haggard head, That echoes but the tempest's moan Or the deep thunder's rending groan. VII Merrily, merrily bounds the bark, She bounds before the gale, The mountain breeze from Ben-na-darch Is joyous in her sail ! With fluttering sound like laughter hoarse The cords and canvas strain, 150 The waves, divided by her force, In rippling eddies chased her course, As if they laughed again. Not down the breeze more blithely flew,. Skimming the wave, the light sea-mew Than the gay galley bore Her course upon that favoring wind, And Coolin's crest has sunk behind And Slapin's caverned shore. 'T was then that warlike signals wake 160 Dunscaith's dark towers and Eisord's lake, And soon from Cavilgarrigh's head Thick wreaths of eddying smoke were spread; A summons these of war and wrath To the brave clans of Sleat and Strath, And ready at the sight Each warrior to his weapon sprung And targe upon his shoulder flung, Impatient for the fight. Mac-Kinnon's chief, in warfare gray, 17c CANTO FOURTH 337 Had charge to muster their array And guide their barks to Brodick Bay. Signal of Ronald's high command, A beacon gleamed o'er sea and land From Canna's tower, that, steep and gray, Like falcon-nest o'erhangs the bay. Seek not the giddy crag to climb To view the turret scathed by time; It is a task of doubt and fear To aught but goat or mountain-deer. 180 But rest thee on the silver beach, And let the aged herdsman teach His tale of former day; His cur's wild clamor he shall chide, And for thy seat by ocean's side His varied plaid display; Then tell how with their chieftain came In ancient times a foreign dame To yonder turret gray. Stern was her lord's suspicious mind 190 Who in so rude a jail confined So soft and fair a thrall ! And oft when moon on ocean slept That lovely lady sate and wept Upon the castle-wall, And turned her eye to southern climes, And thought perchance of happier times, And touched her lute by fits, and sung Wild ditties in her native tongue. And still, when on the cliff and bay 200 Placid and pale the moonbeams play, And every breeze is mute, Upon the lone Hebridean's ear Steals a strange pleasure mixed with fear, While from that cliff he seems to hear The murmur of a lute And sounds as of a captive lone That mourns her woes in tongue un- known. — Strange is the tale — but all too long Already hath it staid the song — 210 Yet who may pass them by, That crag and tower in ruins gray, Nor to their hapless tenant pay The tribute of a sigh ? IX Merrily, merrily bounds the bark O'er the broad ocean driven, Her path by Ronin's mountains dark The steersman's hand hath given. And Ronin's mountains dark have sent Their hunters to the shore, 220 And each his ashen bow unbent, And gave his pastime o'er, And at the Island Lord's command For hunting spear took warrior's brand. On Scooreigg next a warning light Summoned her warriors to the fight; A numerous race ere stern MacLeod O'er their bleak shores in vengeance strode, When all in vain the ocean-cave Its refuge to his victims gave. 230 The chief, relentless in his wrath, With blazing heath blockades the path; In dense and stifling volumes rolled, The vapor filled the caverned hold ! The warrior-threat, the infant's plain, The mother's screams, were heard in vain; The vengeful chief maintains his fires Till in the vault a tribe expires ! The bones which strew that cavern's gloom Too well attest their dismal doom. 240 Merrily, merrily goes the bark On a breeze from the northward freey So shoots through the morning sky the lark, Or the swan through the summer sea. The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, And Ulva dark and Colonsay, And all the group of islets gay That guard famed Staffa round. Then all unknown its columns rose Where dark and undisturbed repose 259* The cormorant had found, And the shy seal had quiet home And weltered in that wondrous dome Where, as to shame the temples decked By skill of earthly architect, Nature herself, it seemed, would raise A minster to her Maker's praise ! Not for a meaner use ascend Her columns or her arches bend; Nor of a theme less solemn tells 260 That mighty surge that ebbs and swells, And still, between each awful pause, From the high vault an answer draws In varied tone prolonged and high That mocks the organ's melody. Nor doth its entrance front in vain To old Iona's holy fane, That Nature's voice might seem to say, ' Well hast thou done, frail child of clay ! Thy humble powers that stately shrine 270 Tasked high and hard — but witness mine ! ' 338 THE LORD OF THE ISLES Merrily, merrily goes the bark, Before the gale she bounds; So darts the dolphin from the shark, Or the deer before the hounds. They left Loch-Tua on their lee, And they wakened the men of the wild Tiree, And the chief of the sandy Coll; They paused not at Columba's isle, 279 Though pealed the bells from the holy pile, With long and measured toll; No time for matin or for mass, And the sounds of the holy summons pass Away in the billows' roll. Lochbuie's fierce and warlike lord Their signal saw and grasped his sword, And verdant Islay called her host, And the clans of Jura's rugged coast Lord Ronald's call obey, And Scarba's isle, whose tortured shore 290 Still rings to Corrievreken's roar, And lonely Colonsay; — Scenes sung by him who sings no more ! His bright and brief career is o'er, And mute his tuneful strains; Quenched is his lamp of varied lore That loved the light of song to pour; A distant and a deadly shore Has Leyden's cold remains ! Ever the breeze blows merrily, 300 But the galley ploughs no more the sea. Lest, rounding wild Cantyre, they meet The southern foeman's watchful fleet, They held unwonted way; Up Tarbat's western lake they bore, Then dragged their bark the isthmus o'er, As far as Kilmaconnel's shore Upon the eastern bay. It was a wondrous sight to see Topmast and pennon glitter free, 3 10 High raised above the greenwood tree, As on dry land the galley moves By cliff and copse and alder groves. Deep import from that selcouth sign Did many a mountain seer divine, For ancient legends told the Gael That when a royal bark should sail O'er Kilmaconnel moss Old Albyn should in fight prevail, And every foe should faint and quail 320 Before her silver Cross. XIII Now launched once more, the inland sea They furrow with fair augury, And steer for Arran's isle; The sun, ere yet he sunk behind Ben-Ghoil, ' the Mountain of the Wind,' Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind, And bade Loch Ranza smile. Thither their destined course they drew; It seemed the isle her monarch knew, 33 So brilliant was the landward view, The ocean so serene; Each puny wave in diamonds rolled \ O'er the calm deep where hues of gold With azure strove and green. The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower, Glowed with the tints of evening's hour, The beach was silver sheen, The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh, And oft renewed seemed oft to die, 34 With breathless pause between. O, who with speech of war and woes Would wish to break the soft repose Of such enchanting scene ? Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks ? The blush that dyes his manly cheeks, The timid look, and downcast eye, And faltering voice the theme deny. And good King Robert's brow expressed He pondered o'er some high request, 350 As doubtful to approve; Yet in his eye and lip the while, Dwelt the half-pitying glance and smile Which manhood's graver mood beguile When lovers talk of love. Anxious his suit Lord Ronald pled; ' And for my bride betrothed,' he said, ' My liege has heard the rumor spread Of Edith from Artornish fled. Too hard her fate — I claim no right 360 To blame her for her hasty flight; Be joy and happiness her lot ! — But she hath fled the bridal-knot, And Lorn recalled his promised plight In the assembled chieftains' sight. — When, to fulfil our fathers' band, I proffered all I could — my hand — I was repulsed with scorn; Mine honor I should ill assert, And worse the feelings of my heart, 370 If I should play a suitor's part Again to pleasure Lorn.' CANTO FOURTH 339 * Young Lord/ the royal Bruce replied, * That question must the Church decide ; Yet seems it hard, since rumors state Edith takes Clifford for her mate, The very tie which she hath broke To thee should still be binding yoke. But, for my sister Isabel — The mood of woman who can tell ? 380 I guess the Champion of the Rock, Victorious in the tourney shock, That knight unknown to whom the prize She dealt, — had favor in her eyes ; But since our brother Nigel's fate, Our ruined house and hapless state, From worldly joy and hope estranged, Much is the hapless mourner changed. Perchance,' here smiled the noble King, f This tale may other musings bring. 390 Soon shall we know — yon mountains hide The little convent of Saint Bride; There, sent by Edward, she must stay Till fate shall give more prosperous day; And thither will I bear thy suit, Nor will thine advocate be mute.' XVI As thus they talked in earnest mood, That speechless boy beside them stood. He stooped his head against the mast, And bitter sobs came thick and fast, 400 A grief that would not be repressed But seemed to burst his youthful breast. His hands against his forehead held As if by force his tears repelled, But through his fingers long and slight Fast trilled the drops of crystal bright. Edward, who walked the deck apart, First spied this conflict of the heart. Thoughtless as brave, with bluntness kind He sought to cheer the sorrower's mind; 410 By force the slender hand he drew From those poor eyes that streamed with dew. As in his hold the stripling strove — 'T was a rough grasp, though meant in love — Away his tears the warrior swept, And bade shame on him that he wept. * I would to Heaven thy helpless tongue Could tell me who hath wrought thee wrong ! For, were he of our crew the best, The insult went not unredressed. 420 Come, cheer thee; thou art now of age To be a warrior's gallant page; Thou shalt be mine ! — a palfrey fair O'er hill and holt my boy shall bear, To hold my bow in hunting grove, Or speed on errand to my love; For well I wot thou wilt not tell The temple where my wishes dwell.' XVII Bruce interposed, ' Gay Edward, no, This is no youth to hold thy bow, 430 To fill thy goblet, or to bear Thy message light to lighter fair. Thou art a patron all too wild And thoughtless for this orphan child. See'st thou not how apart he steals, Keeps lonely couch, and lonely meals ? Fitter by far in yon calm cell To tend our sister Isabel, With father Augustine to share The peaceful change of convent prayer, 440 Than wander wild adventures through With such a reckless guide as you.' — ' Thanks, brother ! ' Edward answered gay, ' For the high laud thy words convey ! But we may learn some future day, If thou or I can this poor boy Protect the best or best employ. Meanwhile, our vessel nears the strand; Launch we the boat and seek the land.' XVIII To land King Robert lightly sprung, 450 And thrice aloud his bugle rung With note prolonged and varied strain Till fyold Ben-Ghoil replied again. Good Douglas then and De la Haye Had in a glen a hart at bay, And Lennox cheered the laggard hounds, When waked that horn the greenwood bounds. ' It is the foe ! ' cried Boyd, who came In breathless haste with eye of flame, — ' It is the foe ! — Each valiant lord 460 Fling by his bow and grasp his sword ! ' ' Not so, ' replied the good Lord James, , * That blast no English bugle claims. Oft have I heard it fire the fight, Cheer the pursuit, or stop the flight. Dead were my heart and deaf mine ear, If Bruce should call nor Douglas hear ! 1 Each to Loch Ranza's margin spring; That blast was winded by the king ! ' 34o THE LORD OF THE ISLES XIX Fast to their mates the tidings spread, 470 And fast to shore the warriors sped. Bursting from glen and greenwood tree, High waked their loyal jubilee ! Around the royal Bruce they crowd, And clasped his hands, and wept aloud. Veterans of early fields were there, Whose helmets pressed their hoary hair, Whose swords and axes bore a stain From life-blood of the red-haired Dane; And boys whose hands scarce brooked to wield 480 The heavy sword or bossy shield. Men too were there that bore the scars Impressed in Albyn's woful wars, At Falkirk's fierce and fatal fight, Teyndrum's dread rout, and Methven's flight; The might of Douglas there was seen, There Lennox with his graceful mien; Kirkpatrick, Closeburn's dreaded Knight; The Lindsay, fiery, fierce, and light; The heir of murdered De la Haye, 490 And Boyd the grave, and Seton gay. Around their king regained they pressed, Wept, shouted, clasped him to their breast, And young and old, and serf and lord, And he who ne'er unsheathed a sword, And he in many a peril tried, Alike resolved the brunt to bide, And live or die by Bruce's side ! XX O War ! thou hast thy fierce delight, Thy gleams of joy, intensely bright ! 500 Such gleams as from thy polished shield Fly dazzling o'er the battle-field ! Such transports wake, severe and high, Amid the pealing conquest cry; Scarce less, when after battle lost Muster the remnants of a host, And as each comrade's name they tell Who in the well-fought conflict fell, Knitting stern brow o'er flashing eye, Vow to avenge them or to die ! — 510 Warriors ! — and where are warriors found, If not on martial Britain's ground ? And who, when waked with note of fire, Love more than they the British lyre ? — Know ye not, — hearts to honor dear ! That joy, deep-thrilling, stern, severe, At which the heartstrings vibrate high, And wake the fountains of the eye ? And blame ye then the Bruce if trace Of tear is on his manly face When, scanty relics of the train That hailed at Scone his early reign, This patriot band around him hung, And to his knees and bosom clung ? - Blame ye the Bruce ? — His brothe blamed, But shared the weakness, while ashamed With haughty laugh his head he turned, And dashed away the tear he scorned. 'T is morning, and the convent bell Long time had ceased its matin knell Within thy walls, Saint Bride ! An aged sister sought the cell Assigned to Lady Isabel, And hurriedly she cried, ' Haste, gentle Lady, haste ! — there wai A noble stranger at the gates ; Saint Bride's poor votaress ne'er has seen A knight of such a princely mien; His errand, as he bade me tell, Is with the Lady Isabel.' The princess rose, — for on her knee Low bent she told her rosary, — ' Let him by thee his purpose teach; I may not give a stranger speech.' — ' Saint Bride forefend, thou royal maid ! * The portress crossed herself and said, ' Not to be Prioress might I Debate his will, his suit deny.' — 'Has earthly show then, simple fool, Power o'er a sister of thy rule ? 550 And art thou, like the worldly train, Subdued by splendors light and vain ? ' XXII 4 No, lady ! in old eyes like mine, Gauds have no glitter, gems no shine; Nor grace his rank attendants vain, One youthful page is all his train. It is the form, the eye, the word, The bearing of that stranger lord ; His stature, manly, bold, and tall, Built like a castle's battled wall, 560 Yet moulded in such just degrees, His giant-strength seems lightsome ease. Close as the tendrils of the vine His locks upon his forehead twine, Jet-black save where some touch of gray Has ta'en the youthful hue away. Weather and war their rougher trace j Have left on that majestic face; — ^ CANTO FOURTH 34i But 't is his dignity of eye ! There, if a suppliant, would I fly, 570 Secure, mid danger, wrongs, and grief, Of sympathy, redress, relief — That glance, if guilty, would I dread More than the doom that spoke me dead ! ' * Enough, enough,' the Princess cried, * 'T is Scotland's hope, her joy, her pride ! To meaner front was ne'er assigned Such mastery o'er the common mind — Bestowed thy high designs to aid, How long, O Heaven ! how long de- layed ! — 580 Haste, Mona, haste, to introduce My darling brother, royal Bruce ! ' XXIII They met like friends who part in pain, And meet in doubtful hope again. But when subdued that fitful swell, The Bruce surveyed the humble cell — * And this is thine, poor Isabel ! — That pallet-couch and naked wall, For room of state and bed of pall; For costly robes and jewels rare, 590 A string of beads and zone of hair; And for the trumpet's sprightly call To sport or banquet, grove or hall, The bell's grim voice divides thy care, 'Twixt hours of penitence and prayer ! — O ill for thee, my royal claim From the First David's sainted name ! O woe for thee, that while he sought His right, thy brother feebly fought ! ' * Now lay these vain regrets aside, 600 And be the unshaken Bruce ! ' she cried ; * For more I glory to have shared The woes thy venturous spirit dared, When raising first thy valiant band In rescue of thy native land, Than had fair Fortune set me down The partner of an empire's crown. And grieve not that on pleasure's stream No more I drive in giddy dream, For Heaven the erring pilot knew, 610 And from the gulf the vessel drew, Tried me with judgments stern and great, My house's ruin, thy defeat, Poor Nigel's death, till tamed I own My hopes are fixed on Heaven alone; Nor e'er shall earthly prospects win yk My heart to this vain world of sin.' ' Nay, Isabel, for such stern choice First wilt thou wait thy brother's voice ; Then ponder if in convent scene 620 No softer thoughts might intervene — Say they were of that unknown knight, Victor in Woodstock's tourney-fight — Nay, if his name such blush you owe, Victorious o'er a fairer foe ! ' Truly his penetrating eye Hath caught that blush's passing dye, — Like the last beam of evening thrown On a white cloud, — just seen and gone. Soon with calm cheek and steady eye 630 The princess made composed reply: ' I guess my brother's meaning well; For not so silent is the cell But we have heard the islemen all Arm in thy cause at Ronald's call, And mine eye proves that knight unknown And the brave Island Lord are one. Had then his suit been earlier made, In his own name with thee to aid — But that his plighted faith forbade — 640 I know not — But thy page so near ? — This is no tale for menial's ear.' XXVI Still stood that page, as far apart As the small cell would space afford; With dizzy eye and bursting heart He leant his weight on Bruce's sword, The monarch's mantle too he bore, And drew the fold his visage o'er. ' Fear not for him — in murderous strife/ Said Bruce, ' his warning saved my life ; 650 Full seldom parts he from my side, And in his silence I confide, Since he can tell no tale again. He is a boy of gentle strain, And I have purposed he shall dwell In Augustine the chaplain's cell And wait on thee, my Isabel. — Mind not his tears; I 've seen them flow, As in the thaw dissolves the snow. 'T is a kind youth, but fanciful, 660 Unfit against the tide to pull, And those that with the Bruce would sail Must learn to strive with stream and gale. But forward, gentle Isabel — My answer for Lord Ronald tell.' 342 THE LORD OF THE ISLES ' This answer be to Ronald given — The heart he asks is fixed on heaven. My love was like a summer flower That withered in the. wintry hour, Born but of vanity and pride, 67c And with these sunny visions died. If further press his suit — then say He should his plighted troth obey, Troth plighted both with ring and word, And sworn on crucifix and sword. — O, shame thee, Robert ! I have seen Thou hast a woman's guardian been ! Even in extremity's dread hour, When pressed on thee the Southern power, And safety, to all human sight, 680 Was only found in rapid flight, Thou heard'st a wretched female plain In agony of travail-pain, And thou didst bid thy little band Upon the instant turn and stand, And dare the worst the foe might do Rather than, like a knight untrue, Leave to pursuers merciless A woman in her last distress. And wilt thou now deny thine aid 690 To an oppressed and injured maid, Even plead for Ronald's perfidy And press his fickle faith on me ? — So witness Heaven, as true I vow, Had I those earthly feelings now Which could my former bosom move Ere taught to set its hopes above, I 'd spurn each proffer he could bring Till at my feet he laid the ring, The ring and spousal contract both, 700 And fair acquittal of his oath, By her who brooks his perjured scorn, The ill-requited Maid of Lorn ! ' With sudden impulse forward sprung The page and on her neck he hung; Then, recollected instantly, His head he stooped and bent his knee, Kissed twice the hand of Isabel, Arose, and sudden left the cell. — The princess, loosened from his hold, 71a Blushed angry at his bearing bold; But good King Robert cried, 1 Chafe not — by signs he speaks his mind, He heard the plan my care designed, Nor could his transports hide. — But, sister, now bethink thee well; No easy choice the convent cell; Trust, I shall play no tyrant part, Either to force thy hand or heart, Or suffer that Lord Ronald scorn Or wrong for thee the Maid of Lorn. But think, — not long the time has been- That thou wert wont to sigh unseen, And wouldst the ditties best approve That told some lay of hapless love. Now are thy wishes in thy power, And thou art bent on cloister bower ! O, if our Edward knew the change, How would his busy satire range, With many a sarcasm varied still On woman's wish and woman's will ! ' — XXIX ' Brother, I well believe,' she said, ' Even so would Edward's part be played- Kindly in heart, in word severe, A foe to thought and grief and fear, He holds his humor uncontrolled; But thou art of another mould. Say then to Ronald, as I say, Unless before my feet he lay The ring which bound the faith he swore, By Edith freely yielded o'er, He moves his suit to me no more. Nor do I promise, even if now He stood absolved of spousal vow, That I would change my purpose made To shelter me in holy shade. — Brother, for little space, farewell ! To other duties warns the bell.' ' Lost to the world,' King Robert said, ^ When he had left the royal maid, 75c ' Lost to the world by lot severe, O, what a gem lies buried here, Nipped by misfortune's cruel frost, The buds of fair affection lost ! — But what have I with love to do ? Far sterner cares my lot pursue. Pent in this isle we may not lie, Nor would it long our wants supply. Right opposite, the mainland towers 759 Of my own Turnberry court our powers — Might not my father's beadsman hoar, Cuthbert, who dwells upon the shore, Kindle a signal-flame to show The time propitious for the blow ? It shall be so — some friend shall bear Our mandate with despatch and care ; CANTO FIFTH 345 Edward shall find the messenger. That fortress ours, the island fleet May on the coast of Carrick meet. — O Scotland ! shall it e'er be mine 770 To wreak thy wrongs in battle-line, To raise my victor-head, and see Thy hills, thy dales, thy people free, — That glance of bliss is all I crave Betwixt my labors and my grave ! ' Then down the hill he slowly went, Oft pausing on the steep descent, And reached the spot where his bold train Held rustic camp upon the plain. CANTO FIFTH On fair Loch-Ranza streamed the early day, Thin wreaths of cottage-smoke are up- ward curled From the lone hamlet which her inland bay And circling mountains sever from the world. And there the fisherman his sail un- furled, The goat-herd drove his kids to steep Ben-Ghoil, Before the hut the dame her spindle twirled, Courting the sunbeam as she plied her toil, — For, wake where'er he may, man wakes to care and coil. But other duties called each convent maid, 10 Roused by the summons of the moss- grown bell; Sung were the matins and the mass was said, And every sister sought her separate cell, Such was the rule, her rosary to tell. And Isabel has knelt in lonely prayer; The sunbeam through the narrow lattice fell Upon the snowy neck and long dark hair, As stooped her gentle head in meek de- votion there. She raised her eyes, that duty done, When glanced upon the pavement-stone, 20 Gemmed and enchased, a golden ring, Bound to a scroll with silken string, With few brief words inscribed to tell, ' This for the Lady Isabel.' Within the writing farther bore, ' 'T was with this ring his plight he swore,, With this his promise I restore; To her who can the heart command Well may I yield the plighted hand. And O, for better fortune born, 30 Grudge not a passing sigh to mourn Her who was -Edith once of Lorn ! ' One single flash of glad surprise Just glanced from Isabel's dark eyes, But vanished in the blush of shame That as its penance instant came. ' O thought unworthy of my race ! Selfish, ungenerous, mean, and base, A moment's throb of joy to own That rose upon her hopes o'erthrown ! — 40 Thou pledge of vows too well believed, Of man ingrate and maid deceived, Think not thy lustre here shall gain Another heart to hope in vain ! For thou shalt rest, thou tempting gaud„ Where worldly thoughts are overawed, And worldly splendors sink debased.' Then by the cross the ring she placed* ill Next rose the thought, — its owner farj How came it here through bolt and bar ? — 5 o But the dim lattice is ajar. She looks abroad, — the morning dew A light short step had brushed anew, And there were footprints seen On the carved buttress rising still, Till on the mossy window-sill Their track effaced the green. The ivy twigs were torn and frayed, As if some climber's steps to aid. — But who the hardy messenger 60 Whose venturous path these signs in- fer ? — ' Strange doubts are mine ! — Mona, draw nigh ; — Nought 'scapes old Mona's curious eye — What strangers, gentle mother, say, Have sought these holy walls to-day ?' < None, lady, none of note or name ; 344 THE LORD OF THE ISLES Only your brother's foot-page came At peep of dawn — I prayed him pass To chapel where they said the mass; But like an arrow he shot by, 7 o And tears seemed bursting from his eye.' The truth at once on Isabel As darted by a sunbeam fell: ' 'T is Edith's self ! — her speechless woe, Her form, her looks, the secret show ! — Instant, good Mona, to the bay, And to my royal brother say, I do conjure him seek my cell With that mute page he loves so well.' 79 * What ! know'st thou not his warlike host At break of day has left our coast ? My old eyes saw them from the tower. At eve they couched in greenwood bower, At dawn a bugle signal made By their bold lord their ranks arrayed; Up sprung the spears through bush and tree, No time for benedicite ! Like deer that, rousing from their lair, Just shake the dew-drops from their hair And toss their armed crest aloft, 90 Such matins theirs ! ' — ' Good mother, soft — Where does my brother bend his way ? ' — * As I have heard, for Brodick Bay, Across the isle — of barks a score Lie there, 't is said, to waft them o'er, On sudden news, to Carrick shore.' — ' If such their purpose, deep the need/ Said anxious Isabel, * of speed ! Call Father Augustine, good dame.' — The nun obeyed, the father came. 100 * Kind father, hie without delay Across the hills to Brodick Bay. This message to the Bruce be given; I pray him, by his hopes of Heaven, That till he speak with me he stay ! Or, if his haste brook no delay, That he deliver on my suit Into thy charge that stripling mute. Thus prays his sister Isabel For causes more than she may tell — no Away, good father ! and take heed That life and death are on thy speed.' His cowl the good old priest did on, Took his piked staff and sandalled shoon, And, like a palmer bent by eld, O'er moss and moor his journey held. Heavy and dull the foot of age, And rugged was the pilgrimage; But none were there beside whose care Might such important message bear. 12 Through birchen copse he wandered slow, Stunted and sapless, thin and low; By many a mountain stream he passed, From the tall cliffs in tumult cast, Dashing to foam their waters dun And sparkling in the summer sun. Round his gray head the wild curlew In many a fearless circle flew. O'er chasms he passed where fractures wide Craved wary eye and ample stride; He crossed his brow beside the stone Where Druids erst heard victims groan, And at the cairns upon the wild O'er many a heathen hero piled, He breathed a timid prayer for those Who died ere Shiloh's sun arose. Beside Macfarlane's Cross he staid, There told his hours within the shade And at the stream his thirst allayed. Thence onward journeying slowly still, 140 As evening closed he reached the hill Where, rising through the woodland green, Old Brodick's Gothic towers were seen. From Hastings late, their English lord, Douglas had won them by the sword. The sun that sunk behind the isle Now tinged them with a parting smile. VII But though the beams of light decay 'T was bustle all in Brodick Bay. The Bruce's followers crowd the shore, i> And boats and barges some unmoor, Some raise the sail, some seize the oar; Their eyes oft turned where glimmered far What might have seemed an early star On heaven's blue arch save that its light Was all too flickering, fierce, and bright. Far distant in the south the ray Shone pale amid retiring day, But as, on Carrick shore, Dim seen in outline faintly blue, The shades of evening closer drew, It kindled more and more. The monk's slow steps now press the sands, And now amid a scene he stands Full strange to churchman's eye; Warriors, who, arming for the fight, CANTO FIFTH 345 Rivet and clasp their harness light, And twinkling spears, and axes bright, And helmets flashing high. Oft too with unaccustomed ears 170 A language much unmeet he hears, While, hastening all on board, As stormy as the swelling surge That mixed its roar, the leaders urge Their followers to the ocean verge With many a haughty word. VIII Through that wild throng the father And reached the royal Bruce at last. He leant against a stranded boat That the approaching tide must float, 180 And counted every rippling wave As higher yet her sides they lave, And oft the distant fire he eyed, And closer yet his hauberk tied, And loosened in its sheath his brand. Edward and Lennox were at hand, Douglas and Ronald had the care The soldiers to the barks to share. — The monk approached and homage paid; * And art thou come,' King Robert said, 190 E So far to bless us ere we part ? ' — ' My liege, and with a loyal heart ! — But other charge I have to tell,' — And spoke the best of Isabel. I Now by Saint Giles,' the monarch cried, ' This moves me much ! — this morning tide I sent the stripling to Saint Bride With my commandment there to bide.' [ Thither he came the portress showed, 199 But there, my liege, made brief abode.' — ''Twas I,' said Edward, 'found employ Of nobler import for the boy. Deep pondering in my anxious 4 mind, A fitting messenger to find To bear thy written mandate o'er To Cuthbert on the Carrick shore, I chanced at early dawn to pass The chapel gate to snatch a mass. I found the stripling on a tomb Low-seated, weeping for the doom 210 That gave his youth to convent gloom. I told my purpose and his eyes Flashed joyful at the glad surprise. He bounded to the skiff, the sail Was spread before a prosperous gale, And well my charge he hath obeyed; For see ! the ruddy signal made That Clifford with his merry-men all Guards carelessly our father's hall.' ' O wild of thought and hard of heart ! ' Answered the monarch, ' on a part Of such deep danger to employ A mute, an orphan, and a boy ! Unfit for flight, unfit for strife, Without a tongue to plead for life ! Now, were my right restored by Heaven, Edward, my crown I would have given Ere, thrust on such adventure wild, I perilled thus the helpless child.' Offended half and half submiss, — 23a * Brother and liege, of blame like this,' Edward replied, ' I little dreamed. A stranger messenger, I deemed, Might safest seek the beadsman's cell Where all thy squires are known so well. Noteless his presence, sharp his sense, His imperfection his defence. If seen, none can his errand guess; If ta'en, his words no tale express — ■ Methinks, too, yonder beacon's shine 240 Might expiate greater fault than mine.' ' Rash,' said King Robert, ' was the deed — But it is done. Embark with speed ! — Good father, say to Isabel How this unhappy chance befell; If well we thrive on yonder shore, Soon shall my care her page restore. Our greeting to our sister bear, And think of us in mass and prayer.' ' Ay ! ' said the priest, ' while this poor hand 250 Can chalice raise or cross command, While my old voice has accents' use, Can Augustine forget the Bruce ! ' Then to his side Lord Ronald pressed, And whispered, ' Bear thou this request, That when by Bruce 's side I fight For Scotland's crown and freedom's right, The princess grace her knight to hear Some token of her favoring care ; It shall be shown where England's hest 260 May shrink to see it on my crest. And for the boy — since weightier care For royal Bruce the times prepare, The helpless youth is Ronald's charge, His couch my plaid, his fence my targe.' 346 THE LORD OF THE ISLES He ceased; for many an eager hand Had urged the barges from the strand. Their number was a score and ten, They bore thrice threescore chosen men. With such small force did Bruce at last 270 The die for death or empire cast ! XII Now on the darkening main afloat, Ready and manned rocks every boat; Beneath their oars the ocean's might Was dashed to sparks of glimmering light. Faint and more faint, as off they bore, Their armor glanced against the shore, And, mingled with the dashing tide, Their murmuring voices distant died. — * God speed them ! ' said the priest, as dark On distant billows glides each bark; 281 ' O Heaven ! when swords for freedom shine And monarch's right, the cause is thine ! Edge doubly every patriot blow ! Beat down the banners of the foe ! And be it to the nations known, That victory is from God alone ! ' As up the hill his path he drew, He turned his blessings to renew, Oft turned till on the darkened coast 290 All traces of their course were lost; Then slowly bent to Brodick tower To shelter for the evening hour. In night the fairy prospects sink Where Cumray's isles with verdant link Close the fair entrance of the Clyde; The woods of Bute, no more descried, Are gone — and on the placid sea The rowers ply their task with glee, While hands that knightly lances bore 300 Impatient aid the laboring oar. The half -faced moon shone dim and pale, And glanced against the whitened sail; But on that ruddy beacon-light Each steersman kept the helm aright, And oft, for such the king's command, That all at once might reach the strand, From boat to boat loud shout and hail Warned them to crowd or slacken sail. South and by west the armada bore, 310 And near at length the Carrick shore. As less and less the distance grows, High and more high the beacon rose; The light that seemed a twinkling star Now blazed portentous, fierce, and far. Dark-red the heaven above it glowed, Dark-red the sea beneath it flowed, Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim, In blood-red light her islets swim; Wild scream the dazzled sea-fowl gave, 320 Dropped from their crags on plashing wave. The deer to distant covert drew, The black-cock deemed it day and crew. Like some tall castle given to flame, O'er half the land the lustre came. ' Now, good my liege and brother sage, What think ye of mine elfin page ? ' — ' Row on ! ' the noble king replied, ' We '11 learn the truth whate'er betide ; Yet sure the beadsman and the child 330 Could ne'er have waked that beacon wild.' With that the boats approached the land, But Edward's grounded on the sand; The eager knight leaped in the sea Waist-deep and first on shore was he, Though every barge's hardy band Contended which should gain the land, When that strange light, which seen afar Seemed steady as the polar star, Now, like a prophet's fiery chair, 340 Seemed travelling the realms of air. Wide o'er the sky the splendor glows As that portentous meteor rose; Helm, axe, and falchion glittered bright, And in the red and dusky light His comrade's face each warrior saw, Nor marvelled it was pale with awe. Then high in air the beams were lost, And darkness sunk upon the coast. — Ronald to Heaven a prayer addressed, 350 And Douglas crossed his dauntless breast; ' Saint James protect us ! ' Lennox cried, But reckless Edward spoke aside, ' Deem'st thou, Kirkpatrick, in that flame Red Corny n's angry spirit came, Or would thy dauntless heart endure Once more to make assurance sure ? ' 'Hush!' said the Bruce; 'we soon shall know If this be sorcerer's empty show Or stratagem of southern foe. 360 The moon shines out — upon the sand Let every leader rank his band.' XV Faintly the moon's pale beams supply That ruddy light's unnatural dye; The dubious cold reflection lay CANTO FIFTH 347 On the wet sands and quiet bay. Beneath the rocks King Robert drew His scattered files to order due, Till shield compact and serried spear In the cool light shone blue and clear. 370 Then down a path that sought the tide That speechless page was seen to glide; He knelt him lowly on the sand, And gave a scroll to Robert's hand. * A torch,' the monarch cried, ' What, ho ! Now shall we Cuthbert's tidings know.' But evil news the letters bear, The Clifford's force was strong and ware, Augmented too, that very morn, By mountaineers who came with Lorn. 380 Long harrowed by oppressor's hand, Courage and faith had fled the land, And over Carrick, dark and deep, Had sunk dejection's iron sleep. — Cuthbert had seen that beacon flame, Unwitting from what source it came. Doubtful of perilous event, Edward's mute messenger he sent, If Bruce deceived should venture o'er, To warn him from the fatal shore. 390 XVI As round the torch the leaders crowd, Bruce read these chilling news aloud. i What council, nobles, have we now ? — To ambush us in greenwood bough, And take the chance which fate may send To bring our enterprise to end ? Or shall we turn us to the main As exiles, and embark again ? ' Answered fierce Edward, ' Hap what may, In Carrick Carrick's lord must stay. 4 oc I would not minstrels told the tale Wildfire or meteor made us quail.' Answered the Douglas, ' If my liege May win yon walls by storm or siege,/ Then were each brave and patriot heart Kindled of new for loyal part.' Answered Lord Ronald, ' Not for shame Would I that aged Torquil came And found, for all our empty boast, Without a blow we fled the coast. 41c I will not credit that this land, So famed for warlike heart and hand, The nurse of Wallace and of Bruce, Will long with tyrants hold a truce.' g Prove we our fate : the brunt we '11 bide ! : So Boyd and Haye and Lennox cried; So said, so vowed the leaders all; So Bruce resolved: ' And in my hall Since the bold Southern make their home, The hour of payment soon shall come, 420 When with a rough and rugged host Clifford may reckon to his cost. Meantime, through well-known bosk and dell I '11 lead where we may shelter well.' Now ask you whence that wondrous light, Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight ? — It ne'er was known — yet gray-haired eld A superstitious credence held That never did a mortal hand Wake its broad glare on Carrick strand; 430 Nay, and that on the selfsame night When Bruce crossed o'er still gleams the light. Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor And glittering wave and crimsoned shore — But whether beam celestial, lent By Heaven to aid the king's descent, Or fire hell-kindled from beneath To lure him to defeat and death, Or were it but some meteor strange Of such as oft through midnight range, 44a Startling the traveller late and lone, I know not — and it ne'er was known. XVIII Now up the rocky pass they drew, And Ronald, to his promise true, Still made his arm the stripling's stay, To aid him on the rugged way. ' Now cheer thee, simple Amadine ! Why throbs that silly heart of thine ? ' — That name the pirates to their slave — In Gaelic 't is the Changeling — gave — 450 ( Dost thou not rest thee on my arm ? Do not my plaid-folds hold thee warm ? Hath not the wild bull's treble hide This targe for thee and me supplied ? Is not Clan-Colla's sword of steel ? And, trembler, canst thou terror feel ? Cheer thee, and still that throbbing heart; From Ronald's guard thou shalt not part.' — O ! many a shaft at random sent ^ Finds mark the archer little meant ! 460 And many a word at random spoken May soothe or wound a heart that 's broken ! —*^ Half soothed, half grieved, half terrified, Close drew the page to Ronald's side; A wild delirious thrill of joy 34* THE LORD OF THE ISLES Was in that hour of agony, As up the steepy pass he strove, Fear, toil, and sorrow, lost in love ! XIX The barrier of that iron shore, The rock's steep ledge, is now climbed o'er; 470 And from the castle's distant wall, From tower to tower the warders call: The sound swings over land and sea, And marks a watchful enemy. — They gained the Chase, a wide domain Left for the castle's sylvan reign — Seek not the scene; the axe, the plough, The boor's dull fence, have marred it now, But then soft swept in velvet green The plain with many a glade between, 480 Whose tangled alleys far invade The depth of the brown forest shade. Here the tall fern obscured the lawn, Fair shelter for the sportive fawn; There, tufted close with copsewood green, Was many a swelling hillock seen; And all around was verdure meet For pressure of the fairies' feet. The glossy holly loved the park, The yew-tree lent its shadow dark, 490 And many an old oak, worn and bare, With all its shivered boughs was there. Lovely between, the moonbeams fell On lawn and hillock, glade and dell. The gallant monarch sighed to see These glades so loved in childhood free, Bethinking that as outlaw now He ranged beneath the forest bough. Fast o'er the moonlight Chase they sped. Well knew the band that measured tread 500 When, in retreat or in advance, The serried warriors move at once; And evil were the luck if dawn Descried them on the open lawn. Copses they traverse, brooks they cross, Strain up the bank and o'er the moss. From the exhausted page's brow Cold drops of toil are streaming now; With effort faint and lengthened pause, His weary step the stripling draws. 510 ' Nay, droop not yet ! ' the warrior said ; ' Come, let me give thee ease and aid ! Strong are mine arms, and little care A weight so slight as thine to bear. — What ! wilt thou not ? — capricious boy ! — Then thine own limbs and strength employ Pass but this night and pass thy care, I '11 place thee with a lady fair, Where thou shalt tune thy lute to tell How Ronald loves fair Isabel ! ' 52 ( Worn out, disheartened, and dismayed, Here Amadine let go the plaid; His trembling limbs their aid refuse, He sunk among the midnight dews ! XXI What may be done ? — the night is gone — The Bruce's band moves swiftly on — Eternal shame if at the brunt Lord Ronald grace not battle's front ! — 1 See yonder oak within whose trunk Decay a darkened cell hath sunk; 530 Enter and rest thee there a space, Wrap in my plaid thy limbs, thy face. I will not be, believe me, far, But must not quit the ranks of war. Well will I mark the bosky bourne, And soon, to guard thee hence, return. — Nay, weep not so, thou simple boy ! But sleep in peace and wake in joy.' In sylvan lodging close bestowed, He placed the page and onward strode 540 With strength put forth o'er moss and brook, And soon the marching band o'ertook. XXII Thus strangely left, long sobbed and wept The page till wearied out he slept — A rough voice waked his dream — l Nay,, here, Here by this thicket passed the deer — Beneath that oak old Ryno staid — What have we here ? — A Scottish plaid And in its folds a stripling laid ? — Come forth ! thy name and business tell ! 550 What, silent ? — then I guess thee well, The spy that sought old Cuthbert's cell, Wafted from Arran yester morn — Come, comrades, we will straight return. Our lord may choose the rack should teach To this young lurcher use of speech. Thy bow-string, till I bind him fast.' — ' Nay, but he weeps and stands aghast; Unbound we '11 lead him, fear it not; 'T is a fair stripling, though a Scot.' 560 The hunters to the castle sped, And there the hapless captive led. CANTO FIFTH 349 XXIII Stout Clifford in the castle-court Prepared him for the morning sport; And now with Lorn held deep discourse, Now gave command for hound and horse. War-steeds and palfreys pawed the ground, And many a deer-dog howled around. To Amadine Lorn's well-known word Replying to that Southern lord, 570 Mixed with this clanging din, might seem The phantasm of a fevered dream. The tone upon his ringing ears Came like the sounds which fancy hears When in rude waves or roaring winds Some words of woe the muser finds, Until more loudly and more near Their speech arrests the page's ear. XXIV * And was she thus,' said Clifford, 'lost ? The priest should rue it to his cost ! 580 What says the monk ? ' — ' The holy sire Owns that in masquer's quaint attire She sought his skiff disguised, unknown To all except to him alone. But, says the priest, a bark from Lorn Laid them aboard that very morn, And pirates seized her for their prey. He proffered ransom gold to pay And they agreed — but ere told o'er, The winds blow loud, the billows roar; 590 They severed and they met no more. He deems — such tempests vexed the coast — Ship, crew, and fugitive were lost. So let it be, with the disgrace And scandal of her lofty race ! Thrice better she had ne'er been born Than brought her infamy on Lorn ! ' XXV Lord Clifford now the captive spied; — * Whom, Herbert, hast thou there ? ' he cried. * A spy we seized within the Chase, 600 A hollow oak his lurking-place.' — * What tidings can the youth afford ? ' —