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SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
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 |§|^THE POETICAL 
 WORKS OF SIR 
 WALTER SCOTT . . 
 
 NEW YORK AND BOSTON 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL AND l^^fi^ 
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THE 
 
 COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 . 5^^ it f>i 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 ■OS" 
 
 CHARLES ELIOT NORTON /'>^H 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 NATHAN HASKELL DOLE 
 
 NEW YORK: 46 East 14TH Strhbt 
 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
 BOSTON: 100 Purchase Street 
 
Copyright bv 
 
 Thomas Y. Crowkll & Co. 
 
 1894- 
 
 TVPOGRAPHY BV C. J. PETERS & SON. 
 
 PRESS WORK BY JOHN WILSON & SON. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In looking back over this century, which is now so near its close, there 
 is none among its conspicuous figures of pleasanter aspect than that of 
 Scott; and of all the men who have lived during its course there is not one 
 who has contributed more largely to the pleasure of its successive gene- 
 rations. This is a high eulogy; no man could desire a better. To amuse 
 men rationally, to give them wholesome entertainment, is to do them a 
 great service ; and to do this through a lifetime more successfully than any 
 one else, is to be worthy of lasting gratitude. This is what Scott did for 
 our fathers, and has done for many of us, and will continue to do for many 
 of our children. At this moment, more than sixty years after the last of 
 his novels was written, two popular editions of them are in course of publi- 
 cation ; while his poems, ninety years after the " Lay of the Last Minstrel " 
 was first published, are still the delight of youthful readers, and still charm 
 readers of all ages by the interest of their animated narrative, the ease of 
 their versification, and the manliness of iheir spirit. 
 
 "Scott," said Mr. Emerson, "is the most lovable of men, and entitled 
 to the world's gratitude for the entertainment he has given to solitude, the 
 relief to headache and heartache. But," he adds, " he is not sufficiently 
 alive to ideas to be a great man." 
 
 " Into the question whether Scott was a great man or not, we do not 
 propose," says Carlyle, "to enter deeply. It is, as too usual, a question 
 about words. There can be no doubt that many men have been named 
 and printed great who were vastly smaller than he ; as little doubt, more- 
 over, that of the specially good, a very large portion, according to any genu- 
 ine standard of man's worth, were worthless in comparison with him. . . . 
 The truth is, our best definition of Scott were perhaps even this, that he 
 was, if no great man, then something much pleasanter to be, — a robust, 
 thoroughly healthy, and withal very prosperous and victorious man. An 
 eminently well-conditioned man, healthy in body, healthy in soul ; we will 
 call him one of the healthiest of men." 
 
iv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 And it is this sound, healthy human nature, on good terms with itself 
 and with the world, with easy mastery of its own faculties, open, sympa- 
 thetic, cordial, — it is this large, genial nature with which his work, whether 
 in prose or poetry, is inspired. Let us be grateful for such a gift. There 
 is space even on the narrow shelves of the immortals for books sucli as his. 
 Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, may rest on a higher slielf, but Scott 
 will be nearer at hand for the multitude of readers, and his volumes will 
 require more frequent rebinding. 
 
 He was past thirty years old before his poetic genius found its full ex- 
 pression. He was born in 1771, and it was in 1805 that his first long poem, 
 "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," was published and sprang into the popu- 
 larity which it has never lost. It was largely a piece of improvisation. It 
 was no poem the writing of which " made him lean for many years." 
 Once fairly entered upon, it was soon finished, " proceeding," as he tell us, 
 " at about the rate of a canto per week." In a letter written within a month 
 or two after its publication, he wrote, " It is deficient in that sort of contin- 
 uity which a story ought to have, and which, were it to write again, I would 
 endeavor to give it. . . . The sixth canto is altogether redundant." Com- 
 posed as it was at breakneck speed, it is not surprising that the diction is 
 often careless, that the facile couplets are too apt to drop heavily to a prosaic 
 level, and that there is little depth in the reflections which occasionally in- 
 tervene in the story. But, on the other hand, the narrative flows with rapid 
 current, the story is full of picturesque and lively scenes, and the verse 
 has what Wordsworth well called " an easy, glowing energy." The ac- 
 count of William of Deloraine's ride by night quickens the blood till its 
 beat keeps time with the gallop ; and, though the last canto be redundant, 
 it contains in the Ballad of Rosabelle one of those fine lyrics within the 
 limits of which Scott's improvising genius seems often to find its best ex- 
 pression. In his modest introduction to his final edition of tlie Lay in 1830, 
 he gives an interesting account of its origin and composition ; but neither 
 he nor his critics have done justice to the chief distinction of the poem, 
 that its mode was practically a new invention, reclaiming poetry from the 
 tediousness of the then prevailing artificial style, to its place as an art of 
 entertainment in the spirited romantic delineation of nature and of life. 
 There had been nothing like it in English literature. It was an extension 
 of the delightful realm of poetry, and in its kind there has been nothing 
 better. 
 
 Scott was in no hurry to take advantage of the popularity of his first long 
 poem, and he determined that his second should be less hasty in its conj- 
 position. " Accordingly," to cite his own words, " particular passages of a 
 
INTRODUCTION. r 
 
 poem which was finally called ' Marmion ' were labored with a good deal of 
 care by one by whom much care was seldom bestowed ; " and he adds in 
 words which it is pleasant to recall, and which in part account for the excel- 
 lence of the poem, " The period of its composition was a very happy one in 
 life." But " Marmion" was finished in haste, perhaps in too much haste; 
 and yet Scott was right in thinking well of the last canto, of which he wrote 
 to one of his correspondents, " I have succeeded better than I ventured 
 to hope." He was, indeed, in this canto at his best; and when " Scott's 
 poetry is at its best," says Matthew Arnold, " it is undoubtedly very good 
 indeed." The description of the Battle of Flodden Field is a splendid 
 piece of verse. " My heart is a soldiers, and always has been," Scott once 
 wrote ; and his soldier's heart beats in tlie thick of the battle he describes. 
 After the words I have just cited, Matthew Arnold quotes these verses : — 
 
 " Tunstall lies dead upon the field, 
 His life-blood stains the spotless shield: 
 Edmund is down : — my life is reft ; 
 The Admiral alone is left. 
 Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — 
 With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
 Full upon Scotland's central host. 
 Or victory and England's lost." 
 
 And then he adds, " That is, no doubt, as vigorous as possible, as spirited 
 as possible ; it is exceedingly fine poetry." And there is much hardly less 
 good. 
 
 In thanking Scott for a copy of Marmion, Wordsworth wrote to him, 
 with characteristic directness, " I think your end has been attained. That 
 it is not the end which I siiould wish you to propose to yourself, you will be 
 well aware from what you know of my notions of composition, both as to 
 matter and manner." In view of their relative positions in popular esteem 
 at the time, Scott may well have been more amused than annoyed at his 
 brother poet's unsympathetic disapproval, and have asked him in reply, 
 "Can the Ethiopian change his skin?" Scott's poetic method, and his 
 view of man and nature, were, indeed, widely different from Wordsworth's. 
 But "because thou art virtuous sliall there be no more cakes and ale?" 
 He was not given to introspection or meditation ; he sympathized with 
 men more than he studied them, and was more interested in their actions 
 and their earthly fates than in their spiritual elements. He cared little for 
 the order and significance of nature, but delighted in its infinite variety of 
 aspect ; and used it in his poems as a picturesque background for his char- 
 acters, the scenery of tlie stage on which they played their parts. 
 
yi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 "Marmion"was published in 1808; and its success was so great from 
 the first, that Scott more than half resolved not to write another long poem, 
 for fear of hazard to his popularity. But this resolution did not last long; 
 and, citing to himself the words of the great Marquis of Montrose, — 
 
 " He either fears his fate too much, 
 Or his deserts are small, 
 Who dares not put it to the touch, 
 To win or lose it all," 
 
 he began the " Lady of the Lake," which was to achieve, on its publication 
 in 1810, as instant and as great a success as either of its predecessors, and 
 was to maintain its popularity as firmly and as long. No one of Scott's 
 poems is fuller of movement, of the health of the open air and the charm of 
 the wild landscape than this ; and no one of them contains more verses which 
 have become part of the familiar possessions of the English-speaking race. 
 " I like it myself," wrote Scott, " as well as any of my former attempts ; " and 
 his judgment has been confirmed by the verdict of three generations. Fitz- 
 James's horn still wakes a ready echo in the adventurous heart of youth, 
 and many a maiden, on many a lake, wears the form of Katrine's lady in 
 her lover's eyes, 
 
 It has, indeed, rarely happened in the history of literature, that poems 
 written off-hand like these, with so little pains and so little revision, have 
 gained more than a brief lease of life. Scott himself, with his delightful 
 modesty, did not look for permanent fame as a poet. " I have enjoyed too 
 extensive popularity in this generation to be entitled to draw long-dated 
 bills on the applause of the next," he wrote in a letter, just before the 
 " Lady of the Lake" was published. And twenty years afterward he said, 
 in his preface to the last edition which he was to oversee, " 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." 
 In all that he anywhere says of his poetry his words are quite sound, simple, 
 and unpretending. He recognized the limits of his power and the sources 
 of his popularity ; he was pleased, but not elated, by success. Success could, 
 indeed, do nothing but good to so manly and healthy a nature. The real and 
 abiding charm of his verse consists not in its style, nor its stock of ideas, nor 
 in any significance underlying the narrative, but in qualities which depend 
 upon personal character. It is the expression of a generous nature, with a 
 lively interest in the outward spectacle of the world, a quick sympathy with 
 the actors in the long drama of life, and a keen sense of relation to the 
 earth and enjoyment of it. It is the expression of a lover of his own land, 
 
INTRODUCTION. vii 
 
 of its mountains and glens, and rivers and lakes, dearer for the sake of the 
 story of its people, a storj' as varied and picturesque as the scenery itself. 
 The literary critic will find a hundred faults in his poems ; but the boy, 
 entranced by the tale, does not know they are there ; and the man, jaded 
 with care and weary of books, does not mind them, finding refreshment in 
 verse inspired witli the breath of the open air, unstudied in its animation, 
 unforced in its sentin>ent, and making simple appeal to his memory and 
 imagination. 
 
 Scott was almost forty years old when the ' ' Lady of the Lake " was 
 written. His later poems, " Rokeby," " The Lord of the Isles," and others, 
 have less of the freshness of youth, and have never possessed the popualrity 
 of his earlier work. In his preface in 1830 to " Rokeby" he gives some of 
 the reasons of their comparative lack of success. Fortunately for the last- 
 ing pleasure of mankind, he turned from poetry to prose, and wrote the 
 Waverley novels. 
 
 Every year there is jettison of part of the cargo with which the good ship 
 of literature is overladen. Some of Scott's poetry lias already gone over- 
 board, and the time may come when more of it must follow ; but it will not 
 all suffer this fate. Even if the rest should go, some of his lyrics, at least, 
 aie sure to be .saved. What he once called " The only good song I ever 
 wrote," the " Pibroch of Donald Dhu," with its spirited rallying cry, — 
 
 " Come as the winds come, when 
 Forests are rended ; 
 Come as the waves come, when 
 Navies are stranded," 
 
 this will not be lost; nor will the " Coronach," from the "Lady of the 
 Lake." Some hearts would not forget the ballad of " Alice Brand ; " and 
 some memories are sure to hold Cleveland's song ; and more will recall the 
 stately measure and the pathos of " I climbed the dark brow of the mighty 
 Helvellyn ; " and others still, the wild ballad of Elspeth, in "The Anti- 
 quary," — 
 
 " The herring loves the merry moonlight, 
 The mackerel loves the wind." 
 
 And so long as any of his poems shall last, the memory of Scott himself 
 will be cherished in the hearts of men whom he has entertained, and to 
 whom he has not only given pleasure, but done good. For to become 
 friends with him in his books is to become friends with one of the pleas- 
 antest of men, with whom we cannot keep up acquaintance without, let 
 
viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 us hope, gaining something of his own simplicity, geniality, kindliness, 
 modesty, and manliness. 
 
 Among the last verses which Tennyson wrote there is a stanza of singu- 
 larly felicitous simplicity and strength, which in its personal tribute expres- 
 ses a common sentiment, — 
 
 " O great and gallant Scott ! 
 
 True gentleman, heart, blood, and bone, 
 I would it had been my lot 
 
 To have seen thee, and heard thee, and known." 
 
 It is fortunate that in the " Life of Scott," by his son-in-law, Lockhart, 
 and in his own Journal and Letters, we have such a picture of him as exists 
 of few other men, and in all its features consistent with the attractive image 
 that the reader of his poems and novels forms for himself of their large- 
 hearted and lovable author. 
 
 1894. Charles Eliot Norton. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 "Every Scottishman," wrote Sir Walter Scott in his fragment of autobio- 
 graphy, " has a pedigree. It is a national prerogative as inalienable as his pride 
 and his poverty." 
 
 Scott was proud of the fact that in his veins flowed the mingled blood of two 
 hostile clans, the Scotts and the Haliburtons. He claimed no more than "gentle " 
 birth, but few men in Scotland were connected with so many " stocks of historical 
 distinction." 
 
 On his father's side he traced his lineage through seven generations to Auld 
 Watt of Harden, and "his fair dame, the Flower of Yarrow." On his mother's 
 side were the " Bauld Rutherfords, that were sae stout," and the knightly family 
 of Swintons, through whom he claimed kinship with Sir William Alexander, first 
 Earl of Sterling, the Marquess of Douglas, and Sir Robert Sinclair of Longformacus. 
 
 Robert Scott, his grandfather, was bred for the sea, but exchanged the tiller 
 for the plough, and engaged in stock farming with considerable success. He 
 married Barbara Haliburton, through whom would have come to him the patrimony 
 of Dryburgh, comprising the ruins of the ancient abbey, had not the childless pro- 
 prietor, whose heir he was, fallen into pecuniary difficulties, and been obliged to 
 sell his estate. 
 
 His son Walter, the oldest of " a numerous progeny," married Anne, eldest 
 daughter of Dr. John Rutherford, Professor of Medicine in Edinburgh University. ^ 
 
 Of their twelve children, the first six died in infancy. Walter, the third son, 
 was born in Edinburgh, August 15, I77i- Till he was eighteen months old he 
 "showed every sign of health and strength." Then fever caused the lameness 
 from which he suffered all his life. After trying various remedies, his parents sent 
 him to his grandfather's at Sandy-Knowe, to get the benefit of the country air. He 
 distinctly remembered being stript and swathed in the warm skin of a sheep just 
 flayed, and his grandf.'ither, a venerable, white-haired man, using every incitement 
 to make him try to crawl on the floor of the little farm-house parlor, while a dis- 
 tant kinsman. Sir Henry Hay MacDougal, drest in an embroidered scarlet waist- 
 coat and a light-colored coat, with milk-white locks tied in military, fashion, knelt 
 on the floor before him, dragging his watch along the carpet as a sort of bait. 
 Walter Scott was only four when his grandfather died, but he continued to live 
 at the farm, gradually becoming rugged, though his leg was somewhat shrunken 
 and waste A He was a remarkably precocious boy; and the reading which he 
 heard, and the stories of Border adventure which were related for his amusement, 
 and the influences of the romantic neighborhood, with its ruined towers, stately 
 castles, purple mountains, and glorious rivers, were a far more important factor in 
 his education than the formal teaching which he received at the hands of his " kind 
 and affectionate aunt. Miss Janet Scott," or at the day-school at Bath, whither he 
 was sent for a year when he was five. 
 
 The change from the solitude of the Sandy-Knowe farm to his father's home in 
 Edinburgh was very great; but except for the too rigid Presbyterian strictness of 
 
X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 his parents, which made Sundays especially irksome, the discipline was probably 
 good for him. He was sent to the High School, and also received private lessons; 
 but, as he himself said, he glanced like a meteor from one end of the class to the 
 other, and commonly disgusted his kind master as much by negligence and frivolity, 
 as he eccasionally pleased him by flashes of intellect and talent; while he won 
 favor with his companions not only by his inexhaustible fund of stories, but also 
 by his address in all sorts of out-door games, and in the " bickers " which occurred 
 between the school boys and the town boys. 
 
 Toward the end of his course in the High School, under the direct tuition of the 
 Rector, Dr. Adam, he began to grow sensible of the beauties of Latin, and even 
 distinguished himself " by some attempts at poetical versions " from Horace and 
 Vergil. He felt that the rector's judicious mixture of praise and blame went 
 far to counteract his habits of indolence and inattention. 
 
 His health growing delicate again, he was not immediately sent to college, but 
 spent six months with his Aunt Janet at Kelso, on the Tweed. Here he had 
 excellent instruction, and made the acquaintance of Dr. Blacklock, the friend of 
 Burns; and through his recommendation became intimate with Ossian and Spenser. 
 Spenser he especially delighted in, and could repeat incredible quantities of his 
 verse. A respectable subscription library, a circulating library, and several private 
 book-shelves being open to him, he declared that he waded into the stream like a 
 blind man into a ford. His appetite for books was as ample and indiscriminating 
 as it was indefatigable; and he many times afterwards repeated that few had ever 
 read so much, or to so little purpose. 
 
 At the University, Scott entirely neglected Greek, much to his later regret, 
 largely forgot his Latin, and made small progress in mathematics. In the other 
 branches he was more fortunate, though in" ethics, history, and law, he always felt 
 that his learning was flimsy and inaccurate, and he would, even at the height of his 
 popularity, have sacrificed half of his reputation, if by so doing he could have 
 rested what was left on a solid foundation of learning and science. 
 
 Scott's father was a writer to the Signet, a branch of the law comprising 
 the duties of the solicitor or attorney with those of the man of business. His 
 practice had at one time been extensive, but a rather too simple and confiding 
 nature, and over zeal for clients' interests to the detriment of his own, had some- 
 what diminished it. When Scott left the University in 1786, he was indentured to 
 him for five years, and at the age of sixteen " entered upon the dry and barren 
 wilderness of forms and conveyances." 
 
 Though he rebelled against the drudgery and confinement, he felt a rational 
 pride in rendering himself useful to his father; and when actually at the oar, he 
 says no one could pull harder than he, sometimes writing upwards of one hun- 
 dred and twenty folio pages at a sitting, thereby earning at least thirty shillings. 
 The duties of his apprenticeship often required him to make expeditions to the 
 Highlands and elsewhere; and many of the most effective scenes of his poems 
 and novels were inspired by his adventures in those wild and unknown regions. 
 
 For recreation he read indefatigably; and as his constitution hardened, he made 
 long trips both on horseback and on foot, sometimes, in spite of his lameness, 
 walking twenty or thirty miles a day. Thus he stored his mind with pictures 
 of romantic or historic interest. And as he was unable to draw, he kept a sort of 
 log-lx)ok of his rambles; wherever he went, he cut a branch from a tree, and thus 
 fixed the scene in his memory. 
 
 He endeavored to educate his eye by taking lessons in oil painting, " from a 
 little Jew animalcule, a smouch called Burrell," but he afterwards regretfully 
 wrote in his diary that he made no progress : " Nature denied me correctness of 
 eye and neatness of hand." 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xi 
 
 Still he drew the Castle of Hermitage at Liddesdale so accurately that Clerk put 
 it into regular form, H. \V. Williams copied it, and his drawing was engraved for 
 the frontispiece of the first volume of the Kelso Edition of the Minstrelsy. 
 
 In music he was less talented. He wrote : " My ear appears to me as dull 
 as my voice is incapable of musical expression." It is related of his early Edin- 
 burgh days, that IxMng one time present at a drinking bout, when the conviviality 
 was prolonged till late, or rather early, Scott fell asleep, and on waking was con- 
 vinced by his friends that he had sung a song in the course of the evening, and had 
 sung it extremely well. But it is probable that none of them was a very good 
 judge in the circumstances. 
 
 In respect to lack of musical ear, Scott was like Burns and Byron and many 
 of the great poets. Fortunately, poetry depends rather upon a sense of time than 
 of genuine musical feeling, and many of his halting lines may te attributed to care- 
 lessness and haste. 
 
 In later days some of the reviews, while giving credit to Scott's abundant 
 vivacity and verve of style, complained that it seemed impossible for him to write 
 good English. 
 
 Scott, in his diary, under date of April 22, 1826, thus comments on his early 
 neglect of fundamentals : — 
 
 " I write grammar as I speak, to make my meaning known; and a solecism in point of compo- 
 sition, like a Scotcli word in speaking, is indifferent to me. I never learned grammar; and not 
 only Sir Hugh Evans, but even Mrs. Quickly, might puzzle me about Giney's tjenny's] case, and 
 horum, harum, horuni. 1 believe the bailiff in ' The Good Natured Man ' is not far wrong when 
 he says: 'One man has one way of expressing himself, and another another, and that is all the 
 difference between them.' " 
 
 The grave Presbyterian father was somewhat scandalized by his son's erratic 
 ways, though it is said he also read romances on the sly, and was guilty of playing 
 on the 'cello. One time Walter came home after one of his protracted absences. 
 His father impatiently demanded how he had managed to live without any supply 
 of pocket money; and when Walter expressed his regret that he had not Gold- 
 smith's art, so as to tramp like poor George Primrose from cottage to cottage over 
 the world, his father replied: — 
 
 " I greatly doubt, sir, you were born for nae better than a gangrel scrape gut ! " 
 
 In spite of the dangerous habits of young Scotch noblemen and gentlemen, 
 Scott's character was not permanently vitiated by his intercourse with them. 
 Indeed, he often exercised a restraining influence upon them. In his later life he 
 was more than once heard to remark: "Depend upon it, of all vices drinking is 
 the most incompatible with greatness." The terrible example of his brother Daniel's 
 fate was perhaps salutary to him. 
 
 Scott had by this time outgrown all trace of early ill-health. He was so strong 
 that he could lift a smith's anvil by the horn with one hand. He is described as \l 
 about six feet in stature, with a fresh, brilliant complexion, clear, open eyes, perfect ^ 
 teeth, and a noble brow, and with great vivacity of expression. His upper lip 
 was long, and his nose was far from classic, but his head was well set, and he was 
 eminently formed (with the exception of the blemish in one leg) to attract the 
 attention of the fair. 
 
 Lockhart says that it was the united testimony of his associates that Scott was 
 remarkably free from the more rakish indiscretions of young manhood; and he par- 
 tially explains it by reference to a secret attachment, "which continued through all 
 the most perilous stage 6f life to act as a romantic charm in safeguard of virtue." 
 
 His earliest love, whom he himself compares to Byron's Mary Duff, was " a 
 very good-natured, pretty girl," a Miss Dalrymple, daughter of Lord Westhall, 
 and her daughter afterwards became the spouse of his colleague, Robert Hamilton. 
 
xil BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 When he was sixty he wrote: — 
 
 " I was a mere child, and could feel none of the passion which Byron alleges, yet the recollec- 
 tion of this good-humored companion of my childhood is like that of a morning dream." 
 
 But while he was still serving his apprenticeship, it happened that one Sunday, 
 as the congregation were dispersing from Gray Friars, it began to rain, and Scott 
 offered his umbrella to Miss Williamina Belches, a beautiful girl, the daughter of 
 a gentleman who afterwards became Sir John Stuart of Fettercairn. The acquaint- 
 ance thus begun ripened into friendship, and speedily, on Scott's part, into an 
 undying love, which, though ultimately disappointed, was advantageous in more 
 ways than one. Lockhart says it "had a powerful influence in nerving Scott's 
 mind for the sedulous diligence with which he pursued his proper legal studies 
 during the two or three years that preceded his call to the bar." 
 
 Scott's father, discovering his attachment, felt it his duty to warn the young 
 lady's father, since she had "prospects of future far above his son's." She finally 
 married Sir William Forbes, who in the time of Scott's adversity befriended him in 
 many ways. 
 
 It was evident that Scott's pride was piqued, if his heart was broken, ])y her 
 conduct; but when he had acquired name and fame he renewed relations with 
 Lady Jane Stuart, the young lady's mother; and as late as 1827, on receiving an 
 affectionate letter from her, felt his heart stirred to its deepest depths, and he wrote 
 in his diary, "Alas! alas! — but why alas?" 
 
 He determined not to enter into partnership with his father, but to embrace the 
 more ambitious profession of the bar; and with that object in view he was eydcnt 
 in his studies for four years, and on the nth of July, 1792, he "assumed the gown, 
 with all its duties and honors." At the dinner which he gave, as was customary 
 on such occasions, his father was one of the happiest of guests. "On a festival 
 occasion," says Scott in his autobiography, "there were few whom a moderate glass 
 of wine exhilarated to such a lively degree." 
 
 On the first day of his presence at Court, a friendly solicitor g.^ve him a guinea, 
 with which he purchased a new night-cap; but his first important fee was spent for 
 a silver candlestick for his mother. lie was afterwards offered employment at the 
 Circuit Court at Jcdl)urgh; but, as he wrote his friend Clerk, " durst not venture." 
 
 He still kept up his habit of making what he called " raids " into unexplored 
 districts; and with his friend Robert Shortreid as guide, for seven successive years 
 explored every nook and corner of Liddesdale, where, till Scott's appearance, a 
 wheeled carriage had never been seen. To these rambles he owed much of the 
 material collected in "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." 
 
 Among the lawyers of the Outer House, many of whom afterwards attained 
 distinction, but who were now light-hearted loungers of " the mountain," Duns 
 Sco/its, as they called Scott, was regarded as the prince of story-tellers. Nearly 
 all of them united to form a class for the study of German; and to this circumstance 
 may be traced Scott's first entrance upon the field f)f literature. He had already 
 shown a natural facility for rhyming, and at the age of sixteen is said to have com- 
 posed a poem in four lx)oks on the Conquest of Granada; but this was immediately 
 burnt, and not a line is known to have survived, unless in one of the extemporized 
 mottoes to the novels. 
 
 Burger's " Lenore " first stimulated him to more serious verse. Having heard 
 about tiie poem, which was brought to Edinburgh by Mrs. Barbauld in 1795, Scott 
 obtained the original, and translated it at a sitting. Hi's friend Miss Cranstoun, 
 who was in the secret of his love for Miss Belches, had the ballad printed in "most 
 elegant style," and sent a copy " richly bound and blazoned " to her at the 
 country house where she and Scott were both visiting. The young lady had un- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xiii 
 
 doubtedly "high admiration of Scott's abilities," but not even this new proof of 
 his talent won her love. 
 
 Mrs. Scott of Harden, who was of noble German birth, supplied him with many 
 standard German books, and he translated a number of prose dramas and some of 
 Goethe's lyrics. 
 
 The " Lcnore " and " Wild Huntsman " were published in a thin quarto, with- 
 out Scott's name, in 1796, the year of Burns's death, — and was welcomed as a 
 remarkable production by many good critics, but proved pecuniarily a dead loss. 
 
 Meantime, his practice was slowly increasing, — in his first year he made a little 
 more than twenty-four pounds, in his fifth he made ;^I44 icw., — and his spare time 
 was largely occupied by his efforts in the formation of a body of volunteer cavalry, 
 in which he occupied at first the triple functions of paymaster, quartermaster, and 
 secretary. He was the very life of the " Light Horse," and was familiarly known 
 as Earl Walter. 
 
 During his summer vacation in 1797 he made a tour of the English lakes, where 
 he afterwards laid the scene of "Triermain " and "St. Ronan's Well;" and here 
 he met Miss Charlotte Margaret Carpenter, or Charpentier, a young lady of English 
 origin, but born in France. Her guardian was the Marquess of Downshire, but the 
 report that he was her father was disbelieved by Lockhart. 
 
 After a brief courtship, and some opposition on the part of Scott's family, he 
 became engaged to her. He married her on the 24th of December, 1797- '^^^ 
 following year their first-born son died the day after his birth, and Scott completed 
 his translation of Goethe's " Goetz von Berlichingen," which, when published in 
 February, 1799, brought him twenty-five guineas from a London bookseller. They 
 hired a pretty cottage at Lasswade, which they occupied for several summers; and 
 here amid the most romantic scenery of Scotland were thrown off those ballads 
 which Scott called " his first serious attempts in verse." He was also occupied in 
 making his collections for the subsequently published volumes of " The Scottish 
 Minstrelsy of the Border." 
 
 One of the advantages of his residence at Lasswade was his acquaintance with 
 the houses of Melville and Buccleuch; and when the office of sheriff-depute of 
 Selkirkshire became vacant in 1799, Scott, through the Duke of Buccleuch, was 
 appointed to this position. The duties were almost nominal, and the salary £yx> 
 a year. This, in addition to what he had received from his father's estate, his 
 wife's income, and his own professional earnings, placed him on a secure footing, 
 and gave him, at least during his vacations, time to cultivate literature. 
 
 Among Scott's schoolmates at Lancelot Whale's School in 1783, was James 
 Ballantyne, who had now become a printer, and was publishing a weekly news- 
 paper at Kelso. Scott then proposed to him to print off a dozen or so copies of 
 his ballads. This was done, and the pamphlet containing "William and Ellen," 
 "The Fire King," "The Chase," and a few others, was published under the title, 
 " Apology for Tales of Terror." At the same time the scheme of a collection of 
 Old Border Ballads was broached. 
 
 In April, 1800, he wrote to Ballantyne, asking him to Edinburgh, to engage 
 in a general printing business, to include a newspaper, a monthly journal, an 
 annual register, the execution of session papers, and, lastly, the publication of 
 books. 
 
 It was two years, however, before Ballantyne emigrated ; but in the meantime 
 he had won golden opinions by the beautiful style in which he had brought out the 
 first two volumes of " The Border Minstrelsy." Scott's share of the profits of these 
 was ;^7S loj. He had already begun that pecuniary assistance to Ballantyne 
 which, in 1S05, resulted in a secret partnership, and his ultimate ruin. The third 
 volume of the " Minstrelsy" wus well received. The London publisher, Long- 
 
xiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 man, issued one thousand copies of the first two, and fifteen hundred of the third. 
 Scott's entire profits were ;[^6oo. 
 
 His first contributions to the Edinburgh Kevietv were printed in 1S03, in which 
 year he was mainly engaged in editing the ancient manuscript of " Sir Tristrem, by 
 Thomas the Rhymer." This was published in May, 1804, in an edition of only 
 one hundred and fifty copies, at the high price of two guineas each. 
 
 The same month he took a lease of the house and farm of Ashestiel, on the 
 south bank of the Tweed, and about a month later his uncle. Captain Robert Scott, 
 died, leaving him his beautiful little villa and thirty acres of land, besides ;^6oo in 
 cash. He sold Rosebank for ;/^5,ooo, and was now assured of an annual income 
 of ;^I,000, besides his practice at the Bar (which, for instance, in 1803 brought 
 him over _;^22S) and his literary profits. 
 
 He had been scarcely more than a week in possession of his beautiful new resi- 
 dence when he was called upon to try a poacher. The man's pitiful story and 
 clever humor moved the sheriff; he not only let him off, but took him into his 
 service 2ls, grieve, or bailiff. From that time forth Tom Purdie was his faithful 
 henchman and trusted friend till he died. It was he who, when Scott received his 
 baronetcy, proceeded to add an S to every sheep on the estate; and this mark, 
 S. W. S., so delighted Scott, that he frequently used it as a signature. 
 
 The romantic and retired situation of Ashestiel offered Scott abundant inspira- 
 tion and leisure for writing; and here he finished "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," 
 begun some time before in an attempt to write a ballad to be called " The Goblin 
 Page." It was published in January, 1805, seven hundred and fifty copies in 
 quarto, at £1 55. a copy. Nearly forty-four thousand copies were disposed of 
 before he superintended the edition of 1830, not counting various pirated editions 
 in America and elsewhere. Scott's profits on the first edition were £i()() 6s. The 
 publishers, Longman & Co., of London, offered him ;^500 for the copyright, and 
 afterwards added ;^ioo. 
 
 It was shortly after this that the poet, instead of buying the estate of Long- 
 meadows, on the Yarrow, as he was tempted to do, invested all his capital in Bal' 
 lantyne's concern, whereby he acquired a third interest. 
 
 The success of the " Lay" determined Scott to quit the Bar and devote himself 
 to literature. His first great scheme was a complete edition of British poets, an- 
 cient and modern; but finding that Thomas Campbell was engaged upon a similar 
 work, he took upon himself only the new edition and biography of Dryden. Thus 
 he combined, to use Lockhart's words, " the conscientious magistrate, the marti- 
 net quartermaster, the speculative printer, and the ardent lover of literature for its 
 own sake." He might have added also laird and forester and farmer. 
 
 This same year he began the story of Waverley, but laid it aside till a later 
 day. In 1806 he was appointed clerk of sessions, in place of George Home, who 
 had held the office for upwards of thirty years. By special arrangement, which 
 Scott considered a hard bargain, he undertook the duties, but waived the salary 
 during Home's life. The duties required his attendance at court from four to six 
 hours a day five or six days a week during about six months in the year, and the 
 salary was ;^I,300. This position Scott filled for twenty-five years, not slighting 
 any of the "really base drudgery" of the work, or giving to its more exacting 
 claims any but his best talents and skill. 
 
 During the whole of 1 806 and 1807 he gave most of his spare moments to his 
 editorial work on Dryden, but he was also enlisted in several contributions to the 
 Edinburgh Revie^v, and finished " Marmion." Constable offered one thousand 
 guineas for it before he had seen a single line of it. It was published in February, 
 1808, in " a splendid quarto, price one guinea and a half," and the legitimate sale 
 of the work in England alone reached fifty thousand copies by 1836. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xv 
 
 "Marmion" was followed in April by the edition of Dryden on which Scott 
 had been working so long. It was in eighteen volumes, and the editor's fee was 
 ;^756. The work, in spite of many prognostications of failure, was a distinguished' 
 success. 
 
 Scott's industry at this period of his life was scarcely less remarkable than it 
 was when he was struggling to pay off his debts. He edited Strutt's " Queenhoo 
 Hall," adding the concluding chapters. The State papers of Ralph Sadler, which 
 ultimately extended to thirteen ponderous quarto volumes, and were not completed 
 till i8i2; a new edition of "Captain Carleton's Memoirs;" a similar one of the 
 "Memoirs of Robert Gary, Earl of Monmouth;" and a complete edition of the 
 works of Swift, for which he was promised ^^1,500, were among his labors. 
 
 lie afterwards confessed that this " tumult of engagements " was enough to 
 tear him to pieces, but that he was saved by " the wonderful exhilaration about it 
 all," which kept his blood at a fever-pitch, and made him feel as though he could 
 grapple with anything and everything. 
 
 In a letter to his friend Morritt, he gives a lively picture of his occupations: — • 
 
 " I have been Secretary to the Judicature Commission, which sat daily during all the Christmas 
 Vacation. I have been editing Swift, and correcting the press at the rate of six sheets [qo pages] 
 a week. I have been editing Somers at the rate of four ditto ditto; I have written reviews, I have 
 written songs, I have made selections, I have superintended rehearsals, and all this independent of 
 visiting and of my official duty .... and independent of a new poem with which I am threatening 
 the world. This last employment is not the most prudent, but I really cannot well help myself. 
 My office, though a very good one for Scotland, is only held in reversion ; nor do I at present derive 
 a shilling from it. I must expect that a fresh favorite of the public will supersede me, and my 
 philosophy being very great on the point of poetical fame, I would fain, at the risk of hastening 
 my own downfall, avail myself of the favorable moment, to make some further provision for my 
 little people." 
 
 His " little people" were four in number: Charlotte Sophia, afterwards Mrs. 
 Lockhart, born 1799; Walter, 1801; Anne, 1803; and Charles, 1805. Lockhart 
 gives a delightful picture of Scott's treatment of his children. He himself con- 
 fessed in his diary that he did not like babies, yet to use the words of his son-in- 
 law : — 
 
 " No father ever devoted more time and tender care to his offspring, than he did to each of his, 
 as they successively reached the age when they could listen to him and understand his talk. Like 
 their mute playmates. Camp and the greyhounds, they had at all times free access to his study ; he 
 never considered their tattle as any disturbance ; they went and came as pleased their fancy ; he was 
 always ready to answer their questions ; and when they, unconscious how he was engaged, en- 
 treated him to lay down his pen and tell them a story, he would take them on his knee, repeat a 
 ballad or a legend, kiss them, and set them down again to their marbles or ninepins, and resume his 
 labor, as if refreshed by the interruption." 
 
 His accomplishment of so much was due to his habit of early rising, and, as 
 he expressed it, "breaking the neck of the day's work" before breakfast. This 
 left him time for his visits and his visitors, for his various out-door avocations, 
 and the manifold duties and pleasures that filled his day. Moreover he was able 
 to compose while walking or riding. 
 
 In this incessant round of occupations the years passed rapidly. Unfortunately, 
 his zeal was enlisted in furthering the interests of numberless mediocrities who 
 appealed to him; and when, on account of political differences, he quarrelled with 
 the shrewd and enterprising Constable, and entered with the Ballantyne brothers 
 into a rival publishing business, he sowed the seeds of disaster. Lockhart says 
 that, though they would have shed their heart's blood in his service, yet, as men of 
 affairs, they deeply injured him, and he adds: — 
 
 "The day that brought John into pecuniary connection with him was the blackest in his 
 calendar." 
 
xvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 The two brothers whom Scott called respectively Akliborontiphoscophornio and 
 , Rigdumfunnidos, entered rashly upon all sorts of engagements, and Scott the silent, 
 secret partner, who furnished the most of the capital, was even more ready to sug- 
 gest the pul)lication of works which were foredoomed to failure. 
 
 The bond of copartnership dated from 1809, if not earlier, and in May of the fol- 
 lowing year, the " Lady of the Lake " was published also, in a majestic quarto at 
 two guineas, and had a phenomenal success. Within a few months twenty thou- 
 sand copies of different editions had been sold, and the legitimate sale by July, 
 1836, was reckoned as exceeding fifty thousand copies. 
 
 A curious effect followed the publication of this poem; attention was drawn to 
 the l)eauties of the Scottish Lake region, and the cost of post-horse service rose in 
 an extraordinary degree. 
 
 Scott himself increased his acquaintance with the Highlands during the sum- 
 mer of 1810. At first he had thought of going to the peninsula, where the British 
 army then was, but an invitation from the Laird of Staffa changed his mind, and 
 he betook himself to the Hebrides with his dog Wallace, his wife, his eldest 
 daughter, and several friends. This locality he afterwards chose as the scene of 
 his last important poem. On his return he resumed the composition of "Wa- 
 verley;" but at the desire of Ballantync it was laid .iside once more. It is inter- 
 esting to know that while the publishing affairs of Scott's firm were going from bad 
 to worse, owing to his imprudent enterprises, he was tempted " to pitch the Court 
 of Session and the booksellers to the Devil," and go out to Lidia. Had Mr. 
 Dundas (afterward I^ord Melville), been appointed Governor-General of India, 
 there is little doubt that he would have accepted a situation as Indian Secretary or 
 Judge. 
 
 The year 1811 was distinguished by the publication of the "Vision of Don 
 Roderick;" the proceeds of this he applied as his subscription for the relief of the 
 Portuguese, who had suffered so bitterly in Massena's campaign. Far more im- 
 portant was his first purchase of land. He was about to come into a salary of 
 £,\yyo as Clerk of Sessions, and liis lease of Ashestiel had run out. He 
 therefore bought for ^^4000 a little farm stretching half a mile along the " Tweed's 
 Fair River." The land comprised the scene of the last clan Battle of the Borders, 
 
 " Where gallant Cessford's life-blood dear 
 Reeked on dark Elliot's border spear." 
 
 It consisted of a rich meadow or intervale, and a hundred acres of undulating 
 land, " a bank and haugh as poor and bare as Sir John Falstaff's regiment," un- 
 drained and unplanted except with heath, while in front of the wretched little 
 farm-house was a stagnant pond called Clarty Hole. He gives in his diary 
 a comic picture of the hegira from Ashestiel to his new domain, a whole troupe 
 carrying old swords, lances, targets, bows, a family of turkeys in a helmet, and 
 dozens of peasant children bringing up the rear.. 
 
 The whole region had originally belonged to the Abbey of Melrose, the ruins 
 of which were visible from the hillocks near the house. He immediately chris- 
 tened the estate Abbotsford, and felt no little pride in being greeted as the Laird ! 
 He immediately began to plant trees, an occupation most fascinating to him. 
 He also, like Gladstone, took pleasure in wielding the axe. His passion for ac- 
 quiring land was ultimately gratified. His hundred acres grew into a domain of 
 over a thousand, and the cottage which he jilanned became twelve years later a 
 baronial castle. The estate was acquired by means of borrowed mone^, half of 
 the amount being advanced on the security of the poem " Rokeby," which indeed 
 was not written, but as yet only planned. 
 
 The following summer was among the busiest of Scott's life. As he wrote Mr. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xvii 
 
 Morritt, a dozen masons were hammcrinc; at his new house, and his "poor 
 noddle" at the poem. Indeed, he was also at work at "Triermain," which he 
 hoped to bring out anonymously at the same time as " Rokeby." 
 
 " Rokeby " was issued early in January, 1813. Nearly thirty-two hundred copies 
 at two guineas were sold in two days, and ten thousand of the later editions in three 
 months, but its popularity was much inferior to his two preceding poems. Two 
 months later " Triermain " appeared, but its anonymity did not play the expected 
 deception on Jeffrey, for whom the trap was chiefly laid; he had gone to America. 
 The Quarterly Rczncw, however, was completely deceived. 
 
 Amid dark anxieties, and most humiliating demands upon him by his partners 
 for meeting notes and claims against the publishing-house, which seemed to be los- 
 ing at the rate of £100 a month, and was indeed reported to be on the verge of 
 bankruptcy, Scott received from the Prince Regent the offer of the Laureateship. 
 This he declined. 
 
 In July, 1814, Scott's "Life and Works of Swift," in nineteen octavo volumes, 
 were published in an edition of twelve hundred and fifty copies, which took just ten 
 years to sell: and on the very day of their issue he finished " Waverley," having 
 spent less than a month on the last two volumes. Constable, with whom, now 
 that he and the Ballantynes had forsworn publishing, he was again on friendly 
 terms, .it first offered him ;^7oo for the copyright, but afterwards decided on an 
 equal division of profits. 
 
 " Waverley " was published anonymously, and was the first of that long series 
 which procured for its author the title of " The Cireat Unknown," and "The Wizard 
 of the North." Though thirty persons were in the secret, it w.as kept tolerably 
 well, and not even the personal efforts of the Prince Regent induced Scott to drop 
 the mask. The failure of the Ballantynes revealed the real state of things, and 
 at a dinner of the Theatrical Fund in 1827 Scott made his memorable con- 
 fession . 
 
 Without waiting to see how his anonymous venture should succeed, Scott almost 
 immediately proceeded on what in his diary he calls a " voyage in the Lighthouse 
 Yacht to Nova Zembla and the lord knows where." This voyage gave the finish- 
 ing touches to " The Lord of the Isles," and furnished abundant material for the 
 scenery of "The Pirate." On his return, early in September, he arranged with 
 Const.ible for the publication of "The Lord of the Isles." He received fifteen hun- 
 dred guineas for one half of the copyright. The death of the Duchess of Buccleuch, 
 " a beautiful, affectionate, and generous friend," to whom he was sincerely attached, 
 dashed his enthusiasm for this poem, which was accordingly finished rather as a 
 task than as a labor of love, which it would otherwise have been. It was composed 
 with the utmost speed — the last three cantos occupying less than a month. It 
 was published on January 18, 1815; and only a month later came the second of 
 the Waverley Novels, " Ciuy Mannering," which Scott said was " the work of six 
 weeks at Christmas." And this in addition to a most voluminous correspondence 
 and other literary work, besides his anxious superintendence of the affairs of the 
 Ballantynes, whose erratic business man.ager was constantly keeping them on 
 a dangerous lee-shore. 
 
 The sum received for " Guy Mannering " served for a time to keep the sinking 
 ship from the reefs of disaster. The first edition of two thousand copies at a 
 guinea each was sold in two days, and ten thousand were distributed before a 
 collected edition of the novels was made. 
 
 With the publication of " The Lord of the Isles " Scott's poetical career practi- 
 ■ cally ended; for "The Field of Waterloo " and the few lyrics which he wrote dur- 
 ing a visit to the Continent in 1S15, or " Harold the Dauntless," and the poems that 
 occur in the novels are of small consequence compared with his previous master- 
 
xviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 pieces. Scott wrote his friend Morritt in 1817, announcing "Harold the Daunt- 
 less," and " a doggrel tale called the ' Search after Happiness ' ": — 
 
 " I begin to get too old and stupid, I think, for poetry, and will certainly never again adventure 
 on a grand scale. 
 
 Indeed, Scott's gift as a poet lay in the province of improvisation, and had all 
 the shortcomings, as well as the excellencies, characteristic of such verse. 
 
 Scott made one attempt to be promoted as Baron of Exchequer, but it fell 
 through. While it was still pending, he had a terrible attack of cramps in the 
 stomach, which caused his friends much anxiety. They were due to gallstones; 
 and their effect was such that at the end of a year they left him looking twenty 
 years older, with scanty hair pure white, and with the fire of his eyes dimmed. 
 He came out of it; but, as he wrote one of his friends, he could for some time 
 "neither stir for weakness and giddiness, nor read for dazzling in his eyes, nor 
 listen for a whizzing sound in his ears, nor even think for lack of the power of 
 arranging his ideas." 
 
 The attacks kept increasing in violence, and they were so agonizing that his 
 screams were heard beyond the house. Nevertheless, in their intervals he wrote 
 "Rob Roy," ■^ "Old Mortality," and in June, 1818, he finished "The Heart of 
 Mid Lothian," and began "The Bride of Lammermoor." He was informed that 
 his friend, the Prince Regent, was going to grant him a baronetcy; but just as he 
 was about to start for London to receive it, a still worse attack of his disorder 
 occurred, and he thought that he was dying. He gave his children his parting 
 blessing, and turned his face to the wall. Instead of dying, he fell into a deep 
 sleep, and when he woke the crisis had p.ast. 
 
 The publication of " Ivanhoe " in December, 1819, marked the acme of Scott's 
 popularity. Twelve thousand copies at ten shillings were almost instantly sold. 
 Unfortunately, his publishers refrained from telling him of the falling off in popu- 
 larity of the succeeding novels. And Scott, whose literary income had l)een foi 
 some time upwards of ^^10,000 a year, believing that the golden stream was in- 
 exhaustible, entered deeper and deeper into the expenditures caused by the building 
 of Abbotsford, and the constant acquisition of land at exorbitant prices. 
 
 During his visit to I^ondon, in 1820, Sir Thomas Lawrence painted his portrait 
 for the King's Gallery, and Mr. Chantrey made the bust, which, according to Lock- 
 hart, "alone preserves for posterity the cast of expression most fondly rememliered 
 by all who ever mingled in his domestic circle." 
 
 Scott was then gazetted as a baronet; and the king remarked to him at the levee, 
 " I shall alw.ays reflect with pleasure on Sir Walter Scott's having been the first 
 creation of my reign." 
 
 Scott, whose Tory proclivities were always shown, and who, in the reform meas- 
 ures of a few years later, saw nothing but destruction, was naturally much pleased 
 by this doubtful distinction. The same year both the English universities conferred 
 upon him the honorary degree of Doctor in Civil Law. 
 
 All the time that he was pouring out his romances at the rate of twelve volumes 
 a year, his hospitality was burdened with an unending multitude of visitors who 
 made his castle a hotel. Lockhart says that the most princely nobleman of his age 
 did not exceed him in the number of his distinguished visitors. 
 
 The next year John Ballantyne died, much to the regret of Scott, to whom he 
 left two thousand pounds by will. Unfortunately, instead of being possessed of 
 
 * He sent the final sheets with this doggrel rhyme : — 
 " With great joy 
 I send you Roy. 
 'Twas a tough job. 
 But we're done with Rob." 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xix 
 
 property, the reckless fellow was deep in debt. Scott was still blinded to the real 
 state of affairs. So assured was he of possessing unlimited means and unlimited 
 resources, that he " exchanged instruments, and received his booksellers' bills for no 
 less than four 'works of fiction,' not one of them otherwise described in the deeds 
 of agreement, to be produced in unbroken succession." 
 
 Nor did his genius or fortune fail him. "The Fortunes of Nigel" were fol- 
 lowed by " Peveril of the Peak," " Quentin Durward," "St. Ronan's Well," and 
 " Red Gauntlet," and Ablxjtsford was complete! 
 
 He was happy in his family; his eldest son independent in fortune; his second 
 talented and on the road to promotion in the army; his daughter married to Lock- 
 hart, who was a rising young man with fine prospects as editor of Murray'' s Quar- 
 terly. This was the grand climax ! 
 
 In Dec. i8, 1825, occurs this entry in Scott's diary: — 
 
 " My extremity has come. Cadell has received letters from London which all but positively 
 announce the failure of Hurst and Robinson, so that Constable and Co. must follow, and I must go 
 with poor James Ballantyne for company. I suppose it will involve my all. But if they leave me 
 ^500, I can still make it ^1000 or I^\2.oo a year. 
 
 At the thought of his dogs and tenants and trees his heart was crushed within 
 him. Lady Scott, pleasure-loving, easy-going, extravagant, was incredulous and 
 critical. For a time it seemed as though the blow might be avoided, and possibly 
 it might if Constable had hastened to London; but he delayed, and the crash came. 
 The total liabilities of the three allied firms was about half a million pounds, of 
 which Scott's share wasj^i30,ooo. He wrote in his diary: — 
 
 " I have walked the last on the domains I have planted — sate the last time in the halls I have 
 built. ... I find my eyes moistening, and that will not do. I will not yield without a fight for it 
 ... In prosperous times I have sometimes felt my fancy and powers of language flag, but adver- 
 sity is to me, at least, a toiiic and bracer ; the fountain is awakened from its inmost recesses, as if the 
 spirit of affliction had troubled it in his passiige." 
 
 As soon as his misfortune was known, friends and strangers sprang with one 
 impulse to his aid. One anonymous correspondent was anxious to send him 
 ;i^30,ooo, and he was greatly touched by the offer of his daughter's harp-teacher to 
 contribute ;^500 or £,(300, "probably his all." 
 
 A woman of rank offered to marry him, and some " unutterable idiot of a privy 
 counsellor " tried to bring about a match with a dowager duchess. 
 
 But Scott declined all aid. He buckled down to the colossal work of paying 
 this indebtedness by his own exertions. His creditors, with the exception of one 
 grasping Jew, who demanded his pound of flesh, were willing to grant him every 
 facility. 
 
 He had once written, " I cannot pull well when the draught is too far behind 
 me. I love to have the press thumping, clattering, banging in my rear; it creates 
 the necessity which almost always makes me work best." And to his factor, Laid- 
 law, he wrote, " For myself I feel like the Eildon Hills — quite firm, though a little 
 cloudy. ... I do not dislike the path that lies before me. I have seen all that 
 society can show, and enjoyed all that wealth can give me, and I am satisfied nnicli 
 is vanity, if not vexation of spirit." 
 
 Also in his diary he made the best of the matter, " I think, now the shock of 
 Ihe discovery is past and over, I am much better off on the whole; I am as if I had 
 shaken off from my shoulders a great mass of garments, rich indeed, but cumbrous, 
 and always more a burden than a comfort." 
 
 By "Woodstock," the fruit of less than three months later, he won what he 
 calls " the matchless sum " of ;i^8,228. 
 
 Amid these terrible labors other misfortunes came upon him; ill-health and 
 failure of eyesight, the fatal illness of his grandson, Johnnie Lockhart, for whom 
 
XX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 he ielt a peculiar tenderness, as the little fellow had a lameness similar to his 
 own; it was for him that he wrote the "Tales of a Grandfather." Lady Scott 
 also fell into ill-health and died while her husljand was in Edinburgh. He entered 
 into his diary his conviction that she was still "sentient and conscious of his emo- 
 tions — somewhere — somehow — where we cannot tell, how we cannot tell" — 
 and he spoke with warmth of " the mysterious yet certain hope that he should see 
 her in a better world." 
 
 "Grief," he wrote, "makes me a housekeeper, and to labor is my only re- 
 source." Yet he had written a year or two earlier in his diary that " never did a 
 being hate task work as he had hated it from his infancy up." "It is not that I 
 am idle in my nature either. But propose to me to do one thing, and it is incon- 
 ceivable the desire I have to do something else — not that it is more easy or more 
 pleasant, but just because it is escaping from an imposed task." 
 
 The Bank of Scotland threatened to push him, and then for the first time he 
 turned and declared that if they used the swor^ of the Law he would grasp the 
 shield. He rightly felt that he ought to be left free to write under fitting 
 conditions. 
 
 During the two years preceding January, 1828, he earned by his pen nearly 
 ;,^40,ooo! 
 
 How pathetic is this entry in his diary: ■ — • 
 
 " What a life mine lias been ! — half-educated, ahnost wholly neglected or left to myself, stuffing 
 my head with most nonsensical trash, and undervalued in society for a time by most of my com- 
 panions, getting forward and held a bold and clever fellow contrary to the opinion of all who thought 
 me a mere dreamer, broken-hearted for two years, my heart handsomely pieced again, but the crack 
 will remain till my dying day. Rich and poor four or five times, once on the verge of ruin, yet 
 opened new sources of wealth almost overflowing. Now taken in my pitch of pride and nearly 
 winged." 
 
 The gallant struggle which he made is almost unique in the history of literature. 
 It became a passion with him to be at his desk " feaguing it away," to use his own 
 expression. But like Carlyle, he had little respect for that " dear /«^/zV«;« " whom 
 he was doomed to amuse. 
 
 When the debt was reduced to ;^6o,000, the creditors signified their sense of 
 his labors by surrendering his books, furniture, plate, and curiosities. Some of his 
 friends thought it was not very handsomely done, but Scott was extremely gratified. 
 
 In five years his debt was reduced to ;[{^54,ooo, and if he had lived till 1833 it 
 would have been entirely cleared. But his health was yielding under the strain. 
 In November, 1830, he resigned from the Court of Sessions on a pension of ^840. 
 The following May he often wished he might lie down and sleep without waking. 
 His bodily strength was greatly weakened; fear that his mental faculties were fail- 
 ing haunted him. To linger on like Swift, "a driveller and a show," seemed a 
 terrible fate. 
 
 It had lieen decided that he should try the effect of a winter in Italy; and in 
 September, just before he started, " the old splendor of Aljbotsford" was revived for 
 the last time. Captain Glencairn Burns, the son of the poet, came to see him. 
 The neighbors were assembled, and Sir Walter did the honors of the table. Two 
 days later Wordsworth came to bid him farewell. On the 29th of October he sailed 
 for Malta on a government frigate. He was conscious that his days were num- 
 bered; he wrote in his diary, " I am perhaps setting." 
 
 At Malta he made a round of visits with old friends, and was greatly gratified 
 at a grand ball given in his honor. Four hundred gentlemen, mostly English offi- 
 cers, were present. 
 
 At Naples his son Charles was awaiting him; and there was a fine eruption 
 of Vesuvius, which Scott thought, if it portended his death, did him too much 
 honor. He went to the Palazzo on the king's birthday dressed like a brigadier- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xA 
 
 general of Archers' Guards; he wore " a decent green uniform, laced at the cuffs," 
 and was " sworded and feathered." 
 
 Here he refused to listen to the remonstrances of his friends and the warning of 
 his physicians, but began a new novel, and planned to close the series of Waverley 
 with a poem in the style of " the Lay " or "the Lady of the Lake:" the subject, 
 a curious tale of chivalry Ijelonging to Rhodes. In order to carry out this dream. 
 Sir Frederick Adams offered him a steamlxiat that should carry him to Greece. 
 Rut this plan was abandoned. 
 
 Accordingly Sir Walter bought a small closing carriage, and on the i6th of April 
 started for Rome. 
 
 He grew more and more impatient to get home. He had looked forward to 
 meeting Goethe in Germany. This hope also was disappointed. " He at least died 
 at home," he said — " let us to Ablx)tsford." 
 
 He seemed to enjoy the steamboat trip down the Rhine; but on the 9th of June 
 he was attacked by apoplexy, combined with paralysis. He was brought to London 
 a week later, and it was not until the middle of July that he was allowed to return 
 to Ablx)tsford, which he so longed to see. 
 
 He lingered until the 21st of September, when he peacefully died in the presence 
 of all his children. 
 
 His two sons died childless. Lockhart's daughter Charlotte married James 
 Hope, whose daughter, Mary Monica, became the wife of the Honorable Joseph 
 Maxwell, the present possessor of Abbotsford. They have six children. 
 
 Lockhart's biography of Scott is justly regarded as a model of fairness and abil- 
 ity. It has been since supplemented by the publication of Scott's letters, and of 
 the diary from which Lockhart made limited extracts. The result is that Scott's 
 life lies lx.'fore us with the utmost distinctness: his generosity, his modesty, his lofty 
 principle and piety, modified, as in the case of all human beings, by his individual- 
 ity, his toryism, his outspoken frankness, his occasional narrowness. He had his 
 faults, but few men could better afford to allow the world to balance them with his 
 noble qualities. 
 
 We have the vividest pen-pictures of Scott's daily life; we know his methods 
 of composition, his disjjosition of time, his ideas of hospitality. 
 
 Few men were ever more honored. In 1827 he was appointed Professor of 
 Antiquities at the Royal Academy, and, writing of his honorary titles, he re- 
 marked jocosely : — 
 
 " What a tail of the alphabet I should draw after me were I to sign with the indications of the 
 different societies I belong to, beginning with President of the Royal Society of Edinburgh and 
 ending with umpire of the Six-foot-high Club! " 
 
 There oftentimes arises discussion as to the immortality of Scott; but while we 
 may readily acknowledge his faults as a man, as a novelist, and as a poet, still we 
 may be justified in asserting that it will be a sad day, should it ever come, when 
 the young do not feel their hearts glow with enthusiasm alike for Scott's honorable 
 life and for his varied and splendid works. 
 
 Nathan Haskell Dole. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 r 
 
 Introduction by Charles Eliot 
 
 Norton iii 
 
 Biographical Sketch by Nathan 
 
 Haskell Dole ix 
 
 The Lay of the Last Minstrel — • 
 
 Preface to First Edition ... i 
 
 Introduction to Edition 1830 . . 2 
 
 Introduction 9 
 
 Canto 1 10 
 
 Canto II 15 
 
 Canto III 20 
 
 Canto IV 26 
 
 Canto V 34 
 
 Canto VI 40 
 
 Marmion — 
 
 Advertisement to First Edition . 48 
 Introduction to Edition 1830 . . 49 
 Introduction to Canto I. (To Wil- 
 liam Stuart Rose) 51 
 
 Canto I., " The Castle " ... 54 
 Introduction to Canto II. (To 
 
 the Rev. John Marriott) . . 61 
 
 Canto II., "The Convent" . . 63 
 Introduction to Canto III. (To 
 
 William Erskine) 70 
 
 Canto III., " The Hostel or Inn " 73 
 Introduction to Canto IV. (To 
 
 James Skene) 80 
 
 Canto IV., " The Camp " . . . 82 
 Introduction to Canto V. (To 
 
 George Ellis) 90 
 
 Canto v., "The Court" ... 92 
 
 Lochinvar 96 
 
 Marmion — 
 
 Introduction to Canto VI. (To 
 
 Richard Heber) 104 
 
 Canto VI., "The Battle". . . 106 
 L'Envoy 119 
 
 The Lady of the Lake — 
 Introduction to Edition 1830 . 
 Canto I., " The Chase " 
 Canto IL, "The Island" . 
 Canto HI., "The Gathering " 
 Canto IV., "The Prophecy" 
 Canto v., " The Combat " . 
 Canto VI., "The Guard-Room 
 
 120 
 124 
 132 
 142 
 
 151 
 160 
 170 
 
 The Vision of Don Roderick — 
 
 Preface 180 
 
 Introduction 181 
 
 Part 1 183 
 
 Conclusion 195 
 
 ROKEBY — 
 
 Advertisement to First Edition . 199 
 
 Introduction to Edition 1830 . . 200 
 
 Canto 1 203 
 
 Canto II 211 
 
 Canto III 219 
 
 Canto IV 228 
 
 Canto V 236 
 
 Canto VI 247 
 
 The Bridal of Triermain; or, 
 THE Vale of St. John — 
 Preface to First Edition . . .258 
 
 Introduction 261 
 
 Canto 1 263 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Bridal of Tkiermain — 
 
 Lyulph's Tale 264 
 
 Canto II. , Lyulph's Tale, contin- 
 ued 267 
 
 Introduction to Canto III. . . .276 
 
 Canto III 277 
 
 Conclusion 287 
 
 The Lord of the Isi.es — 
 
 Advertisement to First Edition . 288 
 Introduction to Edition 1830 . . 288 
 
 Canto 1 290 
 
 Canto II 297 
 
 Canto III 305 
 
 Canto IV 313 
 
 Canto V 321 
 
 Canto VI 330 
 
 The Field of Waterloo . . . 342 
 Harold the Daijntless — 
 
 Introduction 350 
 
 Canto 1 351 
 
 Canto II 356 
 
 Canto III 361 
 
 Canto IV 365 
 
 Canto V 370 
 
 Canto VI 374 
 
 Contributions to Minstrelsy of 
 the Scottish Border — 
 Thomas the Rhymer: 
 
 Part I. Ancient 381 
 
 Part II. Altered from Ancient 
 
 Prophecies 383 
 
 Part III. Modern 385 
 
 Glenfinlas; or, Lord Ronald's 
 
 Coronach 38S 
 
 The Eve of St. John .... 392 
 
 Cadyow Castle 395 
 
 The Gray Brother 399 
 
 Ballads, Translated, or Imi- 
 tated, FROM the German, 
 etc. — 
 William and Helen 403 
 
 .vers from 
 
 :h Li 
 
 Ballads from the German — 
 The Wild Huntsman 
 The F"ire-King 
 Frederick and Alice . 
 The Battle of Sempach 
 The Noble Moringer 
 The Erl-King . 
 Miscellaneous Poems — 
 Juvenile Lines 
 On a Thunder-storm 
 On the Setting Sun 
 The Violet . . 
 To a Lady. (With Flo 
 
 a Roman Wall) 
 War-song of theEdinl)i 
 
 Dragoons 
 The Bard's Incantation 
 Helvellyn .... 
 The Dying Bard . 
 The Norman Horse-shoe 
 The Maid of Toro . 
 The Palmer 
 The Maid of Neidpath 
 Wandering Willie 
 Hunting Song 
 Health to Lord Melville 
 Epitaph designed for a Monum 
 
 in Lichfield Cathedral 
 The Resolve .... 
 Prologue to Miss Baillie's Play o 
 
 the Family Legend 
 The Poacher . 
 
 Song, " Oh, say not, my love ' 
 The Bold Dragoon; or, the Plain 
 
 of Badajoz 
 
 On the Massacre of Glencoe . 
 
 For a' that an' a' that . 
 
 Song for the Anniversary Meet 
 
 ing of the Pitt Club of .Scotland 
 Lines addressed to Ranald Mac 
 
 donald, Esq., of Staffa . . 
 Pharos Loquitur 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems — 
 
 Letter in verse to the Duke of 
 
 Buccleuch 441 
 
 Postscriptum 443 
 
 Farewell to Mackenzie, High 
 
 Chief of Kiiitail 448 
 
 War-Song of Lachlan, High 
 
 Chief of Maclean 449 
 
 Saint Cloud 450 
 
 The Dance of Death .... 450 
 
 Romance of Dunois 452 
 
 The Troubadour 452 
 
 Song from the French .... 453 
 Song on the Lifting of the Banner 
 
 of the House of Buccleuch . . 453 
 Lullaby of an Infant Chief . . 454 
 The Return to Ulster .... 455 
 
 Jock of Hazeldean 455 
 
 Pibroch of Donald Dhu . . . 456 
 
 Nora's Vow 456 
 
 Macgregorfe Gathering . . . -457 
 Verses to the Tsar Alexander . . 458 
 The Search after Happiness; or, 
 
 the Quest of Sultaun Solimaun 462 
 The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill 468 
 The Monks of Bangor's March . 46S 
 Mr. Kemble's Farewell Address . 468 
 Lines written for Miss Smith . . 469 
 Letter to his Grace, the Duke of 
 
 Buccleuch 470 
 
 Epilogue to the Appeal . . . 472 
 Mackrimmon's Lament . . . 472 
 Donald Caird's come again . . 473 
 Epitaph on Mrs. Erskine . . . 476 
 On Ettrick Forest's Mountains Dun 504 
 Farewell to the Muse .... 505 
 
 The Maid of Isla 505 
 
 Carle, now the King's Come . . 505 
 The Bannatyne Club . . . .512 
 Epilogue to the Drama founded 
 
 on «• St. Ronan's Well " . .518 
 To J. G. Lockhart, Esq. . . .519 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems — 
 
 Lines addressed to Monsieur Alex- 
 andre 520 
 
 Life of Napoleon 521 
 
 Verses from Scott's Journal, 1826 529 
 Verses from Scott's Journal, 1827 530 
 The Death of Keeldar . . . .530 
 Verse from Scott's Journal, 1828 533 
 Glengarry's Death-Song » . . 533 
 Verses from Scott's Journal, 1829 535 
 Inscription for the Monument of 
 
 the Rev. George Scott . . -535 
 The Foray 536 
 
 Songs and Mottoes from the 
 Waverley Novels — 
 
 FROM "WAVKKLEY." 
 
 Bridal Song 444 
 
 Lines by Edward Waverley . . 444 
 Davie Gellatley's Songs . . . 445 
 " False love, and hast thou play'd me 
 
 this ? " 
 "The Knight's to the mountain." 
 " Hie Away." 
 
 " Young men will love thee more fair 
 and more fast." 
 
 St. Swithin's Chair 445 
 
 Flora Maclvor's Song .... 446 
 " There is mist on the mountain. " 
 
 To an Oak Tree 447 
 
 Follow, follow me 448 
 
 FROM "guy MANNERING." 
 
 " Twist ye. Twine ye " . . . 454 
 The Dying Gypsy's Dirge . . . 454 
 
 FROM " THE ANTIQUARY." 
 
 Time 458 
 
 Elspeth's Ballad 45S 
 
 Mottoes 459 
 
 FROM THE " BLACK DWARF." 
 
 Motto 461 
 
 FROM "old MORTALITY." 
 
 Major Bellenden's Song . . .461 
 Verses found in Both well's Poc- 
 ket-book 461 
 
 Mottoes 462 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Songs and Mottoes from tiie 
 Waverley Novels — 
 
 FROM " KOB ROY." 
 
 To the Memory of Edward the 
 
 Black Prince 470 
 
 Translation from Ariosto . . .471 
 Mottoes 471 
 
 FROM "the heart OK MIU-LO THIAN." 
 
 EfFie Dean's Songs 474 
 
 " The elfin Knight sat on the brae." 
 " Thro' the kirkyard." 
 Madge Wildfire's Songs . . . 475 
 Mottoes 475 
 
 FROM "the bride OF LAMMERMOOR." 
 
 Lucy Ashton's Song .... 476 
 " Look thou not on beauty's charming." 
 
 Norman the Forester's Song . . 476 
 " The monk must arise when the mat- 
 ins ring." 
 
 Mottoes 476 
 
 FROM "the LEGEND OF MONTROSE." 
 
 Annot Lyle's Songs 477 
 
 " Birds of omen dark and foul." 
 
 " Gaze not upon the stars, fond sage." 
 
 The Orphan Maid 477 
 
 " Wert Thou like me " . . . .478 
 
 FROM " IVANHOE." 
 
 The Crusader's Return .... 478 
 The Barefooted Friar .... 478 
 
 Saxon War-Song 479 
 
 Rebecca's Hymn 480 
 
 A Virelai 480 
 
 Duet between the Black Knight 
 
 and Wamba 481 
 
 Funeral Hymn 481 
 
 Mottoes 481 
 
 FROM " THE MONASTERY." 
 
 Songs of the White Lady of Av- 
 enel: 
 (l.) On Tweed River . . . 482 
 (2.) To the Sub- Prior . . . 483 
 
 Halbert's Incantation 484 
 
 The White Lady's Answer . . . 484 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Songs and Mottoes from the 
 Waverley Novels — 
 
 FROM " THE MONASTERY." 
 
 Songs in Halbert's Second Inter- 
 view with the White Lady of 
 
 Avenel 485 
 
 The White Lady to Mary Avenel 486 
 The White Lady to Edward 
 
 Glendenning 487 
 
 The White Lady's Farewell . 487 
 
 Border Ballad 487 
 
 Paraphrase of Horace .... 487 
 Mottoes 488 
 
 FROM " THE ABBOT." 
 
 Mottoes 490 
 
 FROM " KENILWORTH." 
 
 Goldthred's Song 482 
 
 " Of all the birds on bush or tree." 
 
 Speech of the Porter .... 492 
 
 Mottoes 492 
 
 FROM " THE PIRA-?E." 
 
 The Song of the Tempest . . . 494 
 Claud Halcro's Song: "Mary" 495 
 The Song of Harold Harfager . 495 
 Song of the Mermaids and Mer- 
 men 495 
 
 Noma's Song 496 
 
 Noma and Trold 496 
 
 Claud Halcro and Noma . . . 497 
 
 Song of the Zetland Fishermen . 498 
 
 Cleveland's Serenade .... 499 
 
 Claud Halcro's Verses .... 499 
 
 Claud Halcro's Invocation . . 499 
 
 Noma's Runic Rhyme .... 500 
 
 Noma's Spells 500 
 
 Bryce Snailfoot's Sign .... 502 
 
 Fragment of a Sea-Ditty . . . 502 
 
 Dick Fletcher's Ditty .... 502 
 
 Mottoes 502 
 
 FROM "the FORTUNES OF NIGEL." 
 
 Rhymes of Alsatia 508 
 
 Mottoes 509 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 Songs and Mottoes from the 
 Waverley Novels — 
 
 FROM " PKVERIL OF THE PEAK." 
 
 Mottoes 513 
 
 FROM "qUENTIN DURWARD." 
 
 Song — County Guy . . . .515 
 Paraphrase from " Orlando Furi- 
 
 oso " 515 
 
 Mottoes 515 
 
 FROM " ST. RONAn's WEl.t.." 
 
 Mottoes 517 
 
 FROM " REDGAUNTLET." 
 
 Cowley's Catch Amplified . . .519 
 Consolation 519 
 
 FROM "the betrothed." 
 
 Song —Soldier, Wake .... 521 
 
 Song — The Truth of Woman . 521 
 
 A Welsh Lay 522 
 
 Mottoes 522 
 
 FROM "the TALISMAN." 
 
 Ahriman 5^3 
 
 To the Arch-Duke of Austria . . 523 
 Song of Blondel — The Bloody 
 
 Vest 524 
 
 Mottoes 526 
 
 FROM " WOODSTOCK." 
 
 Obey the Doom 5^7 
 
 Glee for King Charles .... 527 
 
 One Hour with Thee .... 527 
 
 Wildrake'b Toast 52S 
 
 Mottoes 528 
 
 FROM " THE HIGHLAND WirOW." 
 
 Motto 530 
 
 FROM THE "two DROVERS." 
 
 Motto 530 
 
 Songs and Mottoes from the 
 Waverley Novels — 
 
 FROM " MV AUNT MARGAREt's MIRROR." 
 
 Motto 531 
 
 FROM " THE FAIR MAID OF PERTH." 
 
 Mottoes 531 
 
 The Lay of Poor Louise . . .531 
 Oliver Proudfute's Glee . . . 532 
 Chant over the Dead . , . . 532 
 A Dirge. "Yes, thou mayst 
 sigh " 532 
 
 FROM " ANNS OF GEIERSTKIN." 
 
 The Secret Tribunal .... 533 
 Mottoes 534 
 
 FROM "count ROBERT OF PARIS." 
 
 Mottoes 536 
 
 FROM " CASTLE DANGEROUS." 
 
 Mottoes 537 
 
 Fragments, of very early date — 
 
 Bothwell Castle 539 
 
 The Shepherd's Tale .... 539 
 
 Cheviot 542 
 
 The Reiver's Wedding .... 542 
 
 Dramatic Pieces — 
 
 Halidon Hill: A Dramatic 
 Sketch from Scottish History . 544 
 
 Macduff's Cro.ss . . . 
 The Doom of Devorgoil 
 Auchindrane; or, the Ayrshire 
 
 Tragedy 
 
 The House of Aspen 
 
 Appendix — Notes 
 Index of First Lines 
 
 567 
 573 
 
 615 
 653 
 681 
 
 765 
 
THE 
 
 LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 
 
 A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 
 
 Dum relego, scripsisse pudet ; quia plurima cerno, 
 Me quoque, qui feci, judice, digna lini. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE 
 
 CHARLES, EARL OF DALKEITH, 
 
 THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 The Poetn, now offered la the Public, is intended to illustrate the customs and manners 
 which anciently prevailed on the Borders of Etigland and Scotland. The inhabitants 
 living in a state partly pastoral and partly warlike, and combining habits of constant 
 depredation with the influence of a rude spirit of chivalry, were often engaged in scenes 
 highly susceptible of poetical ornament. As the description of scenery and manners was 
 more the object of the Author than a combined and regular narrative, the plan of the 
 ancient Metrical Kotnance was adopted, which allows greater latitude, in this respect, than 
 would be consistent with the dignity of a regular Poem. The same model offered other 
 facilities, as it permits an occasional alteration of measure, which, in some degree, author- 
 izes the change of rhythm in the text. The machinery, also adopted from popular belief, 
 wo ti Id have seemed puerile in a Poem which did not partake of the rudettess of the old 
 Ballad, or Metrical Romance. 
 
 For these reasons, the Poem was put into the mouth of an ancient Minstrel, the last of 
 the race, who, as he is supposed to have survived the Revolution, might have caught some- 
 what of the refinement of modern poetry, without losing the simplicity of his original 
 model. The date of the Tale itself is about the middle of the sixteenth century, when most 
 of the personages actually flourished. The time occupied by the action is Three Nights 
 and Thrte Days. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 
 
 A Poem of nearly thirty years' standing may be supposed hardly to need an Introduc- 
 tion, since, without one, it has been able to keep itself afloat through the best part of a 
 generation. Nevertheless, as, in the edition of the Waverley Novels now in course of pub- 
 lication [1830], I have imposed on myself the task of saying something concerning the 
 purpose and history of each, in their turn, I am desirous that the Poems for which 1 first 
 received some marks of the public favor, should also be accompanied with such scraps of 
 their literary history as may be supposed to carry interest along with them. Even if I should 
 be mistaken in thinking that the secret history of what was once so popular, may still attract 
 public attention and curiosity, it seems to me not without its use to record the manner and 
 circumstances under which the present, and other Poems on the same plan, attained for a 
 season an extensive reputation. 
 
 I must resume the story of my literary labors at the period at which I broke off in the 
 Essay on the Imitation of Popular Poetry, when I had enjoyed the first gleam of public 
 favor, by the success of the first edition of the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. Tlie 
 second edition of that work, published in 1803, proved, in the language of the trade, rather 
 a heavy concern. The demand in Scotland had been supplied by the first edition, and the 
 curiosity of the English was not much awakened by poems in the rude garb of antiquity, 
 accompanied with notes referring to the obscure feuds of barbarous clans, of whose very 
 names civilized history was ignorant. It was, on the whole, one of those books which are 
 more praised than they are read. 
 
 At this time I stood personally in a different position from that which I occupied when I 
 first dipt my desperate j)en in ink for other purposes than those of my profession. In 1 796, 
 when I first published the Translations from Biirger, I was an insulated individual, with 
 only my own wants to provide for, and having, in a great measure, my own inclinations 
 alone to consult. In 1803, when the second edition of the Minstrelsy appeared, I had 
 arrived at a period of life when men, however thoughtless, encounter duties and circum- 
 stances which press consideration and plans of life upon the most careless minds. I had 
 been for some time married — was the father of a rising family — and, though fully enabled 
 to meet the consequent demands upon me, it was my duty and desire to place myself in a 
 situation which would enable me to make honorable provision against the various contin- 
 gencies of life. 
 
 It may be readily supposed that the attempts which I had made in literature had been 
 unfavorable to my success at the Bar. The goddess Themis is at Edinburgh, and I suppose 
 every where else, of a peculiarly jealous disposition. She will not readily consent to share 
 her authority, and sternly demands from her votaries, not only that real duty be carefully 
 attended to and discharged, but that a certain air of business shall be observed even in the 
 midst of total idleness. It is prudent, if not absolutely necessary, in a young barrister, to 
 appear completely engrossed by his profession ; however destitute of employment he may in 
 reality be, he ought to preserve, if possible, the appearance of full occupation. He should, 
 therefore, seem perpetually engaged among his law papers, dusting them, as it were ; and, 
 as Ovid advises the fair, 
 
 '■'■Si nullus erit pulvis, tamen excute nullum." 1 
 
 Perhaps such extremity of attention is more especially required, considering the great 
 number of counsellors who are called to the Bar, and how very small a proportion of them 
 are finally disposed, or find encouragement, to follow the law as a profession. Hence the 
 number of deserters is so great, that the least Ungering look behind occasions a yoimg 
 novice to be set down as one of the intending fugitives. Certain it is, that the Scottish 
 Themis was at this time peculiarly jealous of any flirtation with the Muses, on the part of 
 those who had ranged themselves under her banners. This was probably owing to her 
 consciousness of the superior attractions of her rivals. Of late, however, she has relaxed 
 in some instances in this particular — an eminent example of which has bee shewn in the 
 case of my friend, Mr. Jeffrey, who, after long conducting one of the most influential literary 
 periodicals of the age with unquestionable ability, has been, by the general consent of his 
 
 1 " If dust be none, yet brush that none away." 
 
INTRODUCTION. 3 
 
 brethren, recently elected to be their Dean of Faculty, or President — being the highest 
 acknowledgment of his professional talents which they had it in their power to offer. But 
 this is an incident much beyond the ideas of a period of thirty years' distance, when a bar- 
 rister who really possessed any turn for lighter literature, was at as much pains to conceal 
 it as if it had in reality been something to be ashamed of ; and 1 could mention more than 
 one instance in which literature and society have suffered much loss, that jurisprudence 
 might be enriched. 
 
 Such, however, was not my case ; for the reader will not wonder that my ojDen interfer- 
 ence with matters of ligiit literature diminished ray employment in the weightier matters 
 of the law. Nor did the solicitors, upon whose choice the counsel takes rank in his profes- 
 sion, do me less than justice, by regarding otliers among my contemporaries as fitter to 
 discharge the duty due to their clients, than a young man who was taken up with run- 
 ning after ballads, whether Teutonic or National. My profession and I, therefore, came to 
 stand nearly upon the footing whicli honest Slender consoled himself on having established 
 with Mistress Anne Page : '• There was no great love between us at the beginning, and it 
 pleased Heaven to decrease it on farther acquaintance." I became sensible that the time 
 was come when 1 must eitlier buckle myself resolutely to the '' toil by day, the lamp by 
 night," renouncing all the Delilahs of my imagination, or bid adieu to the profession of the 
 law, and liold another course. 
 
 I confess my own inclination revolted from the more severe choice, which might have 
 been deemed Ijy many the wiser alternative. Asniy transgressions had been numerous, my 
 repentance must have \yss,\\ signali/.od by unusual sacrifices. I ought to have mentioned, 
 that since my fourteenth or fifteenth year, my health, originally delicate, had become ex- 
 tremely robust. P'rom infancy I had labored under the infirmity of a severe lameness, but. 
 as I lielieve is usually the case with men of spirit who suffer under personal inconveniences 
 of this nature, I had, since the improvement of ray health, in defianceof this incapacitating 
 circurastance distinguished myself by the endurance of toil on foot or horseback, having often 
 walked thirty miles a day, and rode upwards of a hundred, without resting. In this manner 
 I made many pleasant journeys through parts of the country then not very accessible, gain- 
 ing more amusement and instruction than I have been able to acquire since I have travelled 
 in a more commodious manner. I practised most sylvan sports also, with some success, and 
 with great deliglit. I3ut these pleasures must have been all resigned, or used with great 
 moderation, had I determined to regain my station at the Bar. It was even doubtful whether 
 I could, with perfect character as a jurisconsult, retain a situation in a volunteer corps of 
 cavalry, which I then held. The threats of invasion were at this time instant and menacing ; 
 the call by Britain on her children was universal, and was answered by some, who, like my- 
 self, consulted rather their desire than their ability to bear arms. My services, however, were 
 found useful in assisting to maintain the discipline of the corps, being the point on which 
 their constitution rendered them most amenable to military criticism. In other respects, the 
 squadron was a fine one, consisting chiefly of handsome men, well mounted and armed at 
 their own expense. My attention to the corps took up a good deal of time; and while it 
 occupied many of the happiest hours of my life, it furnished an additional reason for my 
 reluctance again to encounter the severe course of study indispensable to success in the 
 juridical profession. 
 
 On the other hand, my father, whose feelings might have been hurt by my quitting the 
 Bar, had been for two or three years dead, so that I had no control to thwart my own incli- 
 nation ; and my income being equal to all the comforts, and some of the elegancies, of life, 
 I was not pressed to an irksome lalxir by necessity, that most powerful of motives ; conse- 
 quently, I was the more easily seduced to choose the employment which was most agreeable 
 to me. This was yet the easier, that in 1800 I had obtained the preferment of Sheriff of 
 Selkirkshire, about ;^30o a year in value, and which was the more agreeable to me, as in that 
 country, I had several friends and relations. But I did not abandon the profession to which 
 I had been educated without certain prudential resolutions, which, at the risk of some ego- 
 tism, I will here mention ; not without the hope that they may be useful to young persons 
 who may stand in circumstances similar to those in which I then stood. 
 
 In the first place, upon considering the lives and fortunes of persons who had given them- 
 selves up to literature, or to the task of pleasing the public, it seemed to me, that the circunv 
 stances which chiefly affected their happiness and character, were those from which Horace 
 has bestowed upon authors the epithet of the Irritable Race. It requires no depth of philo- 
 sophic reflection to perceive, that the petty warfare of Pope with the Dunces of his period 
 
4 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 could not have been carried on without his suffering tlic most acute torture, such as a man 
 must endure from mosquitoes, by whose stings he suffers agony, although he can crush them 
 in his grasp by mjrriads. Nor is it necessary to call to memory the many humiliating 
 instances in which men of the greatest genius have, to avenge some pitiful quarrel, made 
 themselves ridiculous during their lives, to become the still more degraded objects of pity 
 to future times. 
 
 Upon the whole, as I had no pretension to the genius of the distinguished persons who 
 had fallen into such errors, I concluded there could be no occasion for imitating tliem in 
 their mistakes, or what I considered as such ; and, in adopting literary pursuits as the prin- 
 cipal occupation of my future life, I resolved, if possible, to avoid those weaknesses of tem 
 per which seemed to have most easily beset my more celebrated predecessors. 
 
 With tliis view, it was my first resolution to keep as far as was in my power abreast of 
 society, continuing to maintain my place in general company, without yielding to the very 
 natural temptation of narrowing myself to what is called literary society. l>y doing so, 1 
 imagined I should escape the besetting sin of listening to language, which, from one motive 
 or other, is apt to ascribe a very undue degree of consequence to literary pursuits, as if they 
 were, indeed, the business, rather than the amusement, of life. 'J"he opposite course can only 
 Ixj compared to the injudicious conduct of one who pampers himself with cordial and lus- 
 cious draughts, until lie is unable to endure wholesome bitters. I,ike Gil Bias, therefore. I 
 resolved to stick by the society of my commis, instead of seeking that of a more literary cast, 
 and to maintain my general interest in what was going on around me, reserving the man of 
 letters for the desk and the library. 
 
 My second resolution was a corollary from the first. I determined that, without shutting 
 my ears to the voice of true criticism, I would pay no regard to that which assumes the form of 
 satire. I therefore resolved to arm myself with that triple brass of 11 orace, of which those of my 
 profession are seldom held deficient, against all the roving warfare of satire, parody, and sar- 
 casm ; to laugh if the jest was a good one, or, if otherwise, to let it hum and buzz itself to sleep. 
 
 It Ls to the observance of these rules (according to my test telicf) that, after a life of 
 thirty years engaged in literary lators of various kinds, I attribute my never having \ytxn 
 entangled in any literary quarrel or controversy ; and, which is a still more pleasing result, 
 that 1 have been distinguished by the jiersonal friendship of my most approved contempo- 
 raries of all parties. 
 
 1 adopted at the same time another resolution, on which it may doubtless lie remarked, 
 that it was well for me that 1 had it in my power to do so, and that, therefore, it is a line of 
 conduct which, depending upon accident, can be less generally applicable in other cases. 
 Yet I fail not to record this part of my plan, convinced tliat, though it may not te in every 
 one's power to adopt exactly tlie same resolution, he may nevertheless, by his own exertions, 
 in some shape or other, attain the object on which it was founded, namely, to secure the 
 means of subsistence without relying exclusively on literary talents. In this respect I deter- 
 mined that literature should Ix; my staff, but not my crutch, and that the profits of my lit- 
 erary lalxir, however convenient otherwise, should not, if I could help it, become necessary 
 to my ordinary expenses. With this purpose I resolved, if the interest of my friends could 
 so far favor me, to retire upon any of the respectal^le offices of the law, in which persons of 
 that profession are glad to take refuge when they feel themselves, or are judged by others, 
 incompetent to aspire to its higher honors. Upon such a post an author might hope to 
 retreat, without any perceptible alteration of circumstances, whenever the time should arrive 
 that the public grew weary of his endeavors to please, or he himself should tire of the pen. 
 At this jx^riod of my life, I possessed so many friends capable of assisting me in this object 
 of ambition, that I could hardly overrate my own prospects of obtaining the preferment to 
 which I limited my wishes ; and. in fact, I obtained in no long period the reversion of a situ- 
 ation which completely met them. 
 
 Thus far all was well, and the author had been guilty, perhaps, of no great imprudence 
 when he relinquished his forensic practice with the hope of making some figure in the field 
 of literature. But an established character with the public, in my new capacity, still re- 
 mained to Ix! acquired. I have noticed that the translations from Biirger had been unsuc- 
 cessful, nor had the original poetry which appeared under the auspices of Mr. I^wis, in 
 the '• Tales of Wonder," in any great degree raised my reputation. It is true, I had private 
 friends disposed to second me in my efforts to obtain popularity. But I was sportsman 
 enough to know, that if the greyhound does not run well, the halloos of his patrons will 
 obtain nothing for him. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 Neither was 1 ignorant tliat the practice of ballad-writing was for the present out of 
 fashion, and that any attempt to revive it, or to found a pxjetical character upon it, would 
 certainly fail of success. The ballad measure itself, which was once listened to as to an 
 enchanting melody, had become hackneyed and sickening, from its being the accompani- 
 ment of every grinding hand-organ ; and besides, a long work in quatrains, whether those 
 of the common ballad, or such as are termed elegiac, has an effect upon the mind like that 
 of the bed of Procrustes upon the human body ; for, as it must be both awkward and diffi- 
 cult to carry on a long sentence from one stanza to another, it follows that the meaning of 
 each period must be comprehended within four lines, and equally so that it must be 
 extended so as to fill that space. The alternate dilation and contraction thus rendered 
 necessary is singularly unfavorable to narrative composition ; and the " Gondibert " of 
 Sir William D'Avenant, though containing many striking passages, has never become ptof)- 
 ular owing chiefly to its teing told in this species of elegiac verse. 
 
 In the dilemma occasioned by this objection, the idea occurred to the author of using 
 the measured short line, which forms the structure of so much minstrel poetry, that it 
 may be properly termed the Romantic stanza by way of distinction, and which appears so 
 natural to our language, that the very best of our poets have not been able to protract it 
 into the verse properly called Heroic, without the use of epithets which are, to say the 
 least, unnecessary. But, on the other hand, the extreme facility of the short couplet, which 
 seems congenial to our language, and was, doubtless, for that reason so popular with our 
 old minstrels, is, for the same reason, apt to prove a snare to the composer who uses it in 
 more modern days, by encouraging him in d habit of slovenly composition. The neces- 
 sity of occasional pauses often forces the young poet to pay more attention to sense, as 
 the boy's kite rises highest when the train is loaded by a due counterpoise. The author 
 was, therefore, intimidated by what Byron calls the " fatal facility " of the octo-syllabic 
 verse, which was otherwise better adapted to his purpose of imitating the more ancient 
 poetry. 
 
 I was not less at a loss for a subject which might admit of being treated with the sim- 
 plicity and wildness of the ancient ballad. But accident dictated both a theme and meas- 
 ure, which decided the subject, as well as the structure of the poem. 
 
 The lovely young Countess of Dalkeith, afterwards Harriet, Duchess of Buccleuch, had 
 come to the land of her husband with the desire of making herself acquainted with its tra- 
 ditions and customs, as well as its manners and history. All who remember this lady 
 will agree that the intellectual character of her extreme beauty, the amenity and courtesy 
 of her manners, the soundness of her understanding, and her unbounded benevolence, 
 gave more the idea of an angelic visitant than "of a being belonging to this nether world ; 
 and such a thought was but too consistent with the short space she was permitted to 
 tarry among us. Of course, where all made it a pride and pleasure to gratify her wishes, 
 she soon heard enough of Border lore ; among others, an aged gentleman of property,! 
 near Langholm, communicated to her ladyship the story of Gilpin Horner, a tradition in 
 which the narrator, and many more of that country, were firm believers. The young Coun- 
 tess, much delighted with the legend, and the gravity and full confidence with which it was 
 told, enjoined on me as a task to compose a ballad on the subject. Of course, to hear was 
 to obey ; and thus the goblin story, objected to by several critics as an excrescence upon 
 the poem, was, in fact, the occasion of its being written. 
 
 A chance similar to that which dictated the subject, gave me also the hint of a new 
 mode of treating it. We had at that time the lease of a pleasant cottage, near Lasswade, 
 on the romantic banks of the Esk, to which we escaped when the vacations of the Court 
 permitted me so much leisure. Here I had the pleasure to receive a visit from Mr. Stod- 
 dart (now Sir John Stoddart, Judge- Advocate at Malta), who was at that time collecting 
 the particulars which he afterwards embodied in his Remarks on Local Scenery in Scot- 
 
 • This was Mr. Beattie of Mickledale, a man then considerably upwards of eighty, of a shrewd 
 and sarcastic temper, whicli he did not at all times suppress, as the following anecdote will show : 
 A vyorthy clergyman, now deceased, with better good-will than tact, was endeavoring to push the 
 senior forward in his recollection of Border ballads and legends, by expressing reiterated surprise at 
 his wonderful memor>'. " No, sir," said old Mickledale; "my memory is good for little, for it 
 cannot retain what ought to be preserved. I can remember all these stories about the auld riding 
 days, which are of no earthly importance; but were you, reverend sir, to repeat your best sermon 
 in this drawing-room, I could not tell you half an hour afterwards what you had been speaking 
 about." 
 
6 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 land. I was of some use to him in procuring the information which he desired, and guid- 
 ing him to the scenes which he wislied to see. In return, he made me better acquainted 
 than I had hitherto been with the poetic effusions which have since made the lakes of 
 Westmoreland, and the authors by whom they have been sung, so famous wherever the 
 English tongue is spoken. 
 
 1 was already acquainted with the "Joan of Arc," the " Thalaba," and the "Metrical 
 Ballads" of Mr. Soutiiey, which had found their way to Scotland, and were generally 
 admired. But Mr. Stoddart, who had the advantage of personal friendship with the 
 authors, and who possessed a strong memory, with an excellent taste, was able to repeat to 
 me many long specimens of their poetry, which had not yet appeared in print. Amongst 
 others, was the striking fragment called '• Christabel," by Mr. Coleridge, which, from tlie 
 singularly irregular structure of the stanzas, and tlie liberty which it allowed the author to 
 adapt the sound to the sense, seemed to be e.xactly suited to such an extravaganza as 1 med- 
 itated on the subject of Gilpin Horner. As applied to comic and humorous poetry, this 
 inescolanza of measures had been already used by Anthony Hall, Anstey, Dr. Wolcott, and 
 others; but it was in "Christabel" that I first found it used in serious poetry, and it is to 
 Mr. Coleridge that I am bound to make the acknowledgment due from the pupil to his 
 master. 1 observe that Lord Byron, in noticing my obligations to Mr. Coleridge, which 1 
 have been always most ready to acknowledge, expressed, or was understood to express, a 
 hope that I did not write an unfriendly review on Mr. Coleridge's productions. On this 
 subject I have only to say, that I do not even know the review which is alluded to ; and 
 were 1 ever to take the unbecoming freedom of censuring a man of Mr. Coleridge's extraor- 
 dinary talents, it would be on account of the caprice and indolence with which he has 
 thrown from him, as if in mere wantonness, those unfinished scraps of poetry, which, like 
 the Torso of antiquity, defy the skill of his poetical brethren to complete tliem. The 
 charming fragments which the author abandons to their fate are surely too valuable to be 
 treated like the proofs of careless engravers, the sweepings of whose studios often make 
 the fortune of some painstaking collector. 
 
 I did not immediately proceed upon my projected labor, though I was now furnished 
 with a subject, and with a structure of verse which might have the effect of novelty to the 
 public ear, and afford the author an opportunity of varying his measure with the variations 
 of a romantic theme. On the contrary, it was, to the best of my recollection, more than a 
 year after Mr. Stoddart's visit, that, by way of exjieriment, I composed the first two or 
 three stanzas of " The Lay of the Last Minstrel." I was shortly afterwards visited by two 
 intimate friends, one of whom still survives. They were men whose talents might have 
 raised them to the highest station in literature, had they not preferred exerting them in 
 their own profession of the law, in which they attained equal preferment. I was in the 
 habit of consulting them on my attempts at composition, having equal confidence in their 
 sound taste and friendly sincerity. i In this specimen I had, in the phrase of the Highland 
 servant, packed all that was my own at least, for 1 had also included a line of invocation, 
 a little softened, from Coleridge — 
 
 " Mary, mother, shield us well." 
 
 As neither of my friends said much to me on the subject of the stanzas I showed them 
 before their departure, I had no doubt that their disgust had been greater than their good 
 nature chose to express. Looking upon them, therefore, as a failure, 1 threw the manu- 
 script into the fire, and thought as little more as 1 could of the matter. Some time after- 
 wards 1 met one of my two counsellors, who inquired, with considerable appearance of 
 interest, about the progress of the romance I had commenced, and was greatly surprised at 
 learning its fate. He confessed that neither he nor our nmtual friend had Iseen at first 
 able to give a precise opinion on a poem so much out of the common road ; but that as 
 they walked home together to the city, they had talked much on the subject, and the result 
 was an earnest desire that I would proceed with the composition. He also added, that 
 some sort of prologue might be necessary, to place the mind of the hearers in the situation 
 
 ' One of these, William Erskine, Esq. (Lord Kinnedder), I have often h.id occasion to mention, 
 and thou)»h 1 may hardly be thanked for disclosing the name of the other, yet I cannot but stale 
 that the second is George Cranstoun, Esq., now a Senator of the College of Justice, by the title of 
 Lord Corehouse. 183 1. 
 
I.VTR OD UC TIOM. 7 
 
 to understand and enjoy the poem, and recommended the adoption of such quaint mottoes 
 as Spenser has used to announce the contents of the chapters of the Faery Queen, such 
 as — 
 
 " Babe's bloody hands may not be cleansed. 
 The face of golden Mean : 
 Her sisters two. Extremities, 
 Strive her to banish clean." 
 
 ( entirely agreed with my friendly critic in the necessity of having some sort of pitch-pipe 
 which might make readers aware of the object, or rather the tone, of the publication. But 
 1 doubted whether, in assuming the oracular style of Spenser's mottoes, the interpreter 
 might not be censured as the harder to be understood of the two. I therefore introduced 
 ihe Old Minstrel, as an appropriate prolocutor, by whom the Lay might be sung or spoken, 
 and the introduction of whom betwixt the cantos might remind the reader, at intervals, of 
 the time, place, and circumstances of the recitation. This species of cadre or frame, 
 afterwards afforded the poem its name of " The Lay of the Last Minstrel." 
 
 The work was subsequently shown to other friends during its progress, and received the 
 Imfrimatur of Mr. Francis Jeffrey, who had been already for some time distinguished by 
 his critical talent. 
 
 The poem, being once licensed by the critics as fit for the market, was soon finished, 
 proceeding at about the rate of a canto per week. There was, indeed, little occasion for 
 pause or hesitation, when a troublesome rhyme might l)e accommodated by an alteration of 
 the stanza, or where an incorrect measure might be remedied by a variation of the rhyn:e. 
 It was finally published in 1805, and may be regarded as the first work in which the writer, 
 who has been since so voluminous, laid his claim to be considertxl as an original author. 
 
 The book was published by Longman and Company, and Archibald Constable and 
 Company. The principal of the latter firm was then commencing that course of bold and 
 liberal industry which was of so nuich advantage to his country, and might have been so to 
 himself, but for causes which it is needless to enter into here. The work, brought out on 
 the usual terms of division of profits between the author and publishers, was not long af'er 
 purchased by them for ;^5oo, to which Messrs. Longman and Company afterwards added 
 ;f 100, in their own unsoUcited kindness, in consequence of the uncommon success of the 
 work. It was handsomely given to supply the loss of a fine horse, which broke down 
 suddenly while the author was riding with one of the worthy publishers. 
 
 It would be great affectation not to own frankly, that the author expected some success 
 from " The Lay of the last Minstrel.'' The attempt to return to a more simple and natural 
 style of poetry was Ukely to be welcomed at a time when the public had become tired of 
 heroic hexameters, with all the buckram and binding which belong to them of later days. 
 Hut whatever might have been his expectations, whether moderate or unreasonable, the 
 result left them far behind, for among those who smiled on the adventurous Minstrel were 
 numbered the great names of William Pitt and Charles Fox. Neither was the extent of 
 the sale inferior to the character of the judges who received the poem with approbation. 
 Upwards of thirty thousand copies of the Lay were disposed of by the trade ; and the 
 author had to perfom a task difficult to human vanity, when called upon to make the neces- 
 sary deductions from his own merits, in a calm attempt to account for his popularity. 
 
 A few additional remarks on the author's literary attempts after this period will be 
 found in the introduction to the Poem of Marmion. 
 
 Ablotsford, Afril, 1830. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The way was long, the wind was cold, 
 The Minstrel was infirm and old; 
 His withered cheek, and tresses gray, 
 Seem'd to have known a better day; 
 The harp, his sole remaining joy, 
 Was carried by an orphan boy. 
 The last of all the Bards was he. 
 Who sung of Border chivalry; 
 For, welladay ! their date was fled. 
 His tuneful brethren all were dead; 
 And he, neglected and oppress'd, 
 Wish'd to be with them, and at rest. 
 No more on prancing palfrey borne, 
 He caroU'd, light as lark at morn; 
 No longer courted and caress'd. 
 High placed in hall, a welcome guest. 
 He pour'd, to lord and lady gay, 
 The unpremeditated lay: 
 Old times were changed, old manners 
 
 gone; 
 A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne; 
 The bigots of the iron time 
 Had call'd his harmless art a crime. 
 A wandering Harper, scorn'd and poor, 
 He begg'd his bread from door to door. 
 And tuned, to please a peasant's ear. 
 The harp a king had loved to hear. 
 
 He pass'd where Newark's * stately 
 tower 
 Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: 
 The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye — 
 No humbler resting-place was nigh. 
 With hesitating step at last. 
 The embattled portal arch he pass'd, 
 
 * Newark's stately tower. A large square 
 tower now in ruins; situated three miles from 
 Selkirk, on the right bank of the Yarrow. 
 
 Whose ponderous grate and massy bar 
 Had oft roH'd back the tide of war, 
 But never closed the iron door 
 Against the desolate and poor. 
 The Duchess t mark'd his weary pace, 
 His timid mien, and reverend face. 
 And bade her page the menials tell. 
 That they should tend the old man well : 
 For she had known adversity, 
 Though born in such a high degree; 
 In pride of power, in beauty's bloom. 
 Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb ! 
 
 When kindness had his wants supplied. 
 And the old man was gratified. 
 Began to rise his minstrel pride : 
 And he began to talk anon, 
 Of good Earl Francis, t dead and gone, 
 And of Earl Walter, § rest him, God ! 
 A braver ne'er to battle rode; 
 And how full many a tale he knew. 
 Of the old warriors of Buccleuch : 
 And, would the noble Duchess deign 
 To listen to an old man's strain. 
 Though stiff his hand, his voice though 
 
 weak. 
 He thought even yet, the sooth to speak. 
 That, if she loved the harp to hear. 
 He could make music to her ear. 
 
 The humble boon was soon obtain'd; 
 The aged Minstrel audience gain'd. 
 
 t The Duchess. Anne, the heiress of Buc- 
 cleuch, who had been married to the unhappy 
 Duke of Monmouth, son of Charles II. He was 
 beheaded for rebellion against James II., 1685. 
 
 t Karl Francis. The Duchess's late father. 
 
 § Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, grandfather of 
 the Duchess, and a celebrated warrior. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 But, when he reach'd the room of state, 
 Where she, with all her ladies, sate, 
 Perchance he wished his boon denied : 
 For, when to tune his harp he tried. 
 His trembling hand had lost the ease. 
 Which marks security to please ; 
 And scenes, long past, of joy and pain. 
 Came wildering o'er his aged brain — 
 He tried to tune his harp in vain ! 
 The pitying Duchess praised its chime. 
 And gave him heart, and gave him time. 
 Till every string's according glee 
 Was blended into harmony. 
 And then, he said, he would full fain 
 He could recall an ancient strain, 
 He never thought to sing again. 
 It was not framed for village churls, 
 But for high dames and mighty earls; 
 He had play'd it to King Charles the Good, 
 When he kept court in Holyrood; 
 And much he wish'd, yet fear'd to try 
 The long-forgotten melody. 
 Amid the strings his fingers stray'd, 
 And an uncertain warbling made, 
 And oft he shook his hoary head. 
 But when he caught the measure wild. 
 The old man raised his face, and smiled; 
 And lighten'd up his faded eye, 
 With all a poet's ecstasy ! 
 In varying cadence, soft or strong. 
 He swept the sounding chords along; 
 The present scene, the future lot. 
 His toils, his wants, were all forgot : 
 Cold diffidence, and age's frost, 
 In the full tide of song were lost; 
 Each blank in faithless memory void, 
 Tile poet's glowing thought supplied; 
 And, while his harp responsive rung, 
 'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 The feast was over in Branksome tower, ^ 
 And the Ladye had gone to her secret 
 
 bower ; 
 Her bower that was guarded by word and 
 
 by spell, 
 Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell — 
 Jesu Maria, shield us well ' 
 
 No living wight, save the Ladye alone, 
 Had dared to cross the threshold stone. 
 
 The taV)les were drawn, it was idlesse all; 
 
 Knight, and page, and household squire, 
 Loiter'd through the lofty hall, 
 
 Of crowded round the ample fire : 
 The staghounds, weary with the chase, 
 
 Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor, 
 And urged, in dreams, the ft)rest race, 
 
 From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor, 
 
 Nine-and-twenty knights of fame 
 
 Hung their shields in Branksome Hall,^ 
 Ninc-and-twenty squires of name 
 
 Brought them their steeds to bower 
 from stall; 
 Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall 
 Waited, duteous, on them all; 
 They were all knights of mettle true, 
 Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch. 
 
 Ten of them were sheathed in steel. 
 With belted sword, and spur on heel : 
 They quitted not their harness bright. 
 Neither by day, nor yet by night; 
 
 They lay down to rest, 
 
 With corselet laced, 
 Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard; 
 
 They carved at the meal 
 
 W^ith gloves of steel, 
 And they drank the red wine through the 
 helmet barr'd. 
 
 Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men. 
 Waited the beck of the warders ten; 
 Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight, 
 Stood saddled in stable day and night, 
 Barl)ed with frontlet of steel, I trow. 
 And with Jedwood-axe at saddlebow;-^ 
 A hundred more fed free in stall : • — 
 Such was the custom of Branksome Hall. 
 
 Why do these steeds stand ready dight ? 
 Why watch these warriors, arm'd, by 
 night ? — 
 
^ANTO I. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 fhey watch, to hear the blood-hound 
 
 baying; 
 fhey watch to hear the war-horn braying ; 
 To see St. George's red cross streaming, 
 To see the midnight beacon gleaming: 
 fhey watch, against Southern force and 
 
 guile, 
 Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's 
 
 powers. 
 Threaten Branksome's lordly towers. 
 From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry 
 
 Carlisle.* 
 
 VII. 
 
 Such is the custom of Branksome Hall — 
 
 Many a valiant knight is here; 
 But he, the chieftain of them all. 
 His sword hangs rusting on the wall. 
 Beside his broken spear. 
 Bards long shall tell 
 How Lord Walter fell ! '" 
 When startled burghers fled, afar, 
 The furies of the Border war; 
 When the streets of high Dunedin * 
 Saw lances gleam and falchions redden, 
 And heard the slogan's^ deadly yell — 
 Then the Chief of Branksome fell. 
 
 Can piety the discord heal. 
 
 Or stanch the death-feud's enmity? 
 Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal. 
 
 Can love of V)lessed charity? 
 No ! vainly to each holy shrine, 
 
 In mutual pilgrimage they drew; 
 Implored, in vain, the grace divine 
 
 For chiefs, their own red falchions slew : 
 While Cessford owns the rule of Carr, 
 
 While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, 
 The slaughfer'd chiefs, the mortal jar, 
 The havoc of the feudal war, 
 
 Shall never, never be forgot ! ^' 
 
 In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier 
 The warlike foresters had bent; 
 
 And many a flower, and many a tear, 
 Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent : 
 
 But o'er her warrior's bloody bier 
 
 The Ladye dropp'd nor flower nor tear ! 
 
 * Edinburgh. 
 
 t The war-cry, or gathering word, of a Border 
 clan. 
 
 Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain. 
 
 Had lock'd the source of softer woe; 
 And burning pride, and high disdain, 
 
 Forbade the rising tear to flow; 
 Until, amid his sorrowing clan. 
 
 Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee — ■ 
 " And if I live to be a man. 
 
 My father's death revenged shall be ! " 
 Then fast the mother's tears did seek 
 To dew the infant's kindling cheek. 
 
 All loose her negligent attire, 
 
 All loose her golden hair. 
 Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire. 
 
 And wept in wild despair : 
 But not alone the bitter tear 
 
 Had filial grief supplied; 
 For hopeless love, and anxious fear, 
 
 Had lent their mingled tide; 
 Nor in her mother's alter'd eye 
 Dared she to look for sympathy. 
 Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan, 
 
 With Carr in arms had stood,'' 
 When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran. 
 
 All purple with their blood; 
 And well she knew, her mother dread. 
 Before Lord Cranstoun ^ she should wed. 
 Would see her on her dying bed. 
 
 Of noble race the Ladye came, 
 Her father was a clerk of fame. 
 
 Of Bethune's line of Picardie : ® 
 He learn'd the art that none may name, 
 
 In Padua, far beyond the sea.'" 
 Men said, he changed his mortal frame 
 
 By feat of magic mystery; 
 For when, in studious mode, he paced 
 
 St. Andrew's cloister'd hall. 
 His form no darkening shadow traced 
 
 Upon the sunny wall ! ii 
 
 And of his skill, as bards avow. 
 
 He taught that Ladye fair. 
 Till to her bidding she could bow 
 
 The viewless forms of air. 
 And now she sits in secret bower. 
 In old Lord David's western tower. 
 And listens to a heavy sound, 
 That moans the mossy turrets round. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Is it the roar of Teviot's tide, 
 Tliat chafes against the scaur's* red side? 
 Is it the wind that swings the oaks? 
 Is it the echo from the rocks? 
 What may it be, the heavy sound, 
 That moans old Branksome's turrets 
 round? 
 
 At the sullen, moaning sound. 
 
 The ban-dogs bay and howl ; 
 And, from the turrets round, 
 
 Loud whoops the startled owl. 
 In the hall, both squire and knight 
 
 Swore that a storm was near. 
 And looked forth to view the night; 
 
 But the night was still and clear ! 
 
 From the sound of Teviot's tide. 
 Chafing with the mountain's side, 
 From the groan of the wind-swung oak, 
 From the sullen echo of the rock. 
 From the voice of the coming storm, 
 
 The Ladye knew it well ! 
 It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke. 
 
 And he call'd on the Spirit of the Fell. 
 
 XV. 
 RIVER SPIRIT. 
 
 •' Sleep'st thou, brother? " 
 
 MOUNTAIN SPIRIT. 
 
 — *' Brother, nay — 
 On my hills the moon-beams play. 
 From Craik-cross to Skelfhill-pen, 
 By every rill, in every glen. 
 
 Merry elves their morris pacing. 
 
 To aerial minstrelsy. 
 Emerald rings on brown heath tracing, 
 
 Trip it deft and merrily. 
 Up, and mark their nimble feet ! 
 Up, and list their music sweet ! " — 
 
 XVI. 
 RIVER SPIRIT. 
 
 "Tears of an imprison'd maiden 
 Mix with my polluted stream; 
 
 Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden, 
 Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam. 
 
 * A steep bank. 
 
 Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars. 
 When shall cease these feudal jars? 
 What shall be the maiden's fate? 
 Who shall be the maiden's mate? " 
 
 MOUNTAIN SPIRIT. 
 
 " Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll, 
 In utter darkness round the pole; 
 The Northern Bear lowers black and grim; 
 Orion's studded belt is dim; 
 Twinkling faint, and distant far, 
 Shimmers through mist each planet star; 
 
 111 may I read their high decree ! 
 But no kind influence deign they shower 
 On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower. 
 
 Till pride be quell'd, and love be free. " 
 
 The unearthly voices ceast, 
 
 And the heavy sound was still; 
 It died on the river's breast, 
 
 It died on the side of the hill. 
 But round Lord David's tower 
 
 The sound still floated near; 
 For it rung in the Ladye's lx)wer. 
 
 And it rung in the Ladye's ear. 
 She raised her stately head. 
 
 And her heart throbb'd high with 
 pride : — 
 " Your mountains shall bend. 
 
 And your streams ascend, 
 Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride ! " 
 
 The Ladye sought the lofty hall. 
 
 Where many a bold retainer lay. 
 And, with jocund din, among them all. 
 
 Her son pursued his infant play. 
 A fancied moss-trooper, t the boy 
 
 The truncheon of a spear bestrode, 
 And round the hall, right merrily, 
 
 In mimic foray rode. 
 Even bearded knights, in arms grown old. 
 
 Share in his frolic gambols bore. 
 Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould. 
 
 Were stubborn as the steel they wore. 
 
 t Moss-trooper, a borderer, whose profession 
 was pillage of the English. These marauders 
 were called mnss-troof'ers because they dwelt 
 in the mosses, and rode, on their incursions, in 
 troops. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 13 
 
 For the gray warriors prophesied 
 How the brave boy, in future war, 
 
 Should tame the Unicorn's pride,* 
 Exalt the Crescent and the Star.t 
 
 The Ladye forgot her purpose high, 
 
 One moment, and no more; 
 One moment gazed with a mother's eye, 
 
 As she paused at the arched door; 
 Then from amid the armed train 
 She call'd to her William of Deloraine. 
 
 A stark moss-trooping Scott was he, 
 As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee; 
 Through Solway sands, through Tarras 
 
 moss. 
 Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross; 
 By wily turns, by desperate bounds. 
 Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds; '^ 
 In Eske or Liddel, fords were none, 
 But he would ride them, one by one; 
 Alike to him was time or tide, 
 December's snow, or July's pride; 
 Alike to him was tide or time, 
 Moonless midnight, or matin prime; 
 Steady of heart, and stout of hand. 
 As ever drove prey from Cumberland; 
 Five times outlaw'd had he been. 
 By England's King, and Scotland's 
 
 Queen. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " Sir William of Deloraine, good at need. 
 Mount thee on the wightest steed; 
 Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride. 
 Until thou come to fair Tweedside; 
 And in Melrose's holy pile 
 Seek thou the monk of St. Mary's aisle. 
 Greet the Father well from me; 
 
 Say that the fated hour is come. 
 And to-night he shall watch with thee. 
 To win the treasure of the tomb; 
 For this will be St. Michael's night, 
 And, though stars be dim, the moon is 
 bright; 
 
 * The Unicom Head was the crest of the 
 Carrs, or Kerrs, of Cessford, the enemies of 
 the child's late father. 
 
 tThe Crescent and the Star were armorial 
 bearings of the Scott« of Buccleuch. 
 
 And the cross, of bloody red. 
 Will point to the grave of the mighty 
 dead. 
 
 " What he gives thee, see thou keep; 
 
 Stay not thou for food or sleep; 
 
 Be it scroll, or be it book. 
 
 Into it, Knight, thou must not look; 
 
 If thou readest, thou art lorn ! 
 
 Better hadst thou ne'er been born." — 
 
 " O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray 
 steed. 
 
 Which drinks of the Teviot clear; 
 Ere break of day," the Warrior 'gan say, 
 
 " Again will I be here: 
 And safer by none may thy errand be 
 done. 
 
 Than, noble dame, by me; 
 Letter nor line know I never a one, 
 
 Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee." t 
 
 Soon in his saddle sate he fast. 
 And soon the steep descent he past. 
 Soon cross'd the sounding barbican,§ 
 And soon the Teviot side he won. 
 Eastward the wooded path he rode. 
 Green hazels o'er his basnet nod; 
 He pass'd the Peel of Goldiland,H 
 And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring 
 
 strand ; 
 Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound. 
 Where Druid shades still flitted round; 
 In Hawick twinkled many a light; 
 Behind him soon they set in night; 
 And soon he spurr'd his courser keen 
 Beneath the tower of Hazeldean. 
 
 t Hairibee, the place on Carlisle wall where 
 the moss-troopers, if caught, were hung. The 
 neck-verse was the first verse of Psalm 51. If 
 a criminal claimed on the scaffold " benefit of 
 his clergy," a priest instantly presented him 
 with a Psalter, and he read his neck-verse. 
 The power of reading it entitled him to his life, 
 which was spared ; but he was banished the 
 kingdom. See Palgrave's " Merchant and 
 Friar." 
 
 § Barbican, the defence of the outer gate of 
 a feudal castle. 
 
 II Peel, a Border tower. 
 
14 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto i. 
 
 The clattering hoofs the watchmen 
 
 mark ; — 
 "Stand, ho!" thou courier of the 
 
 dark." — 
 "For Branksome, ho! " the knight 
 
 rejoin'd. 
 And left the friendly tower behind. 
 He turn'd him now from Teviotside, 
 
 And, guided by the tinkling rill, 
 Northward the dark ascent did ride, 
 
 And gain'd the moor at Horsliehill; 
 Broad on the left before him lay, 
 For many a mile, the Roman way.* 
 
 A moment now he slack'd his speed, 
 A moment breathed his panting steed; 
 Drew saddle-girth and corslet band, 
 And loosen'd in the sheath his brand. 
 On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint, 
 Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint; 
 Who flung his outlaw'd limlis to rest. 
 Where falcons hang their giddy nest. 
 Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye 
 For many a league his prey could spy; 
 Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne, 
 The terrors of the robber's horn; 
 Cliffs, which, for many a later year. 
 The warbling Doric reed shall hear, 
 When some sad swain shall teach the 
 
 grove, 
 Ambition is no cure for love ! 
 
 Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, 
 To ancient Riddel's fair domain. 
 
 Where Aill, from mountains freed, 
 Down from the lakes did raving come; 
 Each wave was crested with tawny foam. 
 
 Like the mane of a chestnut steed. 
 In vain ! no torrent, deep or broad. 
 Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. 
 
 At the first plunge the horse sunk low. 
 And the water broke o'er the saddlebow; 
 Above the foaming tide, I ween, 
 Scarce half the charger's neck was seen; 
 
 * An ancient Roman road, crossing through 
 part of Roxburghshire. 
 
 For he was barded t from counter to tail. 
 And the rider was armed complete in mail ; 
 Never heavier man and horse 
 Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force. 
 The warrior's very plume, I say. 
 Was liaggled by the dashing spray: 
 Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's 
 
 grace. 
 At length he gain'd the landing-place. 
 
 Now Bowden Moor the march-man won. 
 
 And sternly shook his plumed head. 
 As glanced his eyes o'er Halidon;t 
 For on his soul the slaughter red 
 Of that unhallow'd morn arose. 
 When first the Scott and Carr were foes; 
 When royal James beheld the fray. 
 Prize to the victor of the day; 
 When Home and Douglas, in the van, 
 Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, 
 Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear 
 Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear. 
 
 In bitter mood he spurred fast. 
 And soon the hated heath was past; 
 And far beneath, in lustre wan, 
 Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran : 
 Like some tall rock with lichens gray, 
 Seem'd dimly huge, the dark Abbaye. 
 When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew rung, 
 Now midnight lauds § were in Melrose 
 
 sung. 
 The sound, upon the fitful gale. 
 In solemn wise did rise and fail. 
 Like that wild harp, whose magic tone 
 Is waken'd by the winds alone. 
 But iWhen Melrose he reach'd, 'twas si- 
 lence all ; 
 He meetly stabled his steed in stall. 
 And sought the convent's lonely wall.^'^ 
 
 Here paused the harp; and with its swell 
 The Master's fire and courage fell; 
 
 t Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse ac- 
 coutred with defensive armor. 
 
 X HaUdon was an ancient seat of the Kerrs 
 of Cessford, now demolislicd. 
 
 § Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic 
 Church. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLVSTREL. 
 
 •5 
 
 Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd. 
 And, gazing timid on the crowd, 
 He seeni'd to seek, in every eye. 
 If they approved his minstrelsy; 
 And, diffident of present praise, 
 Somewhat he spoke of former days. 
 And how old age, and wand'ring long, 
 Had done his hand and harp some wrong. 
 The Duchess, and her daughters fair, 
 And every gentle lady there, 
 Each after each, in due degree, 
 Gave praises to his melody; 
 His hand was true, his voice was clear. 
 And much they long'd the rest to hear. 
 Encouraged thus, the Aged Man, 
 After meet rest, again began. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 I. 
 
 If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright. 
 Go visit it by the pale moonlight; 
 For the gay Ixrams of lightsome day 
 Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 
 When the broken arches are black in night. 
 And each shafted oriel glimmers while; 
 Wlien the cold light's uncertain shower 
 Streams on the ruin'd central tower; 
 When buttress and buttress, alternately. 
 Seem framed of ebon and ivory; 
 When silver edges the imagery. 
 And the scrolls that teach thee to live and 
 
 die;" 
 When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 
 And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's 
 
 grave, 
 Then go — but go alone the while — 
 Then view St. David's ruin'd pile; 
 And, home returning, soothly swear. 
 Was never scene so sad and fair ! 
 
 Short halt did Deloraine make there; 
 Little reck'd he of the scene so fair; 
 With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong, 
 He struck full loud, and struck full long. 
 The porter hurried to the gate : — 
 " \Vho knocks so loud, and knocks so 
 
 late? " 
 " From Branksome I," the warrior cried; 
 And straight the wicket open'd wide: 
 
 For Branksome 's Chiefs had in battle stood 
 To fence the rights of fair Melrose; 
 
 And lands and livings, many a rood, 
 Had gifted the shrine for their souls' 
 repose. 
 
 Bold Deloraine his errand said; 
 The porter bent his humble head; 
 With torch in hand, and feet unshod. 
 And noiseless step, the path he trod. 
 The arched cloister, far and -wide. 
 Rang to the warrior's clanking stride, 
 Till, stooping low his lofty crest, 
 He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest, 
 And lifted his barred aventayle,* 
 To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. 
 
 "The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by 
 me, 
 
 Says, that the fated hour is come. 
 And that to-night I shall watch with thee. 
 
 To win the treasure of the tomb." 
 From sackcloth couch the Monk arose. 
 
 With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd; 
 A hundred years had flung their snows 
 
 On his thin locks and floating beard. 
 
 And strangely on the Knight look'd he. 
 
 And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and 
 
 wide : — 
 
 " And darest thou. Warrior ! seek to see 
 
 What heaven and hell alike would hide ? 
 
 My breast, in belt of iron pent. 
 
 With shirt of hair and scourge of 
 thorn; 
 For threescore years, in penance spent, 
 My knees those flinty stones have worn : 
 Yet all too little to atone 
 For knowing what should ne'er be known. 
 Would'st thou thy every future year 
 
 In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, 
 Yet wait thy latter end with fear — 
 Then, daring Warrior, follow me ! '" 
 
 " Penance, father, will I none; 
 Prayer know I hardly one; 
 
 • Aventayle, visor of the helmet. 
 
i6 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 P'or mass or prayer can I rarely tarry 
 Save to patter an Ave Mary, 
 When I ride on a Border foray. 
 Other prayer can I none; 
 So speed nie my errand, and let me be 
 gone." — 
 
 Again on the Knight looked the Church- 
 man old, 
 And again he sighed heavily; 
 
 For he had himself been a warrior bold, 
 And fought in Spain and Italy. 
 
 And he thought on the days that were long 
 since by, 
 
 When his limbs were strong, and his cour- 
 age was high : — 
 
 Now, slow and faint, he led the way, 
 
 Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay; 
 
 The pillar'd arches were over their head. 
 
 And beneath their feet were the bones of 
 the dead. 
 
 Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright, 
 Glisten'd with the dew of night; 
 Nor herl), nor floweret, glisten'd there, 
 But was carved in the cloister-arches as 
 fair. 
 The Monk gazed long on the lovely 
 moon. 
 Then into the night he looked forth ; 
 And red and bright the streamers light 
 Were dancing in the glowing north. 
 So had he seen, in fair Castile, 
 
 "fhe youth in glittering squadrons 
 start; 
 Sudtien the flying jennet wheel. 
 And hurl the vinexpccted dart, 
 lie knew, by the streamers that shot so 
 
 bright. 
 That spirits weie riding the northern light. 
 
 By a steel-clenched postern door, 
 
 They enter'd now the chancel tall; 
 The darken'd roof rose high alo(jf 
 
 On pillars lofty, and light, and small : 
 The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed 
 
 aisle, 
 Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille; 
 The corbels were carved grotesque and 
 grim; 
 
 I And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so 
 
 trim. 
 With base and with capital flourish'd 
 
 around, 
 Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands 
 
 had bound. 
 
 Full many a scutcheon and banner riven. 
 Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven. 
 
 Around the screened altar's pale; 
 And there the dying lamps did burn. 
 Before thy low and lonely urn, 
 O gallant Chief of Otterburne ! i^ 
 
 And thine, dark Knight of Liddes- 
 dale ! 16 
 O fading honors of the dead ! 
 C) high ambition, lowly laid ! 
 
 The moon on the east oriel shone 
 Through slender shafts of shapely stone, 
 
 By foliaged tracery combined; 
 Thou would'st have thought some fairy's 
 
 hand 
 'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand. 
 
 In many a freakish knot, had twined; 
 Then framed a spell, when the work was 
 
 done. 
 And changed the willow-wreaths to stone. 
 The silver light, so pale and faint, 
 Show'd many a prophet, and many a saint. 
 
 Whose image on the glass was dyed; 
 Full in the midst, his Cross of Red 
 Triumphant Michael brandished, 
 
 And trampled the Apostate's pride. 
 The moon-1>eam kiss'd the holy pane. 
 And threw on the pavement a bloody 
 stain. 
 
 They sate them down on a marble stone, 
 
 (A Scottish monarch slept below; ) * 
 Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone : — 
 
 " I was not always a man of woe; 
 For Paynim countries I have trod. 
 And fought beneath the Cross of God : 
 Now, strange to my eyes thine arms ap- 
 pear. 
 And their iron clang sounds strange to my 
 ear. 
 
 * Alexander II, 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLA'STREL. 
 
 17 
 
 " In these far climes it was my lot 
 To meet the wondrous Michael Scott,'" 
 
 A wizard, of such dreaded fame, 
 That when, in Salamanca's cave. 
 Him listed his magic wand to wave. 
 
 The bells would ring in Notre Dame ! 
 Some of his skill he taught to me; 
 And, Warrior, I could say to thee 
 The words lhat_clef t Eildon hills in three,'* 
 
 And bridled the Tweed with a curb of 
 stone : 
 But to speak them were a deadly sin; 
 And for having but thought them my heart 
 within, 
 
 A treble penance must be done. 
 
 '• When Michael lay on his dying bed. 
 His conscience was awakened: 
 He bethought him of his sinful deed, 
 And he gave me a sign to come with speed ; 
 I was in Spain when the morning rose. 
 But I stood by his bed ere evening close. 
 The words may not again be said. 
 That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid; 
 They would rend this Abbaye's massy 
 
 nave. 
 And pile it in heaps above his grave. 
 
 " I swore to bury his Mighty Book, 
 That never mortal might therein look; 
 And never to tell where it was hid. 
 Save at his Chief of Branksome's need: 
 And when that need was past and o'er. 
 Again the volume to restore. 
 I buried him on St. Michael's night. 
 When the bell toU'd one, and the moon 
 
 was bright. 
 And I dug his chamljer among the dead. 
 When the floor of the chancel was stained 
 
 red, 
 That his patron's cross might over him 
 
 wave. 
 And scare the fiends from the Wizard's 
 
 grave. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " It was a night of woe and dread. 
 When Michael in the tomb I laid ! 
 Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd, 
 The banners waved without a blast; " — 
 
 — Still spoke the Monk, when the bell 
 
 toU'd one ! — 
 I tell you, that a braver man 
 Than William of Deloraine, good at need. 
 Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed; 
 Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread, 
 And his hair did bristle upon his head. 
 
 " Lo, Warrior ! now, the Cross of Red 
 Points to the grave of the mighty dead; 
 Within it burns a wondrous light. 
 To chase the spirits that love the night : 
 That lamp shall burn unquenchably, 
 Until the eternal doom shall be."* — 
 Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag- 
 stone. 
 Which the bloody Cross was traced upon : 
 He pointed to a secret nook; 
 An iron bar the Warrior took; 
 And the Monk made a sign with his 
 
 wither'd hand» 
 The grave's huge portal to expand. 
 
 With l>eating heart to the task he went; 
 His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone 
 
 bent; 
 With bar of iron heaved amain. 
 Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like 
 
 rain. 
 It was by dint of passing strength. 
 That he moved the massy stone at length. 
 I would you had been there, to see 
 How the light broke forth so gloriously. 
 Stream 'd upward to the chancel roof, 
 And through the galleries far aloof ! 
 No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright : 
 It shone like heaven's own blessed light, 
 
 And, issuing from the tomb, 
 Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage pale, 
 Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's 
 mail. 
 
 And kiss'd his waving plume. 
 
 Before their eyes the Wizard lay. 
 As if he had not been dead a day. 
 His hoary beard in silver roll'd. 
 He seem'd some seventy winters old; 
 
 * It was a belief of the Middle Ages, that 
 eternal lamps were to be found burning in 
 ancient sepulchres. 
 
i8 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 Canio II. 
 
 A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round, 
 
 With a wrought Spanish baldric Ixjund, 
 Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea; 
 
 His left hand held his Book of Might; 
 
 A silver cross was in his right; 
 
 The lamp was placed teside his knee; 
 High and majestic was his look, 
 At which the fellest fiends had shook, 
 And all unrufilled was his face : 
 They trusted his soul had gotten grace. 
 
 Often had William of Deloraine 
 
 Rode through the battle's bloody plain, 
 
 And trampled down the warriors slain. 
 
 And neither known remorse nor awe; 
 Yet now remorse and awe he own'd; 
 His breath came thick, his head swam 
 round. 
 
 When this strange scene of death he 
 saw, 
 Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood. 
 And the priest pray'd fervently and loud: 
 With eyes averted prayed he; 
 He might nrtt endure the sight to see, 
 Of the man he had loved so brotherly. 
 
 And when the priest his death-prayer had 
 
 pray'd, 
 Thus unto Deloraine he said : — 
 " Now, speed thee what thou hast to do, 
 Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue; 
 For those, thou may'st not look upon. 
 Are gathering fast round the yawning 
 
 stone ! " — 
 Then Deloraine, in terror, took 
 From the cold hand the Mighty Rook, 
 With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound: 
 He thought, as he took it, the dead man 
 
 frown'd; 
 But the glare of the sepulchral light, 
 Perchance, had dazzled the warrior'ssight. 
 
 When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb. 
 The night return'd in double gloom; 
 For the moon had gone down, and the 
 
 stars were few ; 
 And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew, 
 With wavering steps and dizzy brain, 
 They hardly might the postern gain. 
 
 'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd. 
 They heard strange noises on the blast; 
 And through the cloister-galleries small. 
 Which at mid-height thread the chancel 
 
 wall. 
 Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, 
 And voices unlike the voice of man; 
 As if the fiends kept holiday, 
 Because these spells were brought to day 
 I cannot tell how the truth may be; 
 I say the tale as 'twas said to me. 
 
 " Now, hie thee hence," the Father said, 
 " And when we are on death-bed laid, 
 O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. 
 
 John, 
 Forgive our souls for the deed we have 
 done ! " 
 The Monk return'd him to his cell. 
 And many a prayer and penance 
 sped ; 
 When the convent met at the noontide 
 bell — 
 The Monk of St. Mary's aisle wns 
 dead ! 
 Before the cross was the botly laid. 
 With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he 
 pray'd. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The Knight breathed free in the morning 
 
 wind, 
 And strove his hardihood to find. 
 He was glad when he pass'd the tomb- 
 stones gray, 
 Which girdle round the fair Abbaye; 
 For the mystic Book, to his bosom prest. 
 Felt like a load upon his breast, 
 And his joints, with nerves of iron twined, 
 Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind. 
 P'ull fain was he when the dawn of day 
 Began to brighten Cheviot gray; 
 He joy'd to see the cheerful light. 
 And he said Ave Mary as well as he 
 might. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The sun had brighten'd Cheviot gray, 
 The sun had brighten'd the Carter's * 
 side ; 
 
 * A mountain on the Border of England, 
 above Jedburgh. 
 
Canto li. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 19 
 
 And soon beneath the rising day 
 
 Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot's 
 tide. 
 The wild birds told their warbling tale, 
 
 And waken'd every flower that blows; 
 And peeped forth the violet pale, 
 
 And spread her breast the movintain 
 rose. 
 And lovelier than the rose so red. 
 
 Yet ]ialer than the violet pale, 
 Slie early left her sleepless bed, 
 
 The fairest maid of Teviotdale. 
 
 Why does fair Margaret so early awake? 
 
 And don her kirtle so hastilie; 
 And the silken knots, which in hurry she 
 would make, 
 
 Why tremble her slender fingers to tie; 
 Why does she stop, and look often around. 
 
 As she glides down the secret stair; 
 And why does she pat the shaggy blood- 
 hound, 
 
 As he rouses him up from his lair; 
 And, though she passes the postern alone. 
 Why is not the watchman's bugle blown? 
 
 The Ladye steps in doubt and dread, 
 
 Lest her watchful mother hear her tread; 
 
 The Ladye caresses the rough blood- 
 hound, 
 
 Lest his voice should waken the castle 
 round. 
 
 The watchman's bugle is not blown. 
 
 For he was her foster-father's son; 
 
 And she glides through the greenwood at 
 dawn of light 
 
 To meet Baron Henry, her own true 
 knight. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The Knight and Ladye fair are met. 
 And under the hawthorn's boughs are set. 
 A fairer pair were never seen 
 To meet beneath the hawthorn green. 
 He was stately, and young, and tall; 
 Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall; 
 And she, when love, scarce told, scarce 
 
 hid. 
 Lent to her cheek a livelier red; 
 When the half sigh her swelling breast 
 Against the silken ribbon prest; 
 
 When her blue eyes their secret told, 
 Though shaded by her locks of gold — 
 Where would you find the peerless fair. 
 With Margaret of Branksome might com- 
 pare ? 
 
 And now, fair dames, methinks I see 
 
 You listen to my minstrelsy; 
 
 Your waving locks ye backward throw. 
 
 And sidelong bend your necks of snow; 
 
 Ye ween to hear a melting tale, 
 
 Of two true lovers in a dale; 
 
 And how the Knight, with tender fire 
 To paint his faithful passion strove; 
 
 Swore he might at her feet expire. 
 But never, never, cease to love; 
 And how she blush'd, and how she sigh'd. 
 And, half consenting, half denied. 
 And said that she would die a maid; — 
 Yet, might the blooily feud be stay'd, 
 Henry of Cranstoiin, and only he, 
 Margaret of Branksome's choice should 
 be. 
 
 Alas ! fair dames, your hopes are vain ! 
 My harp has lost the enchanting strain; 
 
 Its lightness would my age reprove: 
 My hairs are gray, my limbs are old. 
 My heart is dead, my veins are cold; 
 
 I may not, must not, sing of love. 
 
 Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld. 
 The Baron's Dwarf his courser held,^^ 
 
 And held his crested helm and spear: 
 That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man. 
 If the tales were true that of him ran 
 
 'I'hrough all the Border, far and near. 
 'Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting 
 
 rode. 
 Through Redesdale's glens, but rarely 
 trode. 
 He heard a voice cry, "Lost! lost! 
 
 lost!" 
 And, like tennis-ball by racket toss'd, 
 
 A leap, of thirty feet and three, 
 Made from the gorse this elfin shape, 
 Distorted like some dwarfish ape, 
 And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's 
 knee. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Lord Cranstoun was some whit dis- 
 
 may'd ; 
 'Tis said that five good miles he rade, 
 To rid him of his company; 
 But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf 
 
 ran four, 
 And the Dwarf was first at the castle 
 door. 
 
 Use lessens marvel, it is said: 
 This elvish Dwarf with the Baron staid; 
 Little he ate, and less he spoke, 
 Nor mingled with the menial flock: 
 And oft apart his .arms he toss'd. 
 And often mutter'd " Lost ! lost ! lost ! " 
 He was waspish, .arch, and litherlie,* 
 But well Lord Cranstoun served he : 
 And he of his service was full fain; 
 For once he had been ta'en or slain, 
 
 An it had not been for his ministry. 
 All between Home and Hermitage, 
 Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page. 
 
 For the Baron went on Pilgrimage, 
 And took with him this elvish I'age, 
 To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes; 
 For there beside our Ladye's lake. 
 An offering he had sworn to make. 
 
 And he would pay his vows. 
 But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a 
 
 band 
 Of the best that would ride at her com- 
 mand: 
 The trysting place was Newark Lee. 
 Wat of Harden came thither am.ain, 
 And thither came John of Thirlestane, 
 And thither came William of Deloraine; 
 They were three hundred spears and 
 three. 
 Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow 
 
 stream, 
 Their horses prance, their lances gleam. 
 They came to St. Mary's lake ere day; 
 But the chapel was void, and the Baron 
 
 away. 
 They burn'd the chapel for very rage, 
 And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin- 
 Page. 
 
 * Idle. 
 
 And now, in Branksome's good green- 
 wood, 
 
 As under the aged oak he stood, 
 
 The Baron's courser pricks his ears, 
 
 As if a distant noise he hears. 
 
 The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on 
 high. 
 
 And signs to the lovers to part and fly; 
 
 No time was then to vow or sigh. 
 
 Fair Margaret through the hazel grove, 
 
 Flew like the startled cushat-dove: 
 
 The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein; 
 
 Vaulted the Knight on his steed amain. 
 
 And, pondering deep that morning's 
 scene, 
 
 Rode eastward through the hawthorns 
 green. 
 
 While thus he pour'd the lengthen'd tale 
 The Minstrel's voice licgan to fail: 
 Full slyly smiled the observant page, 
 And gave the wither'd hand of age 
 A goblet crown'd with mighty wine, 
 The blood of Velez' scorched vine. 
 He raised the silver cup on high. 
 And, while the big drop fill'd his eye, 
 Pray'd (iod to bless the Duchess long, 
 And all who cheer'd a son of song. 
 The attending maidens smiled to see 
 How long, how deep, how zealously. 
 The precious juice the Minstrel quaff 'd; 
 And he, emboldcn'd by the draught, 
 Look'd gayly b.ack to them, and laugh'd. 
 The corclial nectar of the bowl 
 Swell'd his old veins, and cheer'd his soul ; 
 A lighter, livelier prelude ran. 
 Ere thus his tale again began. 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 And said I that my limbs were old, 
 And said I that my blood was cold. 
 And that my kindly fire was fled, 
 And my poor wither'd heart was dead, 
 
 And that I might not sing of love? - 
 How could I to the dearest theme. 
 That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream, 
 
 So foul, so false a recreant prove ! 
 
Camo III. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 How could I name love's very name, 
 Nor wake my heart to notes of flame ! 
 
 In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed; 
 In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; 
 In halls, in gay attire is seen; 
 In hamlets, dances on the green. 
 Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, 
 And n^-n below, and saints above; 
 For love is heaven, and heaven is love. 
 
 So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween, 
 While, pondering deep the tender scene. 
 He rode through Branksome's hawthorn 
 green. 
 But the Page shouted wild and shrill. 
 And scarce his helmet could he don. 
 When downward from the shady hill 
 A stately knight came pricking on. 
 That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray. 
 Was dark with sweat, and splash'd with 
 clay ; 
 His armor red with many a stain; 
 He seem'd in such a weary plight, 
 As if he had ridden the live-long night; 
 For it was William of Deloraine. 
 
 But no whit we.ary did he seem. 
 
 When, dancing in the sunny beam. 
 
 He mark'd the crane on the baron's 
 
 crest; * 
 For his ready spear was in his rest. 
 
 PY'W were the words, and stern and 
 high. 
 That mark'd the foemen's feudal 
 hate; 
 For question fierce, and proud reply, 
 Gave signal soon of dire del)ate. 
 Their very coursers seem'd to know 
 That each was other's mortal foe. 
 And snorted fire, when wheel'd around. 
 To give each knight his vantage-ground. 
 
 * The crest of the Cranstouns, in allusion to 
 their name, is a crane, dormant, holdin}^ a stone 
 in his foot, with an emphatic Border motto, 
 Thou shall want ere I -want. Arms thus pun- 
 ning on the name, arc said heraldically to be 
 " canting." 
 
 In rapid round the Baron bent; 
 
 He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a prayer; 
 The prayer was to his patron saint, 
 
 The sigh was to his ladye fair. 
 Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd nor pray'd. 
 Nor saint, nor ladye, call'd to aid; 
 But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd his 
 
 spear. 
 And spurr'd his steed to full career. 
 The meeting of these champions proud 
 Seem'd like the bursting thunder-cloud. 
 
 Stern was the dint the Borderer lent ! 
 The stately Baron backwards bent; 
 Bent backwards to his horse's tail. 
 And his plumes went scattering on the 
 
 gale. 
 Tlie tough ash spear, so stout and true. 
 Into a thousand flinders flew. 
 But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail, 
 Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer's 
 
 mail; 
 Through shield, and jack, and acton, past, 
 Deep in his bosom, broke at last. — 
 Still sate the warrior saddle-fast, 
 Till, stumbling in the mortal shock, 
 Down went the steed, the girthing broke, 
 Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse. 
 The Baron onward pass'd his course ; 
 Nor knew — so giddy roU'd his brain — 
 His foe lay stretch'd upon the plain. 
 
 But when he rein'd his courser round. 
 And saw his foeman on the ground 
 
 Lie senseless as the bloody clay, 
 He bade his page to stanch the wound, 
 
 And there beside the warrior stay. 
 And tend him in his doubtful state. 
 And lead him to Branksome castle-gate r 
 His noble mind was inly moved 
 For the kinsman of the maid he loved. 
 " This shalt thou do without delay: 
 No longer here myself may stay ; 
 Unless the swifter I speed away. 
 Short shrift will be at my dying day." 
 
 Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode; 
 The Goblin-Page behind abode; 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 His lord's command he ne'er withstood, 
 Though small his pleasure to do good. 
 As the corslet off he took, 
 The Dwarf espied the Mighty Book ! 
 Much he marvell'd a knight of pride, 
 Like a book -bosom 'd priest should ride ; * 
 He thought not to search or stanch the 
 
 wound, 
 Until the secret he had found. 
 
 The iron band, the iron clasp. 
 Resisted long the elfin grasp: 
 For when the first he had undone, 
 It closed as he the next begun. 
 Those iron clasps, that iron band, 
 Would not yield to unchristen'd hand. 
 Till he smear'd the cover o'er 
 With the Borderer's curdled gore; 
 A moment then the volume spread. 
 And one short spell therein he read. 
 It liad much of glamour t might. 
 Could make a ladye seem a knight; 
 The cobwebs on a dungeon wall 
 Seem tapestry in lordly hall; 
 A nut-shell seem a gilded barge, 
 A sheelingt seem a palace large. 
 And youth seem age, and age seem 
 
 youth — 
 All was delusion, naught was truth.-' 
 
 He had not read another spell. 
 When on his cheek a buffet fell. 
 So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain, 
 Beside the wounded Deloraine. 
 From the ground he rose dismay'd. 
 And shook his huge and matted head; 
 One word he mutter'd, and no more, 
 " Man of age, thou smitest sore ! " — 
 No more the Elfin Page durst try 
 Into the wondrous Book to pry; 
 The clasps, though smear'd with Chris- 
 tian gore. 
 Shut faster than they were before. 
 He hid it underneath his cloak. — 
 Now, if you ask who gave the stroke, 
 
 * Priests were wont to carry their mass-book, 
 for buryitig and marrying, etc., in their bosoms, 
 t Magical delusion. 
 X A shepherd's hut. 
 
 I cannot tell, so mot I thrive; 
 It was not given by man alive. 
 
 Unwillingly himself he address'd, 
 To do his master's high behest: 
 He lifted up the living corse. 
 And laid it on the weary horse; 
 He led him into Branksome Hall, 
 Before the beards of the warders all; 
 And each did after swear and say. 
 There only pass'd a wain of hay. 
 He took him to Lord David's tower. 
 Even to the Ladye's secret bower; 
 And, l)Ut that stronger spells were spread, 
 And the door might not be opened, 
 He had laid him on her very bed. 
 Whate'er he did of gramarye,§ 
 Was always done maliciously; 
 He flung the warrior on the ground. 
 And the blood well'd freshly from the 
 wound. 
 
 As he repass'd the outer court. 
 
 He spied the fair yo«ng child at sport; 
 
 He thought to train him to the wood; 
 
 F"or, at a word, be it understood. 
 
 He was always for ill, and never for good. 
 
 Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay 
 
 Led him forth to the woods to pl.ty; 
 
 On the drawbridge the warders stout 
 
 Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out. 
 
 He led the boy o'er bank and fell. 
 
 Until they came to a woodland brook ; ^' 
 The running stream dissolved the spell. 
 
 And his own elvish .shape he took. 
 Could he have had his pleasure vilde. 
 He had crippled the joints of the noble 
 
 child; 
 Or, with his fingers long and lean. 
 Had strangled him in fiendish spleen; 
 But his awful mother he had in dread. 
 And al.so his power was limited; 
 •So he but scowl'd on the startled child. 
 And darted through the forest wild; 
 The woodland brook he bounding cross'd, 
 And laugh'd, and shouted, " Lost ! lost ! 
 lost!" — 
 
 § Magic. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE LA V OF THE LAST ATI N ST R EL. 
 
 «3 
 
 Full sore amazed at the wondrous change, 
 
 And frighten'd as a child might be, 
 At the wild yell and visage strange, 
 And the dark words of gramarye, 
 The child, amidst the forest bower. 
 Stood rooted like a lily flower; 
 
 And when, at length, with trembling 
 pace, 
 He sought to find where Branksome 
 lay. 
 He fear'd to see that grisly face 
 
 Glare from some thicket on his way. 
 Thus, starting oft, he journey'd on. 
 And deeper in the wood is gone, — 
 P"or aye the more he sought his way, 
 The farther still he went astray, — 
 Until he heard the mountains round 
 Ring to the baying of a hound. 
 
 And hark ! and hark ! the deep-mouth'd 
 bark 
 
 Comes nigher still, and nigher: 
 Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound, 
 His tawny muzzle track'd the ground. 
 
 And his red eye shot fire. 
 Soon as the wilder'd child saw he, 
 He Hew at him right furiouslie. 
 I ween you would have seen with joy 
 The bearing of the gallant boy. 
 When, worthy of his noble sire. 
 His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and ire ! 
 He faced the blood-hound manfully, 
 And held his little bat on high; 
 So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid. 
 At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd. 
 
 But still in act to spring; 
 When dash'd an archer through the glade, 
 And when he saw the hound was stay'd. 
 
 He drew his tough bow-string; 
 But a rough voice cried, " Shoot not, hoy ! 
 Ho ! shoot not, Edward — 'Tis a boy ! " 
 
 The speaker issued from the wood, 
 And check'd his fellow's surly mood. 
 
 And quell'd the ban-dog's ire: 
 He was an English yeoman good. 
 
 And born in Lancashire, 
 Well could he hit a fallow-deer 
 
 Five hundred feet him fro; 
 With hand more true, and eye more clear. 
 
 No archer trended bow. 
 His coal-black hair, shorn round and 
 close. 
 
 Set off his sun-burn'd face: 
 Old England's sign, St. George's cross. 
 
 His barret-cap did grace; 
 His bugle-horn hung by his side. 
 All in a wolf -skin baldric tied; 
 And his short falchion, sharp and clear. 
 Had pierced the throat of many a deer. 
 
 His kirtle, made of forest green, 
 
 Reach'd scantly to his knee; 
 And, at his lx.'lt, of arrows keen 
 
 A furbish'd sheaf bore he; 
 His buckler, scarce in breailth a span. 
 
 No larger fence had he; 
 He never counted him a man. 
 
 Would strike below the knee;*^ 
 His slacken'd bow was in his hand, 
 And the leash, that was his blood-hound's 
 band. 
 
 He would not do the (air child harm. 
 But held him with his powerful arm, 
 That he might neither fight nor flee; 
 For when the Red-Cross spied he, 
 The boy strove long and violently. 
 Now, by St. George," the archer cries, 
 " Edward, methinks we have a prize ! 
 This boy's fair face, and courage free. 
 Show he is come of high degree." — 
 
 " Yes ! I am come of high degree. 
 
 For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch, 
 And, if thou dost not set me free, 
 
 False Southron, thou shalt dearly rue ! 
 For Walter of Harden shall come with 
 
 speed. 
 And William of Del oraine, good at need. 
 And every Scott, from Esk to Tweed; 
 And, if thou dost not let me go, 
 Despite thy arrows, and thy bow, 
 I'll have thee hang'd to feed the 
 crow ! " — 
 
H 
 
 THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 " Gramercy,* for thy good-will, fair boy ! 
 My mind was never set so high; 
 But if thou art chief of such a clan, 
 And art the son of such a man, 
 And ever comest to thy command. 
 
 Our wardens had need to keep good 
 order; 
 My bow of yew to a hazel wand, 
 
 Thou'lt make them work upon the 
 Border. 
 Meantime, be pleased to come with me. 
 For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see; 
 I think our work is well begun, 
 When we have taken thy father's son." 
 
 A.lthough the child was led away, 
 In Branksome still he seem'd to stay. 
 Vox so the Dwarf his part did play; 
 And, in the shape of that young boy. 
 He wrought the castle much annoy. 
 The comrades of the young Buccleuch 
 He pinch \1, and beat, and overthrew; 
 Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew. 
 He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire, 
 And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire. 
 He lighted the match of his bandelier,+ 
 And wofully scorch'd the hackbuteer.t 
 It may he hardly thought or said. 
 The mischief that the urchin made. 
 Till many of the castle guess'd 
 That the young Baron was possess'd ! 
 
 Well I ween the charm he held 
 The noble Ladye had soon dispelled; 
 But she was deeply busied then 
 To tend the wounded Deloraine. 
 Much she wonder'd to find him lie. 
 On the stone threshold stretch'd 
 along; 
 She thought some spirit of the sky 
 Had done the bold moss-trooper 
 wrong; 
 Because, despite her precept dread. 
 Perchance he in the Book had read; 
 But the broken lance in his bosom stood, 
 And it was earthly steel and wood. 
 
 * Grand merci, thanks. 
 
 t Bandelier, beh for carrying ammuuition. 
 
 X Hackbuteer. musketeer. 
 
 She drew the splinter from the wound, 
 And with a charm she stanch'd the 
 blood; 
 She bade the gash be cleansed and bound : 
 
 No longer by his couch she stood; 
 But she has ta'en the broken lance, 
 And wash'd it from the clotted gore, 
 And salved the splinter o'er and o'er. § 
 William of Deloraine, in trance. 
 
 Whene'er she turned it round and 
 
 round. 
 Twisted as if she gall'd his wound. 
 Then to her maidens she did say, 
 That he should be whole man and 
 sound, 
 V/ithin the course of a night and day. 
 Full long she toil'd; for she did rue 
 Mishap to friend so stout and true. 
 
 So pass'd the day — the evening fell, 
 'Twas near the time of curfew bell; 
 The air was mild, the wind was calm. 
 The stream was smooth, the dew was 
 
 balm; 
 E'en the rude watchman, on the tower, 
 Enjoy'd and bless'd the lovely hour. 
 Far more fair Margaret loved and bless'd 
 The hour of silence and of rest. 
 On tl^ high turret sitting lone. 
 She waked at times the lute's soft tone, 
 Touch'd a wild note, and all between 
 Thought of the bower of hawthorns green. 
 Her golden hair stream'd free from band, 
 Her fair cheek rested on her hand. 
 Her blue eyes sought the west afar. 
 For lovers love the western star. 
 
 Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen, 
 
 That rises slowly to her ken, 
 
 And, spreading broad its wavering light. 
 
 Shakes its loose tresses on the night? 
 
 Is yon red glare the western star? — 
 
 O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war ! 
 
 Scarce could she draw her tighten'd 
 
 breath. 
 For well she knew the fire of death ! 
 
 § niis was called the cure by sympathy. 
 Sir Keiielm Digby was wont occasionally to 
 practise it. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE LA y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 25 
 
 The Warder view'd it blazing strong, 
 And blew his war-note loud and long, 
 Till, at the high and haughty sound, 
 Rock, wood, and river rung around. 
 The blast alarm'd the festal hall. 
 And startled forth the warriors all. 
 Far downward, in the castle-yard, 
 Full many a torch and cresset glared; 
 And helms and plumes, confusedly toss'd, 
 Were in the V)laze half-seen, half -lost; 
 And spears in wild disorder shook, 
 Like reeds beside a frozen brook. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The Seneschal, whose silver hair 
 Was redden'd by the torches' glare. 
 Stood in the midst, with gesture proud, 
 And issued forth his mandates loud: 
 " On Penchryst glows a bale* of fire. 
 And three arc kindling on Priesthaugh- 
 swire ; 
 
 Ride out, ride out. 
 
 The foe to scout ! 
 Mount, iTiount for Branksome.t every 
 
 man. 
 Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan, 
 
 That ever are true and stout — 
 Ye need not send to Liddesdale; 
 For when they see the blazing bale, 
 Elliots and Armstrongs never fail. — 
 Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life ! 
 And warn the Warder of the strife. 
 Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze. 
 Our kin and clan and friends to raise." 
 
 Fair Margaret from the turret head, 
 Heard, far below, the coursers' tread. 
 
 While loud the harness rung. 
 As to their seats, with clamor dread. 
 
 The ready horsemen sprung: 
 And trampling hoofs, and iron coats, 
 And leaders' voices, mingled notes. 
 And out ! and out ! 
 In hasty rout. 
 
 The horsemen gallop'd forth; 
 Dispersing to the south to scout. 
 
 And east, and west, and north, 
 
 • A Border beacon. 
 
 T Mount for Branksome was the gathering 
 word of the Scotts. 
 
 To view their coming enemies. 
 And warn their vassals and allies. 
 
 The ready page, with hurried hand. 
 Awaked the need-fire's t slumbering 
 
 brand. 
 And ruddy blush'd the heaven : 
 For a sheet of flame, from the turret high, 
 Waved like a blood-flag on the sky. 
 
 All flaring and uneven; 
 And soon a score of fires, I ween. 
 From height, and hill, and cliff, were 
 
 seen ; 
 Each with warlike tidings fraught. 
 Each from each the signal caught; 
 Each after each they glanced to sight. 
 As stars arise upon the night. 
 They gleam'd on many a dusky tarn,§ 
 Haunted by the lonely earn; II 
 On many a cairn's gray pyramid. 
 Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid;^ 
 Till high Dunedin the blazes saw. 
 From Soltra and Dumpender Law; 
 And Lothian heard the Regent's order. 
 That all should boune t them for the 
 
 Border. 
 
 The livelong night in Branksome rang 
 
 The ceaseless sound of steel; 
 The castle-bell, with backward clang, 
 
 Sent forth the larum peal; 
 Was frequent heard the heavy jar, 
 Where massy stone and iron bar 
 Were piled on echoing keep and tower. 
 To whelm the foe with deadly shower; 
 Was frequent heard the changing guard. 
 And watchword from the sleepless ward; 
 While, wearied by the endless din, 
 Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd within. 
 
 The noble Dame, amid the broil. 
 Shared the gray Seneschal's high toil, 
 And spoke of danger with a smile; 
 
 X Need-fire, beacon. 
 § Tarn, a monntain lake, 
 n Earn, a Scottish eagle. 
 H Boune, make ready. 
 
26 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 Cheer'd the young knights, and council 
 
 sage 
 Held with the chiefs of riper age. 
 No tidings of the foe were Vjrought, 
 "Nor of his numbers knew they aught, 
 Nor what in time of truce he sought. 
 
 Some said, that there were thousands 
 ten; 
 And others ween'd that it was naught 
 
 But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men. 
 Who came to gather in black-mail;* 
 And Liddesdale, with small avail, 
 
 Might drive them lightly back agen. 
 So pass'd the anxious night away, 
 And welcome was the f)eep of day. 
 
 Ceased the high sound — the listening 
 
 throng 
 Applaud the Master of the Song; 
 And marvel much, in helpless age, 
 So hard should be his pilgrimage. 
 Had he no friend — no daughter dear, 
 His wandering toil to share and cheer; 
 No son to be his father's stay, 
 And guide him on the rugged way? 
 ' Ay, once he had — but he was ilead !' 
 Upon the harp he stoop'd his head, 
 And busied himself the strings withal. 
 To hide the tear that fain would fall. 
 In solemn measure, soft and slow, 
 Arose a father's notes of woe. 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 I. 
 Sweet Teviot ! on thy silver tide 
 
 The glaring bale-fires blaze no more; 
 No longer steel-clad warriors ride 
 
 Along thy wild and willow'd shore; 
 Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill, 
 All, all is peaceful, all is still. 
 
 As if thy waves, since Time was born. 
 Since first they roll'd upon the Tweed, 
 Had only heard the shepherd's reed. 
 
 Nor started at the bugle-horn. 
 
 Unlike the tide of human time. 
 
 Which, though it change in ceaseless 
 flow, 
 
 * Protection money exacted by freebooters. 
 
 Retains each grief, retains each crime, 
 
 Its earliest course was doom'd to know; 
 And, darker as it downward bears, 
 Is stain'd with past and present tears. 
 Low as that tide has ebb'd with me, 
 It still reflects to Memory's eye 
 The hour my brave, my only boy. 
 
 Fell by the side of great Dundee. t 
 Why, when the volleying musket play'd 
 Against the bloody Highland blade. 
 Why was not I beside him laid ! — 
 Enough — he died the death of fame! 
 Enough — he died with conquering 
 Graeme ! 
 
 Now over Border, dale, and fell, 
 
 Full wide and far was terror spread; 
 For pathless marsh, and mountain cell, 
 
 The peasant left his lowly shed.-* 
 The frighten'd flocks and herds were pent 
 Beneath the peel's rude battlement; 
 And maids and matrons dropp'd the tear, 
 While ready warriors seized the spear. 
 From Branksome's towers, the watch- 
 man's eye 
 Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy. 
 Which, curling in the rising sun, 
 Show'd southern ravage was begun. 
 
 Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried: — 
 " Prepare ye all for blows and blood ! 
 Watt Tinlinn,26 from the Liddel-side, 
 
 Comes wading through the flood. 
 Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock 
 At his lone gate, and prove the lock; 
 It was V)ut last St. Barnabright X 
 They sieged him a whole summer night, 
 But fled at morning; well they knew. 
 In vain he never twang'd the yew. 
 Right sharp has been the evening 
 
 shower. 
 That drove him from his Liddel tower; 
 And by my faith," the gate-ward said, 
 " I think 'twill provea Warden-Raid." § 
 
 t Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, slain in 
 the battle of Killicrankie. 
 
 t St. Barnabas's day, June ii. It is still called 
 Barnaby Bright in Hants, from its being gener 
 ally a bright, sunshiny day. 
 
 § An inroad commanded by the Warden in 
 person. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 27 
 
 While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman 
 
 Enter'd the echoing barbican. 
 
 He led a small and shaggy nag, 
 
 That through a bog, from hag to hag,* 
 
 Could bound like any Billhope stag. 
 
 It bore his wife and children twain; 
 
 A half-clothed serf t was all their train; 
 
 His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-brow'd. 
 
 Of silver brooch and bracelet proud, 
 
 Laugh'd to her friends among the crowd. 
 
 He was of stature passing tall, 
 
 But sparely forni'd, and lean withal; 
 
 A batter 'd morion on his brow; 
 
 A leather jack, as fence enow, 
 
 On his broad shoulders loosely hung; 
 
 A border axe behind was slung; 
 
 His spear, six Scottish ells in length, 
 Seem'd i^ewly dyed with gore; » 
 
 His shafts and bow, of wondrous 
 strength. 
 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 cross'd the Liddel at curfew hour. 
 And burn'd my little lonely tower: 
 The fiend receive their souls therefor ! 
 It had not been burnt this year and more. 
 Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing bright, 
 Served to guide me on my flight; 
 But I was chased the livelong night. 
 Black John of Akeshaw, and Fergus 
 
 Grtjeme, 
 Fast upon my traces came. 
 Until I turn'd at Priesthaugh Scrogg, 
 And shot their horses in the bog, . 
 Slew Fergus with my lance outright — 
 I had him long at high despite : 
 He drove my cows last Eastern's 
 
 night." t 
 
 * The broken ground in a bog. 
 t Bondsman. 
 
 X Shrove Tuesday, the eve of the great Spring 
 fast. 
 
 Now weary scouts from Liddesdale, 
 Fast hurrying in, confirm'd the tale; 
 As far as they could judge by ken, 
 Three hours would bring toTeviot'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. 
 There was pricking o'er moor and 
 lea; 
 He that was last at the trysting place 
 Was but lightly held of his gaye 
 ladye. 
 
 From fair St. Mary's silver wave. 
 
 From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky 
 height. 
 His ready lances Thirlestane brave 
 
 Array'd beneath a banner bright. 
 The tressured fleur-de-luce he claims, 
 To wreathe his shield, since royal James, 
 Encamp'd by Fala's mossy wave. 
 The proud distinction grateful gave. 
 
 For faith mid feudal jars; 
 What time, save Thirlestane aloi>e, 
 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 reveal'd — 
 " Ready, aye ready," for the field.® 
 
 An aged Knight, to danger steel'd. 
 
 With many a moss-trooper, came on : 
 And azure in a golden field. 
 The stars and crescent graced his shield. 
 
 Without the bend of Murdieston. 
 Wide lay his lands round Oakwood tower, 
 And wide round haunted Castle-Ower; 
 High over Borthwick's mountain flood. 
 His wood-embosom'd mansion stood. 
 In the dark glen, so deep below, 
 The herds of plunder'd England low; 
 His bold retainers' daily food. 
 
28 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 And bought with clanger, blows, and 
 
 blood. 
 Marauding chief ! his sole delight 
 The moonlight raid, the morning fight; 
 Not even the Flower of Yarrow's charms, 
 In youth, might tame his rage for arms; 
 And still, in age, he spurn'd at rest. 
 And still his brows the helmet press'd. 
 Albeit the blanched locks below 
 Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow; 
 Five stately warriors drew the sword 
 
 Before their father's band; 
 A braver knight than Harden "s lord 
 
 Ne'er belted on a brand.* 
 
 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. 
 Harken, Ladye, to the tale. 
 How thy sires won fair Eskdale. — 
 Earl Morton was lord of that valley fair, 
 The Beattisons were his vassals there. 
 The Earl was gentle, and mild of mood. 
 The vassals were warlike, and fierce, and 
 
 rude; 
 High of heart, and haughty of word. 
 Little they reck'd of a tame liege lord. 
 The Earl into fair Eskdale came. 
 Homage and seignory to claim : 
 Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriot t he 
 
 sought. 
 Saying, " Give thy best steed, as a vassal 
 
 ought." 
 — " Dear to me is my bonny white steed, 
 Oft has he help'd me at pinch of need; 
 Lord and Earl though thou be, I trow, 
 I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou." 
 Word on word gave fuel to fire. 
 Till so highly 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; 
 And it fell down a weary weight. 
 Just on the threshold of Branksome gate. 
 
 * This knight was the ancestor of Sir Walter 
 Scott. 
 
 t The feudal superior, in certain cases, was en- 
 titled to the best horse of the vassal, in name 
 of Heriot, or Herezeld. 
 
 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 the 
 
 yoke; 
 For a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold. 
 All Eskdale I'll sell thee, to have and 
 
 hold; 
 Beshrewthy heart, of the Beattisons' clan 
 If thou leavest on Esk a landed man; 
 But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone. 
 For he lent me his horse to escape upon." 
 A glad man then was Branksome bold, 
 Down he flung him the purse of gold; 
 To Eskdale soon he spurr'd am.iin. 
 And with him five hundred riders has 
 
 ta'en. 
 He left his merrymen in the mist 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. 
 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." 
 
 Loudly the Beattison laugh'd in scorn : — 
 " Little care we for thy winded horn. 
 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 fair 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 answer'd from Pent^iin- 
 
 linn, 
 And all his riders came lightly in. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 29 
 
 Then had you seen a gallant shock, 
 When saddles were emptied, and lances 
 
 l^roke ! 
 For each scornful word the Galliard had 
 
 said, 
 A Beattison on the field was laid. 
 1 lis own good sword the Chieftain drew, 
 .\nd he bore the Galliard through and 
 
 through : 
 Where the Beattison's blood mix'd with 
 
 the rill, 
 Tlie Galliard's-Haugh men call it still. 
 The Scotts have scatter'd the Beattison 
 
 clan, 
 In Eskdale they left but one landed man. 
 The valley of Esk, 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, 
 Troop'd man and horse, and bow and 
 spear; 
 Their gathering word was Bellenden.*' 
 And better hearts o'er Border sod 
 To siege or rescue never rode. 
 
 The Ladye mark'd the aids come in. 
 And high her heart of pride arose: 
 She bade her youthful son attend. 
 That he might know his father's friend, 
 
 And learn to face his foes. 
 "The boy is ripe to look on war; 
 
 I saw him draw a cross-bow stiff, 
 And his true arrow struck afar 
 The raven's nest upon the cliff; 
 The red cross, on a southern breast. 
 Is broader than a raven's nest : 
 Thou, Whitslade, shalt teach him his wea- 
 pon to wield, 
 And o'er him hold his father's shield." 
 
 Well may you think, the wily page 
 Cared not to face the Ladye sage. 
 He counterfeited childish fear, 
 And shriek'd and shed full many a tear, 
 
 And moan'd and plain'd in manner 
 wild. 
 The attendants to the Ladye told. 
 Some fairy, sure had changed the child. 
 That wont to be so free and bold. 
 Then wrathful was the noble dame; 
 .She blush'd blood-red for very shame : — 
 " Hence ! ere the clan his faintness view; 
 Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch ! — 
 Watt Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide 
 To Rangleburn's lonely side. — 
 Sure some fell fiend has cursed our line, 
 That coward should e'er be son of mine ! ' ' 
 
 A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had, 
 To guide the counterfeited lad. 
 Soon as the palfrey felt the weight 
 Of that ill-omen'd elvish freight, 
 He bolted, sprung, and rear'd amain, 
 Nor heeded bit, nor curb, nor rein. 
 It cost W^att Tinlinn mickle toil 
 To drive him but a Scottish mile; 
 
 But as a shallow brook they cross'd. 
 The elf, amid the running stream. 
 His figure changed, like form in dream. 
 And fled, and shouted, " Lost ! lost ! 
 lost! " 
 Full fast the urchin ran and laugh'd. 
 But faster still a cloth-yard shaft 
 Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew. 
 And pierced his shoulder through and 
 
 through. 
 Although the imp might not be slain, 
 And though the wound soon heal'd again, 
 Vet as he ran, he yell'd for pain; 
 And Watt of Tinlinn, much aghast, 
 Rode back to Branksome fiery fast. 
 
 Soon on the hill's steep verge he stood. 
 That looks o'er Branksome's towers and 
 
 wood; 
 And martial murmurs, from below, 
 Proclaim'd the approaching southern foe. 
 Through the dark wood, in mingled tone, 
 Were Border pipes and bugles blown, 
 The coursers' neighing he could ken, 
 A measured tread of marching men; 
 While broke at times the solemn hum. 
 The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum^ 
 
30 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 And banners tall, of crimson sheen, 
 
 Above the copse appear; 
 And, glistening through the hawthorns 
 green, 
 
 Shine helm, and shield, and spear. 
 
 Light forayers, first, to view the ground, 
 Spurr'd their fleet coursers loosely round; 
 Behind, in close array, and fast. 
 
 The Kendal archers, all in green. 
 Obedient to the bugle blast. 
 
 Advancing from the wood were seen. 
 To back and guard the archer band. 
 Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand: 
 A hardy race, on Irthing bred. 
 With kirtles white, and crosses red, 
 Array'd beneath the banner tall. 
 That stream'd o'er Acre's conquer'd wall ; 
 And minstrels, as they march'd in order, 
 Play'd " Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on 
 
 the Border." 
 
 Behind the English bill and bow. 
 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, own'd no lord: 
 They were not arm'd like England's sons, 
 But bore the levin-darting guns; 
 Buff-coats, all frounced and broider'd 
 
 o'er, 
 And morsing-horns *and scarfs they wore ; 
 Each better knee was bared, to aid 
 The warriors in the escalade; 
 All, as they march'd, in rugged tongue, 
 Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung. 
 
 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, 
 Brought up the battle's glittering rear, 
 
 * Powder-flasks. j 
 
 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 lengthen'd lines display; 
 Then call'd a halt, and made a stand. 
 And cried, " St. George, for merry Eng- 
 land ! " 
 
 Now every English eye, intent 
 On Branksome's armed towers were bent; 
 So near they were, that they might know 
 The straining harsh of each cross-bow; 
 On battlement and bartizan 
 Gleam'd axe and spear and partisan; 
 Falcon and culver, t 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. 
 The seething pitch and molten lead 
 Reek'd, like a witch's caldron red. 
 While yet they gaze, the bridges fall. 
 The wicket opes, and from the wall 
 Rides forth the hoary Seneschal. 
 
 Armed he rode, all save the head. 
 
 His white beard o'er his breast-plate 
 
 spread; 
 Unbroke by age, erect his seat, 
 He ruled his eager courser's gait; 
 Forced him, with chasten'd fire, to prance, 
 And, high curvetting, slow advance : 
 In sign of truce, his better hand 
 Display'd a peeled willow wand; 
 His squire, attending in the rear, 
 Bore high a gauntlet on a spear, t 
 When they espied him riding out. 
 Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout 
 Sped to the front of their array, 
 To hear what this old knight should say : — 
 
 t Ancient pieces of artillery. 
 
 + A glove upon a lance was the emblem of 
 faith among the ancient Borderers, who were 
 wont, when any one broke his word, to expose 
 this emblem, and proclaim him a faithless vil- 
 lain at the first Horder meeting. This cere- 
 mony was much dreaded. — See Leslky. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 31 
 
 " Ye English warden lords, of you 
 Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch, 
 Why, 'gainst the truce of Border tide, 
 In hostile guise ye dare to ride. 
 With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand. 
 And all yon mercenary band. 
 Upon the bounds of fair Scotland? 
 My Ladye redes you swith * return; 
 And, if but one poor straw you burn. 
 Or do our towers so much molest. 
 As scare one swallow from her nest, 
 St. Mary ! but we'll light a brand 
 Shall warm your hearths in Cumberland. 
 
 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; 
 
 Each chief around lean'd on his spear. 
 
 To see the pursuivant appear. 
 
 All in Lord Howard's livery dress'd. 
 
 The lion argent deck'd his breast; 
 
 He led a boy of blooming hue — 
 
 O sight to meet a mother's view ! 
 
 It was the heir of great Buccleuch. 
 
 Obeisance meet the herald made, 
 
 And thus his master's will he said: — 
 
 " It irks, high Dame, my noble Lords, 
 '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 Ijcseems your rank and birth 
 To make ^owx towers a flemens-firth.t 
 We claim from thee William of Deloraine, 
 That he may suffer march-treason "^ pain. 
 It was but last St. Cuthbert's even 
 He prick'd to Stapleton on Leven, 
 Harried t the lands of Richard Musgrave, 
 And slew his brother by dint of glaive. 
 
 * S-with, instantly. 
 
 t An asylum for outlaws. 
 
 X Plundered. 
 
 Then, since a lone and widow'd Dame 
 These restless riders may not tame. 
 Either receive within thy towers 
 Two hundred of my master's powers. 
 Or straight they sound their warrJson,§ 
 And storm and spoil thy garrison : 
 And this fair boy, to London led. 
 Shall good King Edward's page be bred." 
 
 He ceased — and loud the boy did cry. 
 And stretch'd his little arms on high; 
 Implored for aid each well-known face. 
 And strove to seek the Dame's embrace. 
 A moment changed that Ladye's cheer, 
 Gush'd to her eye the unbidden tear; 
 She gazed upon the leaders round. 
 And dark and sad each warrior frown'd; 
 Then, deep within her sobbing breast 
 She lock'd the struggling sigh to rest; 
 Unalter'd and collected stood. 
 And thus replied, in dauntless mood: — 
 
 " Say to your Lords of high emprize, 
 Who war on women and on boys. 
 That either William of Deloraine 
 Will cleanse him, by oath, of march- 
 treason stain, 
 Or else he will the combat take 
 'Gainst Musgrave, for his honor's sake. 
 No knight in Cumberland so good. 
 But William may count with him kin and 
 
 blood. 
 Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword,*^ 
 When English blood swell'd Ancram's 
 
 ford;** 
 And but Lord Dacre's steed was wight. 
 And bare him ably in the flight, 
 Himself had seen him dubb'd a knight. 
 For the young heir of Branksome's line, 
 God be his aid, and God be mine; 
 Through me no friend shall meet his 
 
 doom ; 
 Here, while I live, no foe finds room. 
 Then, if thy Lords their purpose urge. 
 
 Take our defiance loud and high; 
 Our slogan is their lyke-wake 11 dirge. 
 Our moat, the grave where they shall 
 lie." 
 
 § Note of assault. 
 
 n Watching a corpse all night. 
 
32 
 
 THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 Proud she look'd round, applause to 
 
 claim — 
 Then lighlen'd Thirlestane's eye of flame ; 
 
 His bugle Watt of Harden blew; 
 Pensils and pennons wide were flung, 
 To heaven the Border slogan rung, 
 
 " St. Mary for the young Buccleuch ! " 
 The English war-cry answer'd 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 gallop'd from the rear. 
 
 " Ah ! noble Lords ! " he breathless said, 
 " What treason has your march betray'd? 
 What make you here, from aid so far. 
 Before you walls, around you war? 
 Your foemen triumph in the thought, 
 That in the toils the lion's caught. 
 Already on dark Ruberslaw 
 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, 
 Lord Maxwell ranks his merrj'-men good. 
 Beneath the eagle and the rood; 
 And Jedwood, Esk, 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 wander'd long; 
 But still my heart was with merry Eng- 
 land, 
 And cannot brook my country's 
 wrong ; 
 And hard I've spurr'd all night to show 
 The mustering of the coming foe." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 "And let them come!" fierce Dacre 
 
 cried; 
 " For soon yon crest, my father's pride. 
 That swept the shores of Judah's sea, 
 And waved in gales of Galilee, 
 
 • Weapon-schaiv — military gathering of a 
 chiefs followers, or the army of a county. 
 
 From Branksome's highest towers dis- 
 
 play'd, 
 Shall mock the rescue's lingering aid ! — 
 Level each harquebuss on row; 
 Draw, merry archers, draw the bow; 
 Up, bill-men, to the walls, and cry, 
 Dacre for England, win or die ! " 
 
 "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 I^dye made. 
 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 cross'd, 
 'Tis but a single warrior lost: 
 The rest, retreating as they came. 
 Avoid defeat, and death, and shame." 
 
 Ill could the haughty Dacre brook 
 His brother Warden's sage rebuke; 
 And yet his forward step he staid. 
 And slow and sullenly obey'd. 
 But ne'er again the Border side 
 Did these two lords in friendship ride; 
 And this slight discontent, men say. 
 Cost blood upon another day. 
 
 The pursuivant-at-arms again 
 
 Before the castle took his stand; 
 His trumpet call'd, with parleying strain, 
 
 The leaders of the Scottish. band; 
 And he defied, in Musgrave's right. 
 Stout Deloraine to single fight; 
 A gauntlet at their feet he laid, 
 And thus the terms of fight he said : — 
 " If in the lists good Musgrave's sword 
 
 Vanquish the Knight of Deloraine, 
 Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's 
 Lord 
 
 Shall hostage for his clan remain : j 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE LA \ OF THE LAST MLMSTREL. 
 
 33 
 
 If Deloraine foil good Musgrave, 
 The boy his liberty shall have. 
 
 Howe'er it falls, the English band, 
 Unharming Scots, by Scots unharm'd. 
 In peaceful march, like men unarm'd, 
 
 bball straight retreat to Cumberland." 
 
 Unconscious of the near relief, 
 
 The proffer pleased each Scottish chief, 
 
 Though much the Ladye sage gain- 
 say 'd; 
 For though their hearts were brave and 
 
 true. 
 From Jedwood's recent sack they knew, 
 
 How tardy was the Regent's aid: 
 And you may guess the noble Dame 
 
 Durst not the secret prescience own. 
 Sprung from the art she might not name. 
 
 By which the coming help was known. 
 Closed was the compact, and agreed 
 That lists should be enclosed with speed, 
 
 Beneath the castle, on a lawn: 
 They fix'd the morrow for the strife, 
 On foot, with Scottish axe and knife, 
 
 At the fourth hour from peep of dawn; 
 When Deloraine, from sickness freed. 
 Or else a champion in his stead. 
 Should for himself and chieftain stand. 
 Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand. 
 
 I know right well, that, in their lay, 
 I'ull many minstrels sing and say. 
 
 Such combat should be made on horse. 
 Oil foaming steed, in full career. 
 With brand to aid, when as the spear 
 
 Should shiver in the course: 
 But he, the jovial Harper, taught 
 Me, yet a youth, how it was fought, 
 
 In guise which now I say; 
 lie knew each ordinance and clause 
 Of Black Lord Archibald's battle-laws. 
 
 In the old Douglas' day. 
 He brook 'd not, he, that scoffing tongue 
 Sliould tax his minstrelsy with wrong. 
 
 Or call his song untrue : 
 For this, when they the goblet plied. 
 And such rude taunt had chafed his pride, 
 
 The Bard of ReuU he slew. 
 On Teviot's side, in fight they stood. 
 
 And tuneful hands were stain'd with 
 
 blood; 
 Where still the thorn's white branches 
 
 wave, 
 Memorial o'er his rival's grave. 
 
 Why should I tell the rigid doom, 
 That dragg'd my master to his tomb; 
 
 How Ousenam's maidens tore their 
 hair. 
 Wept till their eyes were dead and dim. 
 And wrung their hands for love of him. 
 
 Who died at Jedwood Air? 
 He died ! — his scholars, one by one. 
 To the cold silent grave are gone; 
 And I, alas ! survive alone. 
 To muse o'er rivalries of yore, 
 And grieve that I shall hear no more 
 The strains, with envy heard before; 
 For, with my minstrel brethren fled, 
 My jealousy of song is dead. 
 
 He paused : the listening dames again 
 Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain. 
 With many a word of kindly cheer, — 
 In pity half, and half sincere, — 
 Marvell'd the Duchess how so well 
 His legendary song covdd tell — 
 Of ancient deeds, so long forgot; 
 Of feuds, whose memory was not; 
 Of forests, now laid waste and bare; 
 Of towers, which harbor now the hare; 
 Of manners, long since changed and gone; 
 Of chiefs, who under their gray stone 
 So long had slept, that fickle Fame 
 Had Vjlotted from her rolls their name. 
 And twined round some new minion's 
 
 head 
 The fading wreath for which they bled; 
 In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's 
 
 verse 
 Could call them from their marble hearse. 
 
 The Harper smiled, well-pleased; for 
 ne'er 
 Was flattery lost on poet's ear: 
 A simple race ! they waste their toil 
 For the vain tribute of a smile; 
 
34 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST AHNSTREL. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 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 ol>sequies: 
 
 Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone. 
 
 For the departed Bard make moan; 
 
 That mountains weep in crystal rill; 
 
 That flowers in tears of balm distil; 
 
 Through his loved groves that breezes 
 sigh. 
 
 And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; 
 
 And rivers teach their rushing wave 
 
 To murmur dirges round his grave. 
 
 Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn 
 Those things inanimate can mourn; 
 But that the stream, the wood, the gale. 
 Is vocal with the plaintive wail 
 Of those, who, else forgotten long. 
 Lived in the poet's faithful song. 
 And, with the poet's parting breath. 
 Whose memory feels a second death. 
 The Maid's pale shade, who wails her lot. 
 That love, true love, should be forgot. 
 From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear 
 Upon the gentle Minstrel's l>ier: 
 The phantom Knight, his glory fled, 
 Mourns o'er the field he heap'd 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. 
 Now, from the mountain's misty throne, 
 Sees, in the thanedom once his own, 
 I lis ashes undistinguish'd lie. 
 His place, his power, his memory die: 
 
 His groans the lonely caverns fill, 
 His tears of rj^e impel the rill : 
 All mourn the Minstrel's harp unstrung. 
 Their name unknown, their praise unsung. 
 
 Scarcely the hot assault was staid, 
 The terms of truce were scarcely made, 
 When they could spy from Branksome's 
 
 towers 
 The advancing march of martial powers. 
 Thick clouds of dust afar appear'd. 
 And trampling steeds were faintly heard; 
 Bright spears, above the columns dun, 
 Glanced momentary to the sun; 
 And feudal banners fair display'd 
 The bands that moved to Branksome's aid. 
 
 Vails not to tell each hardy clan. 
 
 From the fair Middle Marches came; 
 The Bloody Heart blazed in the v.m, 
 
 Announcing Douglas, dreaded name ! * 
 Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn. 
 Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne* 
 
 Their men in liattle-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 Lammermoke, 
 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! "87 
 
 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. 
 And how a day of fight was ta'en 
 'Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine; 
 
 * Sir David Home r.f Wedderburne, who was 
 slain in the fatal battle of Flodden, left sevep 
 sons, who were called the Seven Spears oi 
 Wedderburne. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 35 
 
 And how the Ladye pray'd them dear, 
 That all would stay the fight to see, 
 And deign, in love and courtesy. 
 To taste of Branksome cheer. 
 Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot, 
 Were England's noble lords forgot. 
 Himself, the hoary Seneschal, 
 Rode forth, in seemly terms to call 
 Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall. 
 Accepted Howard, than whom knight 
 Was never dubb'd more bold in fight; 
 Nor, when from war and 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 
 
 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 grasp'd. 
 Still in the mailed gauntlet clasp'd, 
 
 Were interchanged in greeting dear; 
 Visors were raised, and faces shown. 
 And many a friend, to friend made known. 
 
 Partook of social cheer. 
 Some drove the jolly 1x)wl about; 
 
 With dice and draughts some chased 
 the day; 
 And some, with many a merry shout. 
 In riot, revelry, and rout. 
 
 Pursued the foot-ball play. 
 
 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 Teviotside 
 Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide, 
 
 And in the groan of death : 
 
 And whingers * now in friendship bare, 
 The social meal to part and share, 
 
 Had found a bloody sheath. 
 'Twixt truce and war, such sudden change 
 Was not infrequent, nor held strange. 
 
 In the old Border-day : '^ 
 But yet on Branksome 's towers and town, 
 In peaceful merriment, sunk down 
 
 The sun's declining ray. 
 
 The blithesome signs of wassail gay 
 Decay'd not with the dying day; 
 Soon through the latticed windows tall 
 Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall. 
 Divided square by shafts of stone, 
 Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone; 
 Nor less the gilded 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 
 Douglas or Dacre's conquering name. 
 
 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 pro- 
 found, 
 The clanging axe and hammer's sound 
 
 Rung from the nether lawn; 
 For many a busy hand toil'd there, 
 Strong pales to shape, and beams to 
 
 square, 
 The lists' dread barriers to prepare 
 
 Against the morrow's dawn. 
 
 Margaret from hall did soon retreat. 
 Despite the Dame's reproving eye; 
 
 Nor mark'd she, as she left her seat, 
 Full many a stifled sigh; 
 
 * Large knives. 
 
36 
 
 rHE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 For many a Kiv'ole warrior strove 
 To win the Flower of Teviot's love, 
 
 And ma.ny a bold ally. — 
 With throbhii'ij; head and anxious heart, 
 All in her lonely Ixjwer apart, 
 
 In broken sleep she lay; 
 By times, from silken couch she rose; 
 \Vhile yet the banner'd hosts repose. 
 
 She view'd the dawning day; 
 Of all the hundreds sunk to rest, 
 'iMrst woke the loveliest and the best. 
 
 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 pass'd below; 
 
 But when he raised his plumed head — 
 Bless'd Mary! can it be? — 
 Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers, 
 He walks through Branksome's hostile 
 towers. 
 
 With fearless step and free. 
 SIw dared not sign, she dared not speak, 
 Oh! if one page's slumbers break. 
 
 His blood the price must pay ! 
 Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears. 
 Not Margaret's yet more precious tears. 
 
 Shall buy his life a day. 
 
 Yet was his hazard small; for well 
 You may bethink you of the spell 
 
 Of that sly urchin page; 
 This to his lord he did impart. 
 And made him seem, by glamour art, 
 
 A knight from Hermitage. 
 Unchallenged thus, the warder's post, 
 The court, unchallenged, thus he cross'd, 
 
 For all the vassalage : 
 But O ! what magic's quaint disguise 
 Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes ! 
 
 She started from her seat; 
 While with surprise and fear she strove. 
 And both could scarcely master love — 
 
 Lord Henry's at her feet. 
 
 Oft have I mused, what purpose bad 
 That foul malicious urchin had 
 
 To bring this meeting round; 
 For happy love's a heavenly sight. 
 And by a vile malignant sprite 
 
 In such no joy is found; 
 And oft I've deem'd, perchance he 
 
 thought 
 Their erring passion might have wrought 
 
 Sorrow, and sin, and shame; 
 .^nd death to Cranstoun's gallant Knight, 
 And to the gentle ladye bright. 
 
 Disgrace, and loss of fame. 
 But earthly spirit could not tell 
 The heart of them that loved so well. 
 True love's the gift which God has given 
 'I'o man alone beneath the heaven; 
 
 It is not fantasy's hot fire, 
 
 Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly; 
 
 It livcth 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 l)ody 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; 
 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 Iwast, 
 About the knight each favor'd most. 
 
 Meantime full anxious was the Dame; 
 For now arose disputed claim, 
 Of who should fight for Deloraine, 
 'Twixt Harden and 'Iwixt Thirlestane: 
 They 'gan to reckon kin and rent. 
 And frowning brow on brow was bent; 
 
 * A martial piece of music, adapted to the 
 
 bagpipes. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 37 
 
 But yet not long the strife — for, lo '. 
 Himself, the Knight of Deloraine, 
 Strong, as it seem'd, and free from pain. 
 
 In armor sheath'd from top to toe, 
 Appear'd, and craved the combat due. 
 The Dame her charm successful knew, 
 And thefiercechicfstheirclaimswithdrew. 
 
 When for the lists they sought the plain, 
 The stately Ladye's silken rein 
 
 Did noble Howard hold; 
 Unarmed Ijy her side he walk'd. 
 And much, in courteous phrase, they 
 talk'd 
 
 Of feats of arms of old. 
 Costly his garb — his F'iemish ruff 
 Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff. 
 
 With satin slash'd and lined; 
 Tawny his boot, and gold his spur. 
 His cloak was all of Poland fur. 
 
 His hose with silver twined; 
 His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt. 
 Hung in a broad and studded belt; 
 Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still 
 Call'd noble Howard, Belted Will. 
 
 Behind Lord Howard and the Dame, 
 Fair Margaret on her palfrey came. 
 
 Whose foot-cloth swept the ground : 
 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 broider'd rein. 
 He deem'd she shudder'd at the sight 
 Of warriors met for mortal fight; 
 But cause of terror, all unguess'd. 
 Was fluttering in her gentle breast. 
 When, in their chairs of crimson placed. 
 The Dame and she the barriers graced. 
 
 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, 
 As marshals of the mortal field; 
 While to each knight their care assign'd 
 Like vantage of the sun and wind. 
 The heralds hoarse did loud proclaim, 
 In King and Queen and Warden's name. 
 
 That none, while lasts the strife. 
 Should dare, by look, or sign, or word. 
 Aid to a champion to afford. 
 
 On peril of his life; 
 And not a breath the silence broke. 
 Till thus the alternate Heralds spoke : — 
 
 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; 
 This with his sword he will maintain, 
 
 So help him God, and his good cause ! ' ' 
 
 XX. 
 
 SCOTTISH HERALD. 
 
 " Here standeth William of Deloraine, 
 Good knight and true, of noble strain. 
 Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain. 
 Since he bore arms, ne'er soil'd his 
 coat. 
 And that, so help 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 
 
 Let loose the martial foes, 
 And in mid list with shield poised high. 
 And measured step and wary eye, 
 
 The combatants did close. 
 
 Ill would it suit your gentle ear. 
 Ye lovely listeners, to hear 
 
38 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLMSTREL. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 How to the axe the helms did sound, 
 And blood pour'd down from many a 
 
 wound ; 
 For desperate was the strife and long, 
 And either warrior fierce and strong. 
 But, were each dame a listening knight, 
 I well could tell how warriors fight ! 
 For I have seen war's lightning flashing. 
 Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing, 
 Seen through red blood the war-horse 
 
 dashing. 
 And scorn'd, amid the reeling strife. 
 To yield a step for death or life. — 
 
 'Tis done, 'tis done ! that fatal blow 
 
 Has stretch'd him on the bloody plain ! 
 He strives to rise — Brave Musgrave, no ! 
 
 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, lx)otless aid ! — haste, holy Friar, 
 Haste, ere the sinner shall expire ! 
 Of all his guilt let him be shriven, 
 And smooth his path from earth toheaven ! 
 
 In haste the holy Friar sped; — 
 His naked foot was dyed with red. 
 
 As through the lists he ran; 
 Unmindful of the shouts on high, 
 That hail'd the conqueror's victory, 
 
 He raised the dying man; 
 Loose waved his silver beard and hair. 
 As o'er him he kneel'd down in prayer; 
 And still the crucifix on high 
 He holds before his darkening eye; 
 And still he bends an anxious ear. 
 His faltering penitence to hear; 
 
 Still props him from the bloody sod, 
 Still, even when soul and Ixidy part, 
 Pours ghostly comfort on his heart, 
 
 And l)ids 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; 
 His beaver did he not unclasp, 
 Mark'd 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 throng'd array. 
 In panic haste gave open way 
 To a half-naked ghastly man, 
 Who downward from the castle ran. 
 He cross'd the barriers at a bound. 
 And wild and haggard look'd around. 
 
 As dizzy, and in pain; 
 And all, upon the armed ground. 
 
 Knew William of Deloraine ! 
 Each lady sprung from seat with speed; 
 Vaulted each marshal from his steed; 
 
 " And who art thou," they cried, 
 "Who hast this battle fought and won ? " 
 His plumed helm was soon undone — 
 
 " Cranstoun of Teviot-side ! 
 For this fair prize I've fought and won," 
 And to the Ladye led her son. 
 
 Full oft the rescued boy she kiss'd. 
 And often press'd him to her breast; 
 For, under all her dauntless show, 
 Her heart had throbb'd at every blow; 
 Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she greet, 
 Though low he kneeled at her feet. 
 Me lists not tell what words were made. 
 What Douglas, Home, and Howard, said 
 
 — For Howard was a generous foe — 
 And how the clan united pray'd 
 
 The Ladye would the feud forego. 
 And deign to bless the nuptial hour 
 Of Cranstoun's Lord and Tcviot's Flower. 
 
 She look'd to river, look'd Ui hill, 
 
 Thought on the Spirit's prophecy, 
 Then broke her silence stern and still, — 
 " Not you, but Fate, has vanquish'd me. 
 Their influence kindly stars may shower 
 On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower, 
 For pride is quell 'd, and love is free." — 
 She took fair Margaret by the hand, 
 Who, breathless, trembling, scarce might 
 stand, 
 
Canto 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 39 
 
 That hand to Cranstoun's Lord gave 
 she: 
 " As I am true to thee and thine, 
 Do thou be true to me and mine ! 
 
 This clasp of love our bond shall be; 
 For this is your betrothing day, 
 And all these noble lords shall stay, 
 
 To grace it with their company." 
 
 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, 
 Stolen by his page, while slept the knight, 
 He took on him the single fight. 
 But half his tale he left unsaid, 
 And linger'd till he join'd the maid. — 
 Cared not the Ladye to betray 
 Her mystic arts in view of day; 
 But well she thought, ere midnigbt came. 
 Of that strange page the pride to tame, 
 From his foul hands the Book to save, 
 And send it back to Michael's grave. — 
 Needs not to tell each tender word 
 'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt 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'll know them 
 
 well. 
 
 William of Deloraine, some chance 
 Had wakened from his death-like trance; 
 
 And taught that, in the listed plain. 
 Another, in his arms and shield, 
 Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield, 
 
 Under the name of Deloraine. 
 Hence, to the field, unarm'd, 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; 
 
 * The spectral apparition of a living person. 
 
 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 'twas seen of him, e'en now. 
 
 When on dead Musgrave he look'd 
 down; 
 Grief darken'd on his rugged brow. 
 
 Though half disguised with a frown; 
 And thus, while sorrow bent his head, 
 His foeman's epitaph he made: — 
 
 "Now, RichardMusgrave, liest thou here ! 
 
 I ween my deadly enemy; 
 For, if I slew thy brother dear. 
 
 Thou slew'st a sister's son to me; 
 And when I lay in dungeon dark. 
 
 Of Naworth Castle, long months three. 
 Till ransom'd for a thousand mark. 
 
 Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee. 
 And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried. 
 
 And thou wert now alive as I, 
 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. 
 In all the northern counties here. 
 Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear. 
 Thou wert the best to follow gear ! 
 'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind. 
 To see how thou the chase could 'st wind, 
 Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way, 
 And with the bugle rouse the fray ! 
 I'd give the Wnds of Deloraine, 
 Dark Musgrave were alive again." 
 
 So mourn'd he, till Lord Dacre's band 
 Were bouning back to Cumberland. 
 They raised brave Musgrave from the field. 
 And laid him on his bloody shield; 
 On levell'd 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 : 
 
40 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto VI, 
 
 Around, the horsemen slowly rode; 
 With trailing pikes the spearmen trode; 
 And thus the gallant knight they bore, 
 Through Liddesdale to Leven's shore; 
 Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty nave. 
 And laid him in his father's grave. 
 
 TnK harp's wild notes, though hush'd 
 
 the song, 
 The mimic march of death prolong; 
 Now seems it far, and now a-near, 
 Now meets, and now eludes the ear; 
 Now seems some mountain-side to sweep, 
 Now faintly dies in valley deep; 
 Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail. 
 Now the sad requiem, loads the gale; 
 Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave, 
 Rung the full choir in choral stave. 
 
 After due pause, they bade him tell, 
 Why he, who touch'd 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 rank'd so high 
 Above his flowing poesy : 
 Less liked he still, that scornful jeer 
 Misprised 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 burn'd. 
 As home his footsteps he hath turn'd. 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
 If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
 For him no Minstrel raptures swell; 
 High though"his titles, proud his name. 
 Boundless 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, unhonor'd, 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, 
 
 Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 
 
 Can e'er untie the filial band. 
 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 
 
 Still, as I view each well-known scene. 
 
 Think what is now, and what hath been. 
 
 Seems as, to me, of all bereft. 
 
 Sole friends thy woods and streams were 
 
 left; 
 And thus I love them better still, 
 Even in extremity of ill. 
 By Yarrow's streams still let me stray. 
 Though none should guide my feeble way; 
 Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 
 Although it chill my wither'd cheek;* 
 Still lay my head hy Teviot Stone, 
 Though there, forgotten and alone, 
 The Bard may draw his parting groan. 
 
 Not scorn'd like me ! to Branksome Hall 
 The Minstrels came, at festive call; 
 Trooping they came, from near and far, 
 The jovial priests of mirth and war; 
 Alike for feast and fight prepared, 
 Battle and banquet both they shared. 
 Of late, before each martial clan. 
 They blew their death-note in the van, 
 But now, for every merry mate, 
 Rose the portcullis' iron grate; 
 They sound the pipe, they strike the 
 
 string. 
 They dance, they revel, and they sing. 
 Till the rude turrets shake and ring. 
 
 Me lists not at this tide declare 
 The splendor of the spousal rite. 
 
 How muster'd in the chapel fair 
 
 Both maid and matron, squire and 
 knight; 
 
 * The preceding four lines now form the in- 
 scription on the monument of Sir Walter Scott 
 in the market-place of Selkirk. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 41 
 
 Me lists not tell of owches rare, 
 Of mantles green, and braided hair, 
 And kirtles furr'd 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 ! 
 
 Some bards have sung, the Ladye high 
 
 Chapel or altar came not nigh; 
 
 Nor durst the rights of spousal grace. 
 
 So much she fear'd 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: 
 
 Yet scarce I praise their venturous part. 
 
 Who tamper with such dangerous art. 
 
 But this for faithful truth I say, 
 The Ladye by the altar stood, 
 
 Of sable velvet her array. 
 
 And on her head a crimson hood. 
 With pearls embroider'd and entwined. 
 Guarded with gold, with ermine lined; 
 A merlin sat upon her wrist *^ 
 Held by a leash of silken twist. 
 
 The spousal rites were ended soon: 
 'Twas now the merry hour of noon, 
 And in the lofty arched hall 
 Was spread the gorgeous festival. 
 Steward and squire, with heedful haste, 
 Marshall'd the rank of every guest; 
 Pages, with ready blade, were there, 
 The mighty meal to carve and share. 
 O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane. 
 And princely peacock's gilded train, *"^ 
 And o'er the lx)ar-head, garnish'd brave. 
 And cygnet from St. Mary's wav^e;* 
 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: 
 
 * Flights of wild swans are often seen on St. 
 Mary's Lake, which is at the head of the Yarrow, 
 
 Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff 'd, 
 Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh'd; 
 Whisper'd young knights, in tone more 
 
 mild. 
 To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. 
 The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam, 
 The clamor join'd with whistling scream, 
 And flapp'd their wings, and shook their 
 
 bells. 
 In concert with the stag-hound's yells. 
 Round go the flasks of ruddy wine. 
 From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine. 
 Their tasks the busy sewers ply, 
 And all is mirth and revelry. 
 
 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 cross'd, 
 
 About some steeds his band had lost, 
 
 High words to words succeeding still. 
 
 Smote, with his gauntlet , stout Hunthill ; *'-' 
 
 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, 
 Stout Conrad, cold, and drench'd in biood. 
 His bosom gored with many a wound. 
 Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found; 
 Unknown the manner of his death, 
 Gono was his brand, both sword and 
 
 sheath : 
 But ever from that time, 'twas said, 
 That Dickon wore a Cologne blade. 
 
 The dwarf, who fear'd his master's eye 
 Might his foul treachery espie, 
 Now sought the castle buttery. 
 Where many a yeoman, bold and free, 
 Revell'd as merrily and well 
 As those that sat in lordly selle. 
 
42 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 Watt Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise 
 The pledge to Arthur Firc-thc-Braes;* 
 And he, as by his breeding bound, 
 To Howard's merry-men 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, 
 Foam'd forth in floods the nut-brown ale; 
 While shout the riders every one; 
 Such day of mirth ne'er cheer'd their clan, 
 Since old Buccleuch the name did gain, 
 When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en. 
 
 The wily page, with vengeful thought, 
 
 Remember'd him of Tinlinn's yew. 
 
 And swore, it should be dearly bought 
 
 That ever he the arrow drew. 
 First, he the yeoman did molest. 
 With bitter gibe and taunting jest; 
 Told, how he fled at Solway strife, 
 And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his wife ; 
 Then, shunning still his powerful arm. 
 At unawares he wrought him harm; 
 From trencher stole his choicest cheer, 
 Dash'd from his lips his can of beer; 
 Then, to his knee sly creeping on, 
 With bodkin pierced him to the bone : 
 The venom'd wound, and festering joint. 
 Long after rued that bodkin's point. 
 The startled yeoman swore and spurn'd. 
 And board and flagons overturn'd. 
 Riot and clamor wild began; 
 Back to the hall the Urchin ran; 
 Took in a darkling nook his post, 
 And grinn'd, and mutter'd " Lost ! lost ! 
 lost!" 
 
 X. 
 
 By this, the Dame, lest farther fray 
 should mar the concord of the day, 
 Had V)id the Minstrels tune their lay. 
 And first stept forth old Albert Grreme, 
 The Minstrel of that ancient name: '•^ 
 Was none who struck the harp so well. 
 Within the I^and Debatcable. 
 Well friended, too, his hardy kin. 
 Whoever lost, were sure to win; 
 
 * The persoa bearing this redoutable ii(»n de 
 gtierre was an Elliott, and resided at Thorles- 
 nope, in I>iddesdale. He occurs in the list of 
 Border riders, in 1597. 
 
 They sought the beeves that made their 
 
 broth. 
 In Scotland and in England both. 
 In homely guise, as nature bade, 
 His simple song the Borderer said. 
 
 XI. 
 
 ALBERT GR^ME. 
 
 It was an English ladye bright, 
 
 (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,t) 
 
 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; 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 He pierced her brother to the heart. 
 Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
 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. 
 
 Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, 
 (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) 
 
 Pray for their souls who died for love. 
 For Love shall still be lord of all t 
 
 t This burden is from an old Scottish song. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 43 
 
 As ended Albert's simple lay, 
 Arose a bard of loftier port; 
 For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay, 
 
 Renown'd in haughty Henry's court: 
 There rung thy harp, unrivall'd long, 
 Fitztraver of the silver song ! 
 
 The gentle Surrey loved his lyre — 
 Who has not heard of Surrey's 
 fame ? ^ 
 His was the hero's soul of fire, 
 
 And his the bard's immortal name. 
 And his was love, exalted high 
 By all the glow of chivalry. 
 
 They sought, together, climes afar. 
 
 And oft, within some olive grove. 
 When even came with twinkling star. 
 
 They sung of Surrey's absent love. 
 His step the Italian peasant stay'd. 
 
 And deem'd, that spirits from on high. 
 Round where some hermit saint was laid, 
 
 Were breathing heavenly melody; 
 So sweet did harp and voice combine 
 To praise the name of Geraldine. 
 
 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 call'd wrath and vengeance 
 
 down. 
 He left, for Naworth's iron towers, 
 Windsor's green glades, and courtly 
 
 bowers, 
 And faithful to his patron's name, 
 With Howard still Fitztraver came; 
 Lord William's foremost favorite he. 
 And chief of all his minstrelsy. 
 
 XVI. 
 FITZTRAVER. 
 
 'Twas 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, 
 
 To show to him the ladye of his heart. 
 Albeit betwixt them roar'd the ocean 
 grim; 
 Yet so the sage had hight to play his part. 
 That he should see her form in life 
 and limb. 
 And mark, if still she loved, and still she 
 thought of him. 
 
 Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye, 
 To which the wizard led the gallant 
 Knight, 
 Save that before a mirror, huge and high, 
 A hallow'd taper shed a glimmering 
 light 
 On mystic implements of magic might; 
 
 On cross, and character, and talisman. 
 And almagest, and altar, nothing bright : 
 For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan. 
 As watchlight by the bed of some de- 
 parting man. 
 
 But soon, within that mirror huge and high, 
 
 Was seen a self -emitted light to gleam; 
 
 And forms upon its breast the Earl 'gan 
 
 Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish 
 dream, 
 Till, slow arranging, and defined, they 
 seem 
 To form a lordly and a lofty room. 
 Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam. 
 Placed by a couch of Agra's silken 
 loom. 
 And part by moonshine 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 stray'd her hazel 
 
 hair. 
 All in her night-robe loose she lay re- 
 clined. 
 Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she 
 
 pined; 
 And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine 
 Some strain that seem'd her inmost soul 
 to find; — 
 
44 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 That favor'd strain was Surrey's rap- 
 tured line, 
 That fair and lovely form, the Lady Ger- 
 aldine ! 
 
 Slow roH'd the clouds upon the lovely 
 form, 
 And swept the goodly vision all away — 
 So royal envy roll'd the murky storm 
 
 O'er my Ijeloved Master's glorious day. 
 Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant ! Heaven 
 repay 
 On thee, and on thy children's latest 
 line. 
 The wild caprice of thy despotic sway. 
 The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd 
 shrine, 
 The murder'd Surrey's blood, the tears of 
 Geraldine. 
 
 Both Scots and Southern chiefs 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 St. Clair; 
 St. Clair, who, feasting high at Home, 
 Had with that lord to battle come. 
 Harold was Ixirn where restless seas 
 Howl round the storm-swept Orcades; 
 Where erst St. Clairs held princely sway 
 O'er isle and islet, strait and bay; — 
 Still nods their palace to its fall. 
 Thy jiride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall ! — 
 Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pentland rave. 
 As if grim Odin rode her wave; 
 Andwatch'd, the whilst, with visage pale, 
 And throbbing heart, the struggling sail; 
 For all of wonderful and wild 
 Had rapture for the lonely child. 
 
 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, train'd to spoil and blood, 
 Skill'd 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. 
 The Scald had tolcl his wondrous tale; 
 And many a Runic colunm high 
 Had witness'd grim idolatry. 
 And thus had Harold, in his youth, 
 Learn'd many a Saga's rhyme uncouth, — 
 Of that Sea-Snake * tremendous curl'd. 
 Whose monstrous circle girds the world; 
 Of those dread Maids t whose hideous yell 
 Maddens the battle's bloody swell; 
 Of Chiefs, who, guided through the gloom 
 By the pale death- lights of the tomb. 
 Ransack 'd the graves of warriors old. 
 Their falchions wrench'd from corpses' 
 
 hold. 
 Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms, 
 And bade the dead arise to arms ! 
 With war and wonder all on flame, 
 To Roslin's bowers young Harold came, 
 Where, by sweet glen and greenwood 
 
 tree. 
 He learn'd a milder minstrelsy; 
 Yet something of the Northern spell 
 Mix'd with the softer numbers well. 
 
 XXIU. 
 HAROLD. 
 
 O listen, listen, ladies gay! 
 
 No haughty feat of arms I tell; 
 Soft is the note, and sad the lay. 
 
 That mourns the lovely Rosabelle, 
 
 — " Moor, moor the Vjarge, 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 : 
 To inch X and rock the sea-mews fly; 
 The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
 Whose screams forebode that wreck is 
 nigh. 
 
 * The jortnungandr or snake of the ocean, 
 whose folds surround the earth. It was very 
 nearly caught by the god Thor, who went to fish 
 for it with a hook baited with a bull's head. See 
 the " Edda," or Mallet's " Northern Antiqui- 
 ties," p. 445. 
 
 t The Valkyriur or Scandinavian Fates, or 
 Fatal Sisters. 
 
 X Inch, an island. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 45 
 
 " Last night the gifted Seer did view 
 A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; 
 
 Then stay thee, Pair, in Kavensheuch : 
 Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ? " — 
 
 " 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
 To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 
 
 But that my ladye-mother there 
 Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 
 
 " 'Tis not because the ring they ride, 
 And Lindesay at the ring rides well. 
 
 But that my sire the wine will chide. 
 If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle." — 
 
 O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
 
 A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 
 
 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, 
 And redder than the bright moonbeam. 
 
 It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 
 It ruddied all the copse-wood glen, 
 
 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak. 
 And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 
 
 Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, 
 Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie. 
 
 Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 
 Sheathed in his iron panoply. 
 
 Seem'd all on fire, within, around, 
 Deep sacristy and altar's pale. 
 
 Shone every pillar foliage-bound. 
 
 And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. 
 
 Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 
 Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 
 
 So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
 The lordly line of high St. Clair. 
 
 There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
 Lie buried within that proud chapelle; 
 
 Each one the holy vault doth hold — 
 But the sea holds lovely Rosalielle ! 
 
 And each St. Clair was buried there, 
 With candle, with 1x)ok,and with knell ; 
 
 But the sea-caves rung, and the wild 
 winds sung, 
 The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, 
 
 Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd 
 hall, 
 Though, long before the sinking day, 
 
 A wondrous shade involved them all : 
 It was not eddying mist or fog, 
 Drain 'd by the sun from fen or bog; 
 
 Of no eclipse had sages told; 
 And yet, as it came on apace. 
 Each one could scarce his neighbor's face. 
 
 Could scarce his own stretch 'd hand 
 behold. 
 A secret horror check 'd the feast. 
 And chill'd the soul of every guest; 
 Even the high Dame stood half aghast, 
 She knew some evil on the blast; 
 The elvish page fell to the ground. 
 And, shuddering, mutter'd, "Found' 
 found ! found ! ' ' 
 
 Then sudden, through the darken'd air, 
 
 A flash of lightning came; 
 So broad, so bright, so red the glare. 
 
 The castle seem'd on flame. 
 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 flash 'd the levin-brand. 
 And fill'd the hall with smouldering 
 
 smoke, 
 As on the elvish page it broke. 
 
 It broke, with thunder long and loud, 
 Dismay'd the brave, appall'd the 
 proud, — 
 From sea to sea the larum rung; 
 On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal. 
 To arms the startled warders sprung : 
 When ended was the dreadful roar. 
 The elvish dwarf was seen no more. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall, 
 Some saw a sight, not seen by all; 
 That dreadful voice was heard by some. 
 Cry, with loud summons, " Gylbin, 
 come! " 
 
46 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 And on the spot where burst the brand, 
 Just where the page had flung him 
 down, 
 
 Some saw an arm, and some a hand. 
 And some the waving of a gown. 
 The guests in silence pray'd and shook. 
 And terror dimm'd each lofty look. 
 But none of all the astonish'd train 
 Was so dismay 'd as Deloraine; 
 His blood did freeze, his brain did burn, 
 'Twasfear'd his mind wouldne'er return; 
 
 For he was speechless, ghastly, wan, 
 
 IJke 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, 
 A shape with amice zurapp'd around. 
 With a wrought Spanish baldric bound. 
 
 Like pilgrim from beyond the sea ; 
 And knew — but how it matter'd not — 
 It was the wizard, Michael Scott. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The anxious crowd, with horror pale. 
 All trembling heard the wondrous tale; 
 No sound was made, no word was spoke. 
 Till noble Angus silence broke; 
 
 And he a solemn sacred plight 
 Did to St. Bride of Douglas make. 
 That he a pilgrimage would take 
 To Melrose Abbey, for the sake 
 Of Michael's restless sprite. 
 Then each, to ease his troubled breast. 
 To some bless'd saint his prayers ad- 
 
 dress'd : 
 Some to St. Modan made their vows. 
 Some to St. Mary of the Lowes, 
 Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle, 
 Some to our Ladye of the Isle; 
 Each did his patron witness make, 
 That he such pilgrimage would take. 
 And monks should sing, and bells should 
 
 toll, 
 All for the weal of Michael's soul. 
 While vows were la'en, and prayers 
 
 were pray'd, 
 'Tis said the noble dame, dismay'd, 
 Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid. 
 
 Naught of the bridal will I tell. 
 Which after in short space befell; 
 
 Nor how brave sons and daughters fair 
 Bless'd Teviot's Flower, and Cranstoun's 
 
 heir: 
 After such dreadful scene, 'twere vain 
 To wake the note of mirth again. 
 More meet it were to mark the day 
 
 Of penitence and prayer divine 
 When pilgrim chiefs, in sad array, 
 Sought Melrose' holy shrine. 
 
 With naked foot, and sackcloth vest, 
 And arms enfolded on his breast. 
 
 Did every pilgrim go; 
 The standers-by might hear uneatli,* 
 Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath. 
 
 Through all the lengthen'd row. 
 No lordly look, nor martial stride, 
 Gone was their glory, sunk their pride, 
 
 Forgotten their renown; 
 Silent and slow, like ghosts they glide 
 To the high altar's hallow'd side, 
 
 And there they knelt them down : 
 Above the suppliant chieftains wave 
 The banners of departed brave; 
 Beneath the letter'd stones were laid 
 The ashes of their fathers dead; 
 From many a garnish'd niche around. 
 Stern saints and tortured martyrs frown'd. 
 
 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; 
 Tajier, and host, and book they bare. 
 And holy banner, flourish'd fair 
 
 With the Redeemer's name. 
 Above the prostrate pilgrim band 
 The mitred Abbot stretch'd his hand, 
 
 And bless'd them as they kneel'd; 
 With holy cross he sign'd them all, 
 And pray'd they might be sage in hall. 
 
 And fortunate in field. 
 Then mass was sung andprayers were said, 
 And solemn requiem for the dead; 
 And bells toll'd out their mighty peal, 
 For the departed spirit's weal; 
 And ever in the office close 
 The hymn of intercession rose: 
 
 * Scarcely hear. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 47 
 
 And far the echoing aisles prolong 
 
 The awful burden of the song, — 
 Dies ir^, dies illa, 
 solvet s^eclum in favilla; 
 
 While the pealing organ rung. 
 Were it meet with sacred strain 
 To close ray lay, so light and vain, 
 
 Thus the holy Fathers sung : — 
 
 XXXI. 
 m'MN 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 yet, and yet more dread. 
 Swells the high trump that wakes the dead. 
 
 Oh ! on that day, that wrathful day. 
 When man to judgment wakes from clay, 
 Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay, 
 Though heaven and earth shall pass away, 
 
 Hush'd is the harp — the Minstrel gone, 
 And did he wander forth alone ? 
 Alone, in indigence and age. 
 To linger out his pilgrimage? 
 No ; close beneath proud Newark's tower. 
 Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower; 
 A simple hut; but there was seen 
 The little garden hedged with green. 
 The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. 
 There shelter'd wanderers, by the blaze. 
 Oft heard the tale of other days; 
 For much he loved to ope his door, 
 And give the aid he begg'd before. 
 So pass'd the winter's day; but still. 
 When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill, 
 And July's eve, with balmy breath. 
 Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath; 
 When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw, 
 And corn was green on Carterhaugh, 
 And flourish'd, broad, Blackandro's oak. 
 The aged Harper's soul awoke ! 
 Then would he sing achievements high. 
 And circumstance of chivalry. 
 Till the rapt traveller would stay. 
 Forgetful of the closing day; 
 And noble youths, the strain to hear, 
 Forsook the hunting of the deer; 
 And Yarrow, as he roll'd along. 
 Bore burden to the Minstrel's song. 
 
MARMION: 
 
 A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD. 
 
 IN SIX CANTOS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Lkvden. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE 
 
 HENRY LORD MONTAGU, ETC., ETC., ETC., 
 
 THIS ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 // is hardly to be expected that an author whom the Public have honored -with some 
 degree of applause should not be again a trespasser on their kindness. Yet the Author of 
 Marmion must be supposed to feel some anxiety concerning its success, since he is sensible 
 that he hazards by this second intrusion, any reputation which his first poem may have 
 procured him. The present story turns upon the private adventures of a fictitious char- 
 acter ; but is called a Tale of Flodden Field, because the hero' s fate is connected with that 
 memorable defeat, and the causes which ted to it. The design of the Author was, if pos- 
 sible, to apprise his readers, at the outset, of the date of his Story, and to prepare them for 
 the manners of the Age in which it is laid. Any Historical Narrative, far more an 
 attempt at Epic composition, exceeded his plan of a Romantic Tale ; yet he may be per- 
 mitted 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 
 Plodden, 9/// September, 15 13. 
 ASHESTIEL, 1808. 
 
 48 
 
INTRODUCTION TO MARMION. 49 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 
 
 What I have to say respecting this Poem may be briefly told. In the Introduction to the 
 " Lay of the Last Minstrel," I have mentioned the circumstances, so far as my literary life 
 is concerned, which induced me to resign the active pursuit of an honorable profession, for 
 the more precarious resources of literature. My appointment to the Sheriffdom of Selkirk 
 called for a change of residence. 1 left, therefore, the pleasant cottage I had upon the side 
 of the Esk for the " pleasanter banks of the Tweed," in order to comply with the law, 
 which requires that the Sheriff shall be resident, at least during a certain number of 
 months, within his jurisdiction. We found a delightful retirement, by my becoming the 
 tenant of my intimate friend and cousin-german, Colonel Kussell, in his mansion of AshesJ- 
 tiel, wliich 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 beautiful, by the side of a fine river, whose streams are there very 
 favorable for angling, surrounded by the remains of natural wotxls, and by 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 mifes, 
 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 si.K months in the year. 
 
 .An important circumstance had, about the same time, taken place in my life. IIopos 
 had Ijeen held out to me from an influential quarter, 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 prosjjects of his family, and especially as one who had necessarily 
 some dependence 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 \V' illiam Dundas, now Lord Clerk Re- 
 gister 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 immediate provision, an 
 opportunity of accomplishing this was soon found. One of the Principal Clerks of .'Ses- 
 sion, as they are called (official [persons who occupy an important and resjwnsible situa- 
 tion, 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, desirous 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 considerable 
 one, or for an interest in the emoluments of the office during their life. My predecessor, 
 whose services had been unusually meritorious, stipulated for the emoluments of his office 
 during his life, while I should enjoy the survivorship, on the condition that 1 discharged 
 the duties of the office in the meantime. 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 pre- 
 decessor 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 
 nmst have lost the vested interest which he had stipulated to retain. 1 had the honor of an 
 interview 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 received the royal assent, he regarded only as a claim of justice what he would have 
 willingly done as an act of favor. I never saw Mr. Fox 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 express political opinions contrary to those which I had always professed. In 
 his private capacity, 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 survivorship of an office, the emoluments of which 
 were fully adequate to my wishes : and as the law respecting the mode of providing for 
 superannuated officers was, about five or si.x years after, altered from that which admitted 
 the arrangement of assistant and successor, my colleague very handsomely took the oppor- 
 tunity of the alteration, to accept of the retiring annuity provided in such cases, and ad- 
 mitted me to the full benefit of the office. 
 
50 INTRODUCTION TO MARMION. 
 
 But although the certainty of succeeding to a considerable income, at the time I obtained 
 it, seemed to assure me of a quiet harbor in my old age, I did not escajse my share of in- 
 convenience from tiie contrary tides and currents by which we are so often encountered in 
 our journey through life. Indeed the publication of my next poetical attempt was pre- 
 maturely accelerated, from one of those unpleasant accidents which can neither be foreseen 
 nor avoided. 
 
 I had formed the prudent resolution to endeavor 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 passages of a poem, which was 
 finally called " Marmion," were labored with a good deal of care by one by whom much care 
 was seldom bestowed. Whether the work was wortii the labor or not I am no competent 
 judge ; but I may be permitted to say, that the period of its composition was a very iiappy 
 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 assumed the form of familiar epistles to my intimate 
 friends, in which I alluded, perhaps more than was necessary or graceful, to my domestic 
 occupations and anmsements — 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." I never could conceive how an arrangement between an author and 
 his publishers, if satisfactory to the persons concerned, could afford matter of censure to 
 any third party. I had taken no unusual or ungenerous means of enhancing the value of 
 my merchandise — I had never higgled a moment about the bargain, but accepted at once 
 what I considered the handsome offer 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 acceptable 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 defects. The nature of Marmion's guilt, 
 although similar instances were found, and might be quoted, as existing in feudal times, 
 was nevertheless not sufficiently {jeculiar to be indicative of the character of the period, 
 forgery being the crime of a commercial, rather than of 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 correc- 
 tions, 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 so say, some force and vivacity of description, were allowed to atone 
 for many imperfections. Thus the second experiment on the public patience, generally 
 the most perilous, — 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 subject of " Mar- 
 mion," 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 
 respecting the origin of my productions. 
 
 Abbotsford, ^/r/7, 1830, „^. - 
 
MARMION. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST. 
 
 WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 A shestiel, 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 trill'd the streamlet through: 
 Now murmuring hoarse, and frequent 
 
 seen 
 Through bush and brier, no longer green. 
 An angry brook, it sweeps the glade. 
 Brawls over rock and wild cascade. 
 And, foaming brown with doubled speed, 
 Hurries its waters to the Tweed. 
 
 No longer Autumn's glowing red 
 Upon our Forest hills is shed; 
 No more, beneath the evening beam. 
 Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam; 
 Away hath pass'd the heather-bell 
 That bloom'd so rich on Needpath-fell; 
 Sallow his brow, and russet bare 
 Are now the sister-heights of Yair. 
 The sheep, before the pinching heaven, 
 To shelter'd dale and down are driven. 
 Where yet some faded herbage pines. 
 And yet a watery sunbeam shines : 
 In meek despondency they eye 
 The wither'd sward and wintry sky 
 And far beneath their summer hill. 
 Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill: 
 The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold. 
 And wraps him closer from the cold; 
 His dogs no merry circles wheel, 
 But, shivering, follow at his heel; 
 A cowering glance they often cast. 
 As deeper moans the gathering blast. 
 
 My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild, 
 As best befits the mountain child. 
 Feel the sad influence of the hour. 
 And wail the daisy's vanish'd flower: 
 Their summer gambols tell, and mourn. 
 And anxious ask, — Will spring return. 
 And birds and lambs again be gay. 
 And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray? 
 
 Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower 
 Again shall paint your summer bower; 
 Again the hawthorn shall supply 
 The garlands you delight to tie; 
 The lambs upon the lea shall bound, 
 The wild birds carol to the round. 
 And while you frolic light as they. 
 Too short shall seem the summer day. 
 
 To mute and to material things 
 New life revolving summer brings; 
 The genial call dead Nature hears, 
 And in her glory reappears. 
 But oh ! my country's wintry state 
 What second spring shall renovate? 
 What powerful call shall bid arise 
 The buried warlike and the wise; 
 The mind that thought for Britain's weal. 
 The hand that grasp'd the victor steel? 
 The vernal sun new life bestows 
 Even on the meanest flower that blows; 
 But vainly, vainly may he shine, 
 Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine ; 
 And vainly pierce the solemn gloom. 
 That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallow'd tomb ! 
 
 Deep graved in every British heart, 
 O never let those names depart ! 
 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, 
 
 * Nelson. 
 Gades. 
 
 Gadite -wave, sea of Cadiz, or 
 
 51 
 
52 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Where'er his country's foes were found, 
 Was heard the fated thunder's sound. 
 Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, 
 Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd, — and was no 
 more. 
 
 Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth, 
 Who bade the conqueror go forth, 
 And launch'd that thunderbolt of war 
 On Egypt, Hafnia,* Trafalgar; 
 Who, l)orn to guide such high cmprize, 
 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, 
 Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf, 
 And served his Albion for herself; 
 Who, when the frantic crowd amain 
 Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein, 
 O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd, 
 The pride, he would not crush, restrain'd, 
 Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause. 
 And brought the freeman's arm, to aid 
 the freeman's laws. 
 
 Had'st thou but lived, though stripp'd 
 of power, 
 A watchman on the lonely tower. 
 Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, 
 when fraud or danger were at hand; 
 By thee, as by the beacon-light. 
 Our pilots had kept course aright; 
 As some proud column, though alone. 
 Thy strength had propp'd the tottering 
 
 throne : 
 Now is the stately column broke. 
 The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke. 
 The trumpet's silver sound is still. 
 The warder silent on the hill ! 
 
 Oh think, how to his latest day, 
 When Death, just hovering, claim'd his 
 
 prey, 
 With Palinure's unalter'd mood. 
 Firm at his dangerous post he stood; 
 Each call for needful rest repell'd, 
 With dying hand the rudder held. 
 Till, in his fall, with fateful sway. 
 The steerage of the realm gave way ! 
 Then, while on Britain's thousand plains, 
 One unpolluted church remains, 
 
 * Copenhagen. 
 
 Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around 
 The bloody tocsin's maddening sound. 
 But still, upon the hallow'd day. 
 Convoke the swains to praise and pray; 
 While faith and civil peace are dear, 
 Grace this cold marble with a tear, — 
 He, who preserved them, Pitt, lies here ! 
 
 . Nor yet suppress the generous sigh. 
 Because his rival bluml)ers nigh; 
 Nor l)c thy rcquiescat dumb, 
 Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. 
 For talents mourn, untimely lost, 
 When best employ'd, and wanted most; 
 Mourn genius high, and lore 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 suppress'd. 
 And sacred be the last long rest. 
 Here, where the end of earthly things 
 Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; 
 Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue. 
 Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung ; 
 Here, where the fretted aisles prolong 
 The distant notes of holy song. 
 As if some angel spoke agen, 
 " All peace on earth, good-will to men; " 
 If ever from an English heart, 
 O here let prejudice depart. 
 And, partial feeling cast aside. 
 Record, that Fo.\ a Briton died ! 
 When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke. 
 And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, 
 And the firm Russian's purpose brave. 
 Was bartcr'd by a timorous slave. 
 Even then dishonor's peace he spurn'd, 
 The sullied olive-branch return'd. 
 Stood for his country's glory fast. 
 And nail'd her colors to the mast ! 
 Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave 
 A portion in this honor'd grave. 
 And ne'er held marble in its trust 
 Of two such wondrous men the dust. 
 
 With more than mortal powers en- 
 dow 'd, ' 
 How high they soar'd above the crowd ! 
 
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO I. 
 
 53 
 
 Theirs was no common party race, 
 Jostling by dark intrigue for place; 
 Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 
 Shook realms and nations in its jar; 
 Beneath each banner proud to stand, 
 Look'd 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. 
 The wine of life is on the lees, 
 Genius, and taste, and talent gone. 
 Forever tomb'd beneath the stone. 
 Where — - taming thought to human 
 
 pride ! — 
 The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 
 Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 
 'Twill trickle to his rival's bier; 
 O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound, 
 And Fox's shall the notes rebound. 
 The solemn echo seems to cry, — 
 " Here let their discord with them die. 
 Speak not for those a separate doom, - 
 Whom Fate made Brothers in the tomb; 
 But search the land of living men. 
 Where wilt thou find their like agen ? " 
 
 Rest, ardent Spirits ! till the cries 
 Of dying Nature bid you rise; 
 Not even your Britain's groans can pierce 
 The leaden silence of your hearse; 
 Then, O, how impotent and vain 
 This grateful tributary strain ! 
 Though not unmark'd from nortliern 
 
 clime, 
 Ye heard the Border Minstrel's rhyme: 
 His Gothic harp has o'er you rung; 
 The Bard you deign'd to praise, your 
 
 deathless names has sung. 
 
 Stay yet, illusion, stay a while. 
 My wilder'd fancy still beguile ! 
 From this high theme how can I part. 
 Ere half unloaded is my heart! 
 For all the tears e'er sorrow drew, 
 And all the raptures fancy knew, 
 And all the keener rush of blood. 
 That throbs through bard in bard iik», 
 mood, 
 
 Were here a tribute mean and low. 
 Though all their mingled streams could 
 
 flow — 
 Woe, wonder, and sensation high. 
 In one spring-tide of ecstasy ! — 
 It will not be — it may not last • — • 
 The vision of enchantment's past: 
 Like frostwork in the morning ray, 
 The fancied fabric melts away; 
 Each Gothic arch, memorial-stone. 
 And long, dim, lofty aisle, are gone; 
 And, lingering last, deception dear, 
 The choir's high sounds die on my ear. 
 Now slow return the lonely down. 
 The silent pastures bleak and brown. 
 The farm begirt with copsewood wild, 
 The gamlx)ls of each frolic child, 
 Mixing their shrill cries with the tone 
 Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on. 
 
 Prompt on unequal tasks to run, 
 Thus Nature disciplines her son : 
 Meeter, she says, for me to stray. 
 And waste the solitary day. 
 In plucking from yon fen the reed, 
 And watch it floating down the Tweed; 
 Or idly list the shrilling lay. 
 With which the milkmaid cheers her w£.)\ 
 Marking its cadence rise and fail. 
 As from the field, beneath her pail. 
 She trips it down the uneven dale : 
 Meeter for me, by yonder cairn. 
 The ancient shepherd s lale 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 (\ bo jk-learn'd taste refin'.d. 
 
 But tl.oi., my friend, canst fitly tell, 
 (For f..-\\ h.tve read romance so well), 
 How still the legendary lay 
 O'ei poet's Ijosom holds its sway; 
 How on the ancient minstrel strain 
 Tiir.e lays his palsied hand in vain; 
 And how our hearts at doughty deeds. 
 By warriors wrought in steely weeds. 
 Still throb for fear and pity's sake; 
 As when the champion of the Lake 
 Enters Morgana's fated house. 
 Or in the Chapel Perilous, 
 Despising spells and demons' force, 
 I Holds converse with the unburied corse; ^ 
 
54 
 
 MARMtON. 
 
 Canto 1. 
 
 Or when, Dame Ganore's grace to move, 
 (Alas, that lawless was their love !) 
 lie sought proud Tarquin in his den. 
 And freed full sixty knights; or when, 
 A sinful man, and unconfess'd, 
 He took the Sangreal's holy quest. 
 And, slumbering, saw the vision high, 
 He might not view with waking eye. - 
 
 The mightiest chiefs of British song 
 Scorn'd 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 TaVile 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. 
 Licentious satire, song, and play; 
 The world defrauded of the high design. 
 Profaned the God-given strength, and 
 
 marr'd the lofty line. 
 
 Warm'd by such names, well may we 
 then 
 Though dwindled souls 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, 
 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. 
 Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells; 
 Mystery, half veil'd and half reveal'd; 
 And Honor, with his spotless shield; 
 Attention, with fix'd eye; and Fear, 
 That loves the tale she shrinks to hear; 
 And gentle Courtesy; and Faith, 
 Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death; 
 And Valor, lion-mettled lord, 
 Leaning upon his own good sword. 
 
 Well has thy fair achievement shown, 
 A worthy meed may thus Vje won; 
 Ytene's * oaks — beneath whose shade 
 Their theme the merry minstrels made, 
 Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold,'' 
 And that Red King, t who, while of old, 
 Through Boldrewood the chase he led. 
 By his loved huntsman's arrow bled — 
 Ytene's oaks have heard again 
 Renevv'dsuch legendary strain; 
 For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul, 
 That Amadis so famed in hall. 
 For Oriana, foil'd in fight 
 The Necromancer's felon might; 
 And well in modern verse hast wove 
 Partenopex's mystic love : t 
 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, bro.id 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, 
 
 Seem'd forms of giant height : 
 Their armor, as it caught the rays, 
 Flash'd back again the western blaze, 
 
 In lines of dazzling light. 
 
 Saint George's banner, broad and gay. 
 Now faded, as the fading ray 
 
 I^ess bright, and less, was flung: 
 The evening gale had scarce the power 
 To wave it on the Donjon Tower, 
 
 So heavily it hung. 
 
 * Ytene, ancient name of the New Forest, 
 Hants. 
 
 t William Rufus. 
 
 X Partenopex, a poem by W. S. Rose. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE CASTLE. 
 
 5S 
 
 The scouts had parted on their search. 
 
 The Castle gates were barr'd; 
 Above the gloomy portal arch, 
 Timing his footsteps to a march, 
 
 The Warder kept his guard; 
 Low humming, as he paced along. 
 Some ancient Border gathering song. 
 
 A distant trampling sound he hears; 
 He looks abroad, and soon appears 
 O'er Horncliff-hill a plump of spears,* 
 
 Beneath a pennon gay; 
 A horseman, darting from the crowd, 
 Like lightning from a summer cloud. 
 Spurs on his mettled courser proud, 
 
 Before the dark array. 
 Beneath the sable palisade. 
 That closed the Castle barricade. 
 
 His bugle-horn he blew; 
 The warder hasted from the wall. 
 And warn'd the Captain in the hall. 
 For well the blast he knew; 
 And joyfully that knight did call. 
 To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 
 
 " Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,t 
 
 Bring pasties of the doe, 
 And quickly make the entrance free, 
 And bid my heralds ready te. 
 And every minstrel sound his glee, 
 
 And all our trumpets blow; 
 And, from the platform, spare ye not 
 To lire a noble salvo-shot; 
 
 Lord Marmion waits below ! " 
 Then to the Castle's lower ward 
 
 Sped forty yeomen tall, 
 The iron-studded gates unbarr'd, 
 Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard. 
 The lofty palisade unsparr'd 
 
 And let the drawbridge fall. 
 
 Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode. 
 Proudly his red-roan charger trode. 
 He was a stalworth knight, and keen, 
 And had in many a battle been; 
 
 * Body of men-at-arms. " Plump " properly 
 applies to a flight of water-fowl ; but is used by 
 analojcy for a body of horse. 
 
 t Malmsey. 
 
 The scar on his brown cheek reveal'd 
 A token true of Bosworth field: 
 His helm hung at the saddlebow; 
 Well by his visage you might know 
 His eyebrow dark, and "eye of fire, 
 Show'd spirit proud, and prompt to ire; 
 Yet lines of thought upon his cheek 
 Did deep design and counsel speak. 
 His forehead, by his casque worn bare. 
 His thick mustache, and curly hair. 
 Coal-black, and grizzled here and there. 
 
 But more through toil than age ; 
 His square-tnrn'd joints, and strength of 
 
 limb, 
 Show'd him no carpet knight so trim. 
 But in close fight a champion grim. 
 
 In camps a leader sage. 
 
 Well was he arm'd from head to heel. 
 In mail and plate of Milan steel;'' 
 But his strong helm, of mighty cost. 
 Was all with burnish'd gold emboss'd : 
 Amid the plumage of the crest, 
 A falcon hover'd on her nest. 
 With wings outspread, and forward breast ; 
 E'en such a falcon, on his shield, 
 Soar'd sable in an azure field: 
 The golden legend bore aright, 
 
 35a()a cficcfes at me, to titatfj is Uigfjt.^ 
 
 Blue was the charger's broider'd rein; 
 Blue ribbons deck'd his arching mane; 
 The knightly housing's ample fold 
 Was velvet blue, and trapp'd with gold. 
 
 Behind him rode two gallant squires, 
 Of noble name, and knightly sires; 
 They burn'd the gilded spurs to claim. 
 For well could each a war-horse tame, 
 Could draw the VjoWjthe swordcould sway. 
 And lightly bear the ring away; 
 Nor less with courteous precepts stored. 
 Could dance in hall, and carve at board, , 
 And frame love-ditties passing rare, \ 
 
 And sing them to a lady fair. '' 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Four men-at-arms came at their backs, 
 With halbert, bill, and battle-axe; 
 They bore Lord Marmion 's lance so 
 
 strong, 
 And led his sumpter mules along. 
 
56 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 And ambling palfrey, when at need 
 Him listed ease his battle-steed. 
 The last and trustiest of the four. 
 On high his forky pennon bore; 
 Like swallow's tale, in shape and hue, 
 Flutter'd the streamer glossy blue. 
 Where, blazon'd sable, as before. 
 The towering falcon seem'd to soar. 
 Last, twenty yeomen, two and two, 
 In hosen black and jerkins blue. 
 With falcons broider'd on each breast, 
 Attended on their lord's behest. 
 Each, chosen for an archer good. 
 Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood; 
 Each one a six-foot Ixiw could bend, 
 And far a cloth-yard shaft could send; 
 Each held a boar-spear tough and strong. 
 And at their belts their qurvers rung. 
 Their dusty palfreys, and array, 
 Show'd they had march'd a weary way. 
 
 'Tis meet that I should tell you now, 
 How fairly arm'd, and order'd how. 
 
 The soldiers of the guard, 
 With musket, pike, and morion. 
 To welcome noble Marmion, 
 
 Stood in the Castle-yard; 
 Minstrels and trumpeters were there, 
 The gunner held his linstock yare, 
 
 For welcome-shot prepared; 
 Enter'd the train, and such a clang. 
 As then through all his turrets rang, 
 
 Old Norham never heard. 
 
 The guards their morrice-pikes advanced. 
 
 The trumpets flourish'd brave. 
 The cannon from the ramparts glanced, 
 
 And thundering welcome gave. 
 A blithe salute, in martial sort. 
 
 The minstrels well might sound. 
 For, as Lord Marmion cross'd the court, 
 
 He scatter'd angels* round. 
 " Welcome to Norham, Marmion! 
 
 Stout heart, and open hand ! 
 Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan. 
 
 Thou flower of English land! " 
 
 * A gold coin of the period, value about ten 
 shillings. 
 
 Two pursuivants, whom tabarts t 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 hail'd Lord Marmion: 
 They hail'd him Lord of Fontenaye, 
 Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye, 
 
 Of Tamworth tower and town;'-* 
 And he, their courtesy to requite. 
 Gave them a chain of twelve marks' 
 weight. 
 All as he lighted down. 
 " Now, largesse, largesse, t Lord Mar- 
 mion, 
 
 Knight of the crest of gold ! 
 A blazon'd shield, in battle won, 
 
 Ne'er guarded heart so bold." 
 
 They marshall'd him to the Castle-hall, 
 
 Where the guests stood all aside. 
 And loudly flourish'd the trumpet-call. 
 
 And the heralds loudly cried: — 
 "Room, lordings, room for Lord Mar- 
 mion, 
 
 With the crest and helm of gold ! 
 Full well we know the trophies won 
 
 In the lists of Cottisw(jld: 
 There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove, 
 
 'Gainst Marmion's force to stand; 
 To him he lost his lady-love. 
 
 And to the King his land. 
 Ourselves beheld the listed field, 
 
 A sight both sad and fair; 
 We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield. 
 
 And saw his saddle bare; 
 We saw the victor win the crest 
 
 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 conquer'd in the right, 
 
 Marmion of Fontenaye! " 
 
 t The embroidered overcoat of the heralds, 
 etc., also spelt tabard and taberd. 
 
 X The cry by which the bounty of knights and 
 nobles was tlianked. The cry is srill used in the 
 hop gardens of Kent and Sussex, as a demand 
 for jjayment from strangers entering them. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 TJIE CASTLE. 
 
 57 
 
 Then stepp'd to meet that noble Lord, 
 
 Sir Hugh the Heron bold, 
 Baron of Twisell, and of Ford, 
 
 And Captain of the Hold.i" 
 He led Lord Marmion to the dais, 
 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, 
 
 " Hmv the fierce Thirwalls, and Rid- 
 leys all. 
 Stout Willimondsiuick, 
 And Hardriding Dick, 
 And Hughie of Haiodon, and Will o'' 
 the Wall, 
 Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh, 
 And taken his life at the Deadman'' 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 : 
 For lady's suit, and minstrel's strain. 
 By knight should ne'er be heard in vain. 
 
 "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 pass'd a week but giust 
 
 Or feat of arms befell : 
 The Scots can rein a mettled steed; 
 
 And love to couch a spear; — 
 Saint George ! a stirring life they lead. 
 
 That have such neighlx)rs near. 
 Then stay with us a little space. 
 
 Our northern wars to learn; 
 I pray you, for your lady's grace ! " 
 
 Lord Marmion's brow grew stern. 
 
 The Captain mark'd his alter'd look. 
 And gave a squire the sign; 
 
 A migiily wassail-bowl he took, 
 And crown'd it high in wine. 
 
 " 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 Raby towers we met, 
 
 The boy I closely eyed. 
 And often mark'd his cheeks were wet, 
 
 With tears he fain would hide : 
 His was no rugged horse-lxjy's hand. 
 To burnish shield or sharpen brand. 
 
 Or saddle battle-steed; 
 But meeter seem'd for lady fair. 
 To fan her cheek, or curl her hair. 
 Or through embroidery, rich and rare. 
 
 The slender silk to lead; 
 His skin was fair, his ringlets gold. 
 
 His bosom — when he sigh'd, 
 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 roll'd his kindling eye, 
 With pain his rising wrath suppress'd. 
 
 Yet made a calm reply : 
 " That boy thou thought'st 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 
 Whisper'd light tales of Heron's dame. 
 
 Unmark'd, at least unreck'd, the taunt; 
 
 Careless the Knight replied, 
 "No bird, whose feathers gayly flaunt, 
 
 Delights in cage to bide : 
 Norham is grim and grated close, 
 Hemm'd in by battlement and fosse, 
 * See note 24. 
 
58 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 And many a darksome tower; 
 And better loves my lady bright 
 To sit in liberty and light. 
 
 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'll stoop when she has tired her wing." 
 
 " 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 address'd, 
 
 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 back'd 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, 
 
 What time we razed old Ayton tower. "^^ 
 
 " For such-like need, my lord, I trow, 
 Norham can find you guides enow; 
 For here be some have prick'd as far. 
 On Scottish ground, as to Dunljar; 
 Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan'sale, 
 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, 
 " 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. 
 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." 
 
 The Captain mused a little space, 
 
 And pass'd 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 
 
 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 pray'd for our success the while. 
 
 Our Norman vicar, woe betide. 
 
 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 Tilmouth were the man: 
 A blithesome brother at the can, 
 A welcome guest in hall and bower, 
 He knows each castle, town, and tower, 
 In which the wine and ale is good, 
 'Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood. 
 But that good man, as ill befalls, 
 Hath seldom left our castle walls. 
 Since, on the vigil of St. Bede, 
 In evil hour, he cross'd the Tweed, 
 To teach Dame Alison her creed. 
 Old Bughtrig found him with his wife; 
 And John, an enemy to strife. 
 Sans frock and hood, fled for his life. 
 The jealous churl hath deeply swore, 
 That, if again he venture o'er. 
 He shall shrive penitent no more. 
 Little he loves such risks, I know; 
 Yet, in your guard, perchance will go.'' 
 
 XXII. 
 
 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. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE CASTLE. 
 
 59 
 
 He is a man of mirthful speech, 
 Can many a game and gambol teach; 
 Full well at tables can he play, 
 And sweep at bowls the stake away. 
 None can a lustier carol bawl, 
 The needfuUest 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 vow'd revenge of Bughtrig rude, 
 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." 
 
 " Here is a holy Palmer come. 
 
 From Salem first, and last from Rome; 
 
 One, that hath kiss'd the blessed tomb. 
 
 And visited each holy shrine 
 
 In Araby and Palestine; 
 
 On hills of Armenie hath been, 
 
 Where Noah's ark may yet be seen; 
 
 By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod. 
 
 Which parted at the prophet's rod; 
 
 In Sinai's wilderness he saw 
 
 The Mount, where Israel heard the law. 
 
 Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin. 
 
 And shadows, mists, and darkness, given. 
 
 He shows Saint James's cockle-shell. 
 
 Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell; 
 
 And of that Grot where Olives nod. 
 Where, darling of each heart and eye, 
 From all the youth of Sicily, 
 
 Saint Rosalie retired to God.i* 
 
 "To stout Saint George of Norwich merry, 
 Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, 
 Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 
 For his sins' pardon hath he pray'd. 
 He knows the passes of the North, 
 And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth; 
 Little he eats, and long will wake. 
 And drinks but of the stream or lake. 
 This were a guide o'er moor and dale; 
 But, when our John hath quaff'd his ale, 
 
 As little as the wind that blows. 
 And warms itself against his nose, 
 Kens he, or cares, which way he goes. ' ' ■ 
 
 " Gramercy ! " quoth Lord Marmion, 
 " Full loth were I, that Friar John, 
 That venerable man, for me. 
 Were placed in fear of jeopardy. 
 If this same Palmer will me lead ^ 
 
 From hence to Holy-Rood, 
 Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed. 
 Instead of cockle-shell, or bead. 
 
 With angels fair and good. 
 I love such holy ramblers; still 
 They know to charm a weary hill. 
 
 With song, romance, or lay: 
 Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest, 
 Some lying legend, at the least, 
 
 They bring to cheer the way. ' ' — 
 
 " Ah ! noble sir," young Selby said, 
 
 And finger on his lip he laid, 
 
 " This man knows much, perchance e'en 
 
 more 
 Than he could learn by holy lore. 
 Still to himself he's muttering, 
 And shrinks as at some unseen thing. 
 Last night we listen'd at his cell; 
 Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to 
 
 tell. 
 He murmur'd on till morn, howe'er 
 No living mortal could be near. 
 Sometimes I thought I heard it plain. 
 As other voices spoke again. 
 I cannot tell — I like it not — 
 Friar John hath told us it v, wrote. 
 No conscience clear, and void of wrong. 
 Can rest awake, and pray so long. 
 Himself still sleeps before his beads 
 Have mark'd ten aves, and two creeds."*^ 
 
 xxvn. 
 — " Let pass," quoth Marmion; " by my 
 
 fay. 
 This man shall guide me on my way, 
 Although the great arch fiend and he 
 Had sworn themselves of company. 
 So please you, gentle youth, to call 
 This Palmer to the Castle-hall." 
 The summon'd Palmer came in place: i® 
 His sable cowl o'erhung his face; 
 
6o 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 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-])ranch in his hand 
 Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 W^hen as the Palmer came in hall. 
 
 No lord, nor knight, was there more tall. 
 
 Nor had a statglier step withal. 
 
 Or look'd more high and keen; 
 For no saluting did he wait, 
 But strode across the hall of state. 
 And fronted Marmion where he sate. 
 
 As he his peer had been. 
 But his gaunt frame was worn with toil; 
 His cheek was sunk, alas the while ! 
 And when he struggled at a smile. 
 
 His eye look'd haggard wild: 
 Poor wretch ! the mother that him bare. 
 If she had been in presence there. 
 In his wan face, and sun-burn'd 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. 
 
 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 Ijefall, 
 But this poor I'almer knew them all. 
 
 Lord Marmion then his l)oon did ask ; 
 The Palmer took on him the task. 
 So he would march with morning tide, 
 To Scottish court to Ix; his guide. 
 " But I have solemn vows to pay, 
 And may not linger by the way. 
 
 To fair St. 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. 
 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 p.lge presents on knee. 
 Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, 
 The Captain pledged his noble guest. 
 The cup went through among the rest, 
 
 Who drain'd it merrily; 
 Alone the Palmer pass'd it by. 
 Though Selby press'd him courteously. 
 This was a sign the feast was o'er; 
 It hush'd the merry wassail roar. 
 
 The minstrels ceased to sound. 
 Soon in the castle naught was heard, 
 But the slow footstep of the guard. 
 
 Pacing his sober round. 
 
 With early dawn Lord Marmion rose: 
 And first the chapel doors unclose; 
 Then, after morning rites were done, 
 (A hasty mass from Friar Jcjhn,) 
 And knight and squire had broke their 
 
 fast 
 On rich substantial repast. 
 Lord Marmion's bugles l)lew to horse: 
 Then came the stirrup-cup in course: 
 Between the Baron and his host. 
 No point of courtesy was lost; 
 High thanks were by Lord Marmion 
 
 paid, 
 .Solemn excuse the Captain made. 
 Till, filing from the gate, had pass'd 
 That noble train, their Lord the last. 
 Then loudly rung the trum|)et call; 
 Thunder'd the cannon from the wall, 
 
 And shook the Scottish shore; 
 Around the castle eddied slow. 
 Volumes of smoke as white as snow. 
 
 And hid its turrets hoar; 
 Till they roll'd forth upon the air. 
 And met the river breezes there. 
 Which gave again the prospect fair. 
 
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO IL 
 
 ' 6i 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
 SECOND. 
 
 THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M. 
 
 A shcstiel, Ettrick Forest. 
 The scenes are desert now, and bare. 
 Where flourish'd once a forest fair,''-* 
 Wlien 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 liis green compeers — 
 Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell 
 The changes of his parent dell. 
 Since he, so gray and stubborn now, 
 Waved in each breeze a sapling bough; 
 Would he could tell how deep the shade 
 A thousand mingled branches made; 
 How broad the shadows of the oak. 
 How clung the rowan * to the rock, 
 And through the foliage show'd his head. 
 With narrow leaves and berries red ; 
 What pines on every mountain sprung, 
 O'er every dell what birches hung, 
 In every breeze what aspens shook. 
 What alders shaded every brook ! 
 
 " Here, in my shade, ' methinks he'd 
 say, 
 "The mighty stag at noon-tide lay: 
 The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, 
 (The neighboring thngle l)ears his name,) 
 With lurching step around me prowl. 
 And stop, against the moon to howl; 
 The mountain-boar, on battle set. 
 His tusks upon my stem would whet; 
 While doe, and roe, and red deer good, 
 Have bounded ijy, through gay green- 
 wood. 
 Then oft, from Newark's riven tower. 
 Sallied a Scottish monarch's power: 
 A thousand vassals muster'd 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 stalk. 
 And falc'ners hold the ready hawk; 
 
 * Mountain ash. , 
 
 And foresters, in green-wood trim. 
 Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim. 
 Attentive, as the bratchet's t 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. 
 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 outla\/ drew his arrow. t 
 But not more Ijlithe that silvan court, 
 Than we have been at humbler sport; 
 Though small our pomp, and mean our 
 
 game. 
 Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same. 
 Rememl)er'st thou my greyhounds true? 
 O'er holt or hill there never flew. 
 From slip or leash there never sprang, 
 More fleet of foot, or sure of fang. 
 Nor dull, between each merry chase, 
 Fass'd by the intermitted space; 
 For we had fair resource in store. 
 In Classic and in Gothic lore: 
 We mark'd each memorable scene. 
 And held poetic talk between; 
 Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along. 
 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 grows warm. 
 At thought of his parental farm. 
 Round to his mates a brimmer fills. 
 And drinks, "The Chieftain of the 
 
 Hills!" 
 No fairy forms, in Y'arrow's bowers, 
 'iVip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers, 
 Fair as the elves whom Janet saw 
 By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh; 
 
 t Slowhound. 
 
 X Murray, the Robin Hood of Ettrick, but 
 inferior in good qualities to the famous English 
 archer. 
 
 § A seat of the Duke of Uuccleueh on tire 
 Yarrow. 
 
62 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 No youthful Baron's left to grace 
 The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase, 
 And ape, in manly step and tone, 
 The majesty of Oberon : 
 And she is gone, whose lovely face 
 Is but her least and lowest grace; 
 Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, 
 To show our earth the charms of Heaven, 
 She could not glide along the air. 
 With form more light, or face more fair. 
 No more the widow's deafen'd ear 
 Grows quick that lady's step to hear : 
 At noon-tide 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, 
 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, 
 When thought is speech, and speech is 
 
 truth. 
 Close to my side, with what delight 
 They press'd to hear of Wallace wight. 
 When, pointing to his airy mound, 
 I call'd his ramparts holy ground ! 
 Kindled their brows to 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. 
 They will not, cannot, long endure ! 
 Condemn'd to stem the world's rude tide, 
 You may not linger by the side; 
 For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, 
 And Passion ply the sail and oar. 
 Yet cherish the remembrance still, 
 Of the lone mountain, and the rill; 
 For trust, dear boys, the time will come, 
 When fiercer transports shall be dumb, 
 And you will think right frequently. 
 But well, I hope, without a sigh, 
 On the free hours that we have spent 
 Together, on the brown hill's bent. 
 
 * The late Alex. Pringle, Esq.. of Whytbank. 
 
 When, musing on companions gone. 
 We doubly feel ourselves alone, 
 Something, my friend, we yet may gain; 
 There is a pleasure in this pain : 
 It soothes the love of lonely rest. 
 Deep in each gentler heart impress'd. 
 'Tis silent amid worldly toils. 
 And stifled soon by mental broils: 
 But in a bosom thns prepared. 
 Its still small voice is often heard. 
 Whispering a mingled sentiment, 
 'Twixt resignation and content. 
 Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, 
 By lone St. Mary's silent lake;^ 
 Thou know'st itwell, — nor fen, nor sedge, 
 Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; 
 Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 
 At once upon the level brink; 
 And just a trace of silver sand 
 Marks where the water meets the land. 
 Far in the mirror, bright and blue. 
 Each hill's huge outline you may view. 
 Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare. 
 Nor tree, nor bush, jior brake, is there. 
 Save where, of land, yon slender line 
 Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine. 
 Yet even this nakedness has power. 
 And aids the feeling of the hour : 
 Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy. 
 Where living thing conceal'd 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 oft they weep, 
 The sound but lulls the ear asleep; 
 Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude. 
 So stilly is the solitude. 
 
 Naught 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 »ow,2l 
 Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil, 
 The peasant rests him from his toil. 
 And, dying, bids his lx)nes be laid, 
 Where erst his simple fathers pray'd. 
 
 If age had tamed the passions' strife, 
 And fate had cut my ties to life. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE CONVENT. 
 
 63 
 
 Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to 
 
 dwell, 
 And rear again the chaplain's cell, 
 Like that same peaceful hermitage, 
 Where Milton long'd to spend his age. 
 'Twere sweet to mark the setting day. 
 On Bourhope's lonely top decay; 
 And, as it faint and feeble died 
 On the broad lake, and mountain's side, 
 To say, " Thus pleasures fade away; 
 Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay. 
 And leave us dark, forlorn, and gray;" 
 Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd tower. 
 And think on Yarrow's faded Flower: 
 And when that mountain-sound I heard. 
 Which bids us be for storm prepared. 
 The distant rustling of his wings. 
 As up his force the Tempest brings, 
 'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave. 
 To sit upon the Wizard's grave; 
 That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are 
 
 thrust 
 From company of holy dust; 22 
 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, 
 And ever stoop again, to lave 
 Their bosoms on the surging wave. 
 Then, when against the driving hail 
 No longer might my plaid avail, 
 Back to my lonely home retire, 
 And light my lamp, and trim my fire; 
 There ponder o'er some mystic lay. 
 Till the wild tale had all its sway. 
 And, in the bittern's distant shriek, 
 I heard unearthly voices speak. 
 And thought the Wizard Priest was come. 
 To claim again his ancient home ! 
 And bade my busy fancy range. 
 To frame him fitting shape and strange, 
 Till from the task my brow I clear'd. 
 And smiled to think that I had fear'd. 
 
 But chief, 'twere sweet to think such 
 life, 
 (Though but escape from fortune's strife,) 
 Something most matchless good an-f wise, 
 A great and grateful sacrifice: 
 And deem each hour to musing given, 
 A step upon the road to heaven. 
 
 Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease, 
 Such peaceful solitudes displease : 
 He loves to drown his bosom's jar 
 Amid the elemental war : 
 And my black Palmer's choice had been 
 Some ruder and more savage scene. 
 Like that which frowns round dark Loch- 
 
 skene."^ 
 There eagles scream from isle to shore; 
 Down all the rocks the torrents roar; 
 O'er the black waves incessant driven. 
 Dark mists infect the summer heaven; 
 Through the rude barriers of the lake. 
 Away its hurrying waters break. 
 Faster and whiter dash 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 
 Some demon's subterranean cave. 
 Who, prison 'd 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. 
 And wheeling round the Giant's Grave, 
 White as the snowy charger's tail, 
 Drives down the pass of Moffatdale. 
 
 Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung, 
 To many a Border theme has rung : 
 Then list to me, and thou shalt know 
 Of this mysterious Man of Woe. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 THE CONVENT. 
 I. 
 
 The breeze which swept away the smoke 
 
 Round Norham Castle roU'd, 
 When all the loud artillery spoke. 
 With lightning- flash and thunder-stroke, 
 
 As Marmion left the Hold. 
 It curl'd not Tweed alone, that breeze, 
 For, far upon Northumbrian seas. 
 It freshly blew, and strong. 
 
64 
 
 M ARM ION. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Where, from high Whitby'scloister'd pile, 
 15ound to St. Cuthbert's Holy Isle,^* 
 
 It bore a bark along. 
 Upon the gale she stoop'd her side. 
 And bounded o'er the swelling tide, 
 
 As she were dancing home; 
 The merry seamen laugh'd, to see 
 Their gallant ship so lustily 
 
 Furrow the green sea-foam. 
 Much joy'd they in their honor'd freight, 
 For, on the tlcck, in chair of state, 
 The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed. 
 With five fair nuns, the galley graced. 
 
 'Twas sweet to see these holy maids. 
 Like birds escaped to green-wood shades, 
 
 Their first flight from the cage. 
 How timid, and how curious too. 
 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 shriek'd, because the sea-dog, nigh. 
 His round black head, and sparkling eye, 
 
 Rear'd o'er the foaming spray; 
 And one would still adjust her veil, 
 Disorder'd by the summer gale, 
 Perchance lest some more worldly eye 
 Her dedicated charms might spy; 
 Perchance, because such action graced 
 Her fair-lurn'd 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, 
 Hut early took the veil and hood. 
 Ere upon life she cast a look, 
 Ox 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 her ample dower. 
 To raise the convent's eastern tower; 
 For this, with carving rare and quaint, 
 She deck'd the chapel of the saint. 
 And gave the relic-shrine of cost, 
 With ivory and gems emboss'd. 
 The poor her Convent's bounty blest. 
 The pilgrim in its halls found rest. 
 
 Black was her garb, her rigid rule 
 Reform'd on Benedictine school; 
 Her cheek was jiale, her form was spare: 
 Vigils, and penitence austere. 
 Had early quench'd the light of youth. 
 But gentle was the dame, in sooth; 
 Though, vain of her religious sway. 
 She loved to see her maids obey. 
 Yet nothing stern was she in cell. 
 And the nuns loved their Abbess well. 
 Sad was this voyage to the dame; 
 Summon'd to Lindisfarne, she came, 
 There, with Saint Cuthbert's Al;>bot old, 
 And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold 
 A chapter of St. Benedict, 
 For inquisition stern and strict, 
 On two apostates from the faith. 
 And, if need were, to doom to death. 
 
 Naught say I here of Sister Clare, 
 Save this, that she was young and fair; 
 As yet, a novice unprofess'd. 
 Lovely and gentle, but distress'd. 
 She was betrolh'd to one now dead, 
 Or worse, who had dishonor'd fled. 
 Her kinsmen liade 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 wither'd bloom. 
 
 She sate upon the galley's prow. 
 And seem'd to mark the waves below; 
 Nay, seem'd, so fix'd her look and eye. 
 To count them as they glided by. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE CONVENT. 
 
 65 
 
 She saw them not — 'twas seeming all — 
 Far other scene her thoughts recall, — 
 A sun-scorch d desert, wa;>te and hare, 
 Nor waves, nor breezes, niurmur'd there; 
 Tiiere saw she, where some careless hand 
 O'er a dead corpse had heap'd the sand, 
 To hide it till the jackals come. 
 To tear it from the scanty tomb. — 
 See what a wuful look was given. 
 As she raised up her eyes to heaven ! 
 
 Lovely, and gentle, and distress'd — 
 These charms might tame the fiercest 
 
 breast ; 
 Harpers have sung, and poets told. 
 That he, in fury uncontroll'd. 
 The shaggy monarch of the wood, 
 Before a virgin, fair and good. 
 Hath pacified his savage mood. 
 But passions in the human frame. 
 Oft put the lion's rage to shame: 
 And jealousy, by dark intrigue, 
 With sordid avarice in league. 
 Had practised with their bowl and knife, 
 Against the mourner's harmless life. 
 This crime was charged 'gainst those who 
 
 lay 
 Prison'd in Cuthbert's islet gray. 
 
 And now the vessel skirts the strand 
 Of mountainous Norlhumljerland; 
 Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise. 
 And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. 
 Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay; 
 And Tynemouth's priory and bay; 
 They mark'd, amid her trees, the hall 
 Of lofty Seaton-Delaval; 
 They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods 
 Hush to the sea through sounding woods; 
 Tiiey pass'd the tower of Widderington, 
 Mother of many a valiant son; 
 At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 
 To the good Saint who own'd the cell; 
 Then did the Alne attention claim, 
 And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name; 
 And next, they cross'd themselves, to 
 
 hear 
 The whitening breakers sound so near. 
 Where, boiling thro' the rocks, they roar, 
 On Dunstanborough's cavern'd shore; 
 
 Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark'd 
 
 • they there. 
 King Ida's castle, huge and square. 
 From its tall rock look grimly down. 
 And on the swelling ocean frown; 
 Then from the coast they bore away, 
 And reach'd the Holy Island's bay. 
 
 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 
 Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace. 
 As to the port the galley flew, 
 Higher and higher rose to view 
 The Castle with its battled walls, 
 The ancient monastery's halls, 
 A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile. 
 Placed on the margin of the isle. 
 
 In Saxon strength that abbey frown'd, 
 With massive arches broad and round. 
 That rose alternate, row and row. 
 On ponderous columns, short and low. 
 
 Built ere the art was known. 
 By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk. 
 The arcades of an alley'd walk 
 To emulate in stone. 
 On the deep walls, the heathen Dane 
 Had pour'd his impious rage in vain; 
 And needful was such strength to these. 
 Exposed to the tempestuous seas. 
 Scourged by the winds' eternal sway. 
 Open to rovers fierce as they. 
 Which could twelve hundred years with- 
 stand 
 Winds, waves, and northern pirates' 
 
 hand. 
 Not but that portions of the pile, 
 Rebuilded in a later style, 
 Show'd where the spoiler's hand hnd 
 
 been; 
 Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen 
 Had worn the pillar's carving quaint. 
 And moulder'd in his niche the saint. 
 And rounded, with consuming power. 
 The pointed angles of each tower; 
 
66 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Yet still entire the Abbey stood, 
 Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. 
 
 Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, 
 The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, 
 And with the sea-wave and the wind, 
 Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, 
 
 And made harmonious close; 
 Then, answering from the sandy shore. 
 Half drown'd amid the breakers' roar, 
 
 According chorus rose : 
 Down to the haven of the Isle, 
 The monks and nuns in order file. 
 From Cuthbert's cloisters grim; 
 Banner, and cross, and relics there. 
 To meet St. Hilda's maids, they bare; 
 And, as they caught the sounds on air. 
 
 They echoed back the hymn. 
 The islanders, in joyous mood, 
 Kush'd emulously through the flood. 
 
 To hale the bark to land; 
 Conspicuous by her veil and hood, 
 Signing the cross, the Abbess stood. 
 And bless'd them with her hand. 
 
 Suppose we now the welcome said. 
 Suppose the Convent banquet made : 
 
 All through the holy dome. 
 Through cloister, aisle, and gallery 
 Wherever vestal maid might pry, 
 Nor risk to meet unhallow'd eye. 
 
 The stranger 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 stray'd and gazed their fill. 
 
 They closed around the fire ; 
 And all, in turn, essay'd to paint 
 The rival merits of their saint, 
 
 A theme that ne'er can tire 
 A holy maid; for, be it known, 
 That their saint's honor is their own. 
 
 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 j'our 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; 25 
 And how, of thousand snakes, each one 
 Was changed into a coil of stone. 
 
 When holy Hilda pray'd ! 
 Themselves, within their holy bound. 
 Their stony folds had often found. 
 They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail 
 As over Whitby's towers they sail,'-^ 
 And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, 
 They do their homage to the saint. 
 
 Nor did St. Cuthbert's daughters fail 
 To vie with these in holy tale; 
 His body's resting-place, of old, 
 How oft their patron changed, they 
 
 told; -^7 
 How, when the rude Dane burn'd their 
 
 pile. 
 The monks fled forth from Holy Isle; 
 O'er northern mountain, marsh, and 
 
 moor, 
 F'rom 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 ! 
 In his stone coffin forth he rides, 
 A ponderous bark for river tides, 
 Yet light as gossamer it glides, 
 Downward to Tilmouth cell. 
 Nor long was his abiding there. 
 For southward did the saint repair; 
 Chcster-le-Street and Rippon saw 
 His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw 
 
 Hail'd liim with joy and fear; 
 And, after many wanderings past, 
 He chose his lordly seat at last. 
 Where his cathedral, huge and vast. 
 
 Looks down upon the Wear: 
 There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade, 
 His relics are in secret laid; 
 
 But none may know the place, 
 Save of his holiest servants three. 
 Deep sworn to solemn secrecy. 
 Who share that wondrous grace. 
 
Canto It. 
 
 THE CONVENT. 
 
 67 
 
 Who may his mir.acles declare ! 
 
 Even Scotland's dauntless king, and heir, 
 
 (Although with them they led 
 Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale, 
 And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in 
 
 mail. 
 And the bold men of Teviotdale,) 
 
 Before his standard fled.^ 
 'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, 
 Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, 
 And turn'd the Q)nqueror back again, ^ 
 When, with his Norman bowyer band, 
 He came to waste Northumberland. 
 
 But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn 
 If, on a rock by Lindisfarne, 
 Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 
 The sea-born beads that bear his name : *^ 
 Such tales had Whitby's fishers told. 
 And said they might his shape behold. 
 
 And hear his anvil sound; 
 A deaden'd clang, — a huge dim form. 
 Seen but, and heard, when gathering 
 storm 
 
 And night were closing round. 
 But this, as tale of idle fame. 
 The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim. 
 
 While round the fire such legends go. 
 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 31 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 
 
 Of feeling, hearing, sight, 
 Was call'd 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. 
 'Twas now a place of punishment; 
 Whence if so loud a shriek were sent. 
 
 As reach'd the upper air, 
 The hearers bless'd themselves, and said, 
 The spirits of the sinful dead 
 
 Bemoan'd their torments there. 
 
 But though, in the monastic pile, 
 Did of this penitential aisle 
 
 Some vague tradition go. 
 Few only, save the Ablx>t, knew 
 Where the place lay; and still more few 
 Were those, who had from him the clew 
 
 To that dread vault to go. 
 Victim and executioner 
 Were blindfold when transported there. 
 In low dark rounds the arches hung, 
 From the rude rock the side- walls sprung; 
 The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o'er. 
 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. 
 Which served to light this drear domain, 
 With damp and darkness seem'd to strive. 
 As if it scarce might keep alive; 
 And yet it dimly served to show 
 The awful conclave met below. 
 
 There, met to doom in secrecy. 
 Were placed the heads of convents three : 
 All servants of St. Benedict, 
 The statutes of whose orders strict 
 
 On iron table lay; 
 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. 
 Until, to hide her bosom's swell. 
 And tear-drops that for pity fell. 
 
 She closely drew her veil : 
 Yon shrouded figure, as I gness. 
 By her proud mien and flowing dress, 
 Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress,*^ 
 
 And she with awe looks pale : 
 And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight 
 Has long been quench'd by age's night. 
 Upon whose wrinkled brow alone. 
 Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace, is shown, 
 
 * Antique chandelier. 
 
68 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Whose look is hard and stern, — 
 Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style; 
 For sanctity call'd, through the isle, 
 
 The Saint of Lindisfarne. 
 
 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 falcon crest. 
 But, at the prioress' command, 
 A Monk undid the silver band. 
 
 That tied her tresses fair, 
 And raised the bonnet from her head, 
 And down her slender form they spread. 
 
 In ringlets rich and rare. 
 Constance de Beverley they know. 
 Sister profess'd of Fontevraud, 
 Whom the church nuniber'd with the 
 
 dead. 
 For broken vows, and convent fled. 
 
 When thus her face was given to view, 
 
 (Although so jiallid 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 
 
 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, sear'd and foul. 
 
 Feels not the import of his deed; 
 One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 
 Beyond his own more brute desires. 
 
 Such tools the Tempter ever needs. 
 To do the savagest of deeds; 
 For them no vision'd terrors daunt, 
 Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 
 One fear with them, of all most base. 
 The fear of death, — alone finds place. 
 This wretch was clad in frock and cowl. 
 And shamed not loud to moan and howl, 
 His body on the floor to dash, 
 And crouch, like hound beneath the lash. 
 While his mute partner, standing near, 
 Waited her doom without a tear. , 
 
 Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek. 
 Well might her paleness terror speak ! 
 For there were seen in that dark wall. 
 Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall; — 
 Who enters at such grisly door. 
 Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. 
 In each a slender meal was laid. 
 Of roots, of water, and of bread: 
 By each, in Benedictine dress. 
 Two haggard monks stood motionless; 
 Who, holding high a V)lazing torch, 
 Show'd the grim entrance of the porch: 
 Reflecting back the smoky beam, 
 The dark-red walls and arches gleam. 
 Hewn stones and cement were display 'd, 
 And building tools in order laid. 
 
 These executioners were chose. 
 As men who were with mankind foes. 
 And with despite and envy fired. 
 Into the cloister had retired; 
 
 Or who, in desperate doubt of grace, 
 Strove, by deep penance, to efface 
 
 Of some foul crime the stain; 
 For, as the vassals of her will. 
 Such men the Church selected still. 
 As either joy'd in doing ill. 
 
 Or thought more grace to gain. 
 If, in her cause, they wrestled down. 
 Feelings their nature strove to own. 
 By strange device were they brought 
 
 there. 
 The)' knew not how, nor knew not where. 
 
 And now that blind old Abbot rose, 
 To speak the Chapter's doom, 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE CONVENT. 
 
 69 
 
 On those the wall was to enclose, 
 Alive, within the tomb,'^ 
 
 But stopp'd, because that woful Maid, 
 
 Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. 
 
 Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain; 
 
 Her accents might no utterance gain; 
 
 Naught but imperfect murmurs slip 
 
 From her convulsed and quivering lip; 
 'Twixt each attempt all was so still, 
 You seem'd 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, 
 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 dawn'd upon her cheek, 
 A hectic and a flutter'd streak. 
 Like that left on the Cheviot peak, 
 
 By Autumn's stormy sky; 
 And when her silence broke at length. 
 Still as she spoke she gather'd strength. 
 
 And arm'd herself to bear. 
 It was a fearful sight to see 
 Such high resolve and constancy. 
 
 In form so soft and fair. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 Vain are your masses too. — 
 I listen'd to a traitor's tale, 
 I left the convent and the veil; 
 For three long years I bow'd my pride, 
 A horse-boy in his train to ride; 
 And well my folly's meed he gave. 
 And forfeited, to be his slave. 
 All here, and all beyond the grave. — 
 He saw young Clara's face more fair, 
 He knew her of broad lands the heir. 
 Forgot his vows, his faith forswore. 
 And Constance was beloved no more. - 
 
 'Tis an old tale, and often told; 
 But did my fate and wish agree, 
 
 Ne'er had been read, in story old. 
 Of maiden true betray'd for gold. 
 That loved, or was avenged, like me. 
 
 "The King approved his favorite's aim; 
 In vain a rival barr'd his claim. 
 
 Whose fate with Clare's was plight. 
 For he attaints that rival's fame 
 With treason's charge — and on they came 
 
 In mortal lists to fight. 
 Their oaths are said. 
 Their prayers are pray'd. 
 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 ! ' 
 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, gather'd voice, and spoke the 
 rest : — 
 
 "Still was false Marmion's bridal staid; 
 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.' 
 Onewayremain'd — the King's command 
 Sent Marmion to the Scottish land : 
 I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd 
 
 For Clara and for me : 
 This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear. 
 He would to Whitby's shrine repair. 
 And, by his drugs, my rival fair 
 
 A saint in heaven should be. 
 But ill the dastard kept his oath. 
 Whose cowardice has undone us both. 
 
 "And now my tongue the secret tells. 
 Not that remorse my bosom swells. 
 
TO 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 But to assure my soul that none 
 Shall ever wed with Marmion. 
 Had fortune my last hope betray'd, 
 This packet, to the King convey'd, 
 Had given him to the headsman's stroke, 
 Although my heart that instant broke. — 
 Now, men of death, work forth your 
 
 will, 
 For I can suffer, and be still; 
 And come he slow, or come he fast, 
 It is but Death who comes at last. 
 
 " Yet dread me, from my living tomb, 
 
 Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome ! 
 
 If Marmion's late remorse should wake, 
 
 Full soon such vengeance will he take. 
 
 That you shall wish the fiery Dane 
 
 Had rather been your guest again. 
 
 Behind, a darker hour ascends ! 
 
 The altars quake, the crosier bends. 
 
 The ire of a despotic King 
 
 Rides forth upon destruction's wing; 
 
 Then shall these vaults, so strong and 
 
 deep, 
 Burst open to the sea- winds' sweep; 
 Some traveller then shall find my bones 
 Whitening amid disjointed stones. 
 And, ignorant of priests' cruelty. 
 Marvel such relics here should be." 
 
 Fix'd was her look, and stern her air: 
 Back from her shoulders stream'd her 
 
 hair; 
 The locks, that wont her brow to shade. 
 Stared up erectly from her head; 
 Her figure seem'd to rise more high; 
 Her voice, despair's wild energy 
 Had given a tone of prophecy. 
 Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate; 
 With stupid eyes, the men of fate 
 Gazed on the light inspired form, 
 And listen'd for the avenging storm; 
 The judges felt the victim's dread; 
 No hand was moved, no word was said, 
 1 ill thus the Abbot's doom was given. 
 Raising his sightless lialls to heaven : — 
 " Sister, let thy sorrows cease; 
 Sinful brother, part in peace! " 
 
 From that dire dungeon, place of doom, 
 Of execution too, and tomb. 
 
 Paced forth the judges three; 
 Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell 
 The butcher-work that there befell. 
 When they had glided from the cell 
 
 Of sin and misery. 
 
 A hundred winding steps convey 
 That conclave to the upper day; 
 But, ere they breathed the fresher air, 
 They heard the shriekings of despair, 
 
 And many a stifled groan : 
 With speed their upward way they take, 
 (Such speed as age and fear can make,) 
 And cross'd themselves for terror's sake. 
 
 As hurrying, tottering on : 
 Even in the vesper's heavenly tone. 
 They seem'd to hear a dying groan. 
 And bade the passing knell to toll 
 For welfare of a parting soul. 
 Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, 
 Northumbrian rocks in answer rung; 
 To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd, 
 His lieads the wakeful hermit told, 
 Ihe Bamborough peasant raised his head, 
 But slept ere half a prayer he said; 
 So far was heard the mighty knell, 
 The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, 
 Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 
 Listed before, aside, behind. 
 Then couch'd him down beside the hind, 
 And quaked among the mountain fern. 
 To hear that sound so dull and stern. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
 THIRD. 
 
 TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.* 
 
 AshestUl, Eitrick Forest 
 Like April morning clouds, that pass, 
 With varying shadow, o'er the grass. 
 And imitate, on field and furrow. 
 Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow; 
 Like streamlet of the mountain north, 
 Now in a torrent racing forth. 
 Now winding slow its silver train. 
 And almost slumbering on the plain; 
 
 * A Judge of the Court of Sessions, after- 
 wards, by title. Lord Kinnedder. He died in 
 1822 
 
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO III. 
 
 71 
 
 Like breezes of the autumn day, 
 
 Whose voice inconstant dies away, 
 
 And ever swells again as fast, 
 
 When the ear deems its murmur past; 
 
 Thus various, my romantic theme 
 
 Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. 
 
 Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 
 
 Of Light and Shade's inconstant race; 
 
 Pleased, views the rivulet afar. 
 
 Weaving its maze irregular ; 
 
 And pleased, we listen as the breeze 
 
 Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn 
 
 trees; 
 Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale, 
 Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale ! 
 
 Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell 
 I love the license all too well. 
 In sounds now lowly, and now strong. 
 To raise the desultory song? — 
 Oft, when mid such capricious chime, 
 Some transient fit of lofty rhyme 
 To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse 
 For many an error of the muse. 
 Oft hast thou said, " If, still 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 
 
 show'd. 
 Choose honor 'd guide and practised road; 
 Nor ramble on through brake and maze, 
 With harpers rude, of barbarous days. 
 
 "Or deem'st thou not our later time 
 Yields topic meet for classic rhyme? 
 Hast thou no elegiac verse 
 For Brunswick's veneraV)le hearse?* 
 What, not a line, a tear, a sigh. 
 When valor bleeds for liberty? — 
 Oh, hero of that glorious time, 
 When, with unrivall'd light sublime, — 
 Though martial Austria, and though all 
 The might of Russia, and the Gaul, 
 Though banded Europe stood her foes — 
 The star of Brandenburgh arose ! 
 Thou could'st not live to see her beam 
 Forever quench'd in Jena's stream. 
 
 * Killed at Auerstadt, 1806. 
 
 Lamented chief ! — ft was not given 
 To thee to change the doom of Heaven, 
 And crush that dragon in its birth. 
 Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 
 Lamented chief ! — not thine the power, 
 To save in that presumptuous hour, 
 When Prussia hurried to the field. 
 And snatch'd the spear, but left the shield ; 
 Valor and skill 'twas thine to try. 
 And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die. 
 Ill had it seem'd thy silver hair 
 The last, the bitterest pang to share, 
 For princedoms re ft, and scutcheons riven. 
 And birthrights to usurpers given ; 
 Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel, 
 And witness woes thou could'st not heal. 
 On thee relenting Heaven bestows 
 For honor'd life an honor'd close; 
 And when revolves, in time's sure change. 
 The hour of Germany's revenge. 
 When, breathing fury for her sake, 
 Some new Armenius shall awake, 
 Her champion, ere he strike, shall come 
 To whet his sword on Brunswick's tomb. 
 
 " Or of the Red-Cross hero t teach, 
 Dauntless in dungeon as on breach: 
 Alike to him, the sea, the shore. 
 The brand, the bridle, or the oar: 
 Alike to him the war that calls 
 Its votaries to the shatter'd walls. 
 Which the grim Turk, besmear'd with 
 
 blood. 
 Against the Invincible made good; 
 Or that, whose thundering voice would 
 
 wake 
 The silence of the polar lake, 
 When stubborn Russ, and metall'd 
 
 Swede, 
 On the warp'd wave their death-game 
 
 play'd; 
 Or that, where Vengeance and Affright 
 Howl'd round the father of the fight, 
 Who snatch'd, on Alexandria's sand. 
 The conqueror's wreath with dying haiid.l 
 
 " Or, if to touch such cord be thine. 
 Restore the ancient tragic line. 
 And emulate the notes that rung 
 From the wild harp, which silent hung 
 By silver Avon's holy shore, 
 Till twice an hundred years roU'd o'er; 
 
 t Sir Sidney Smith. 
 
 X Sir Ralph Abercromby. 
 
72 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 When she, the bold Enchantress,* came. 
 With fearless hand and heart on flame ! 
 From the pale willow snatch'd the treas- 
 ure. 
 And swept it with a kindred measure, 
 Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove 
 With Montfort's hate and Basil's love. 
 Awakening at the inspired strain, 
 Deem'd their own Shakespeare lived 
 again." 
 Thy friendship thus thy judgment 
 wronging, 
 With praises not to me belonging, 
 In task more meet for mightiest powers, 
 Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. 
 But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh'd 
 That secret power by all obey'd, 
 Which warps not less the passive mind. 
 Its source conceal'd or undefined; 
 Whether an impulse, that has birth 
 Soon as the infant wakes on earth. 
 One with our feelings and our powers, 
 And rather part of us than ours; 
 Or whether fitlier term'd the sway 
 Of habit form'd in early day? 
 Howe'er derived, its force confest 
 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. 
 He seeks not eager to inhale 
 The freshness of the mountain gale. 
 Content to rear his whiten'd wall 
 Beside the dank and dull canal? 
 He'll say, from youth he loved to see 
 The white sail gliding by the tree. 
 Or see yon weatherbeaten hind, 
 Whose sluggish herds before him wind. 
 Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek 
 His northern clime and kindred speak; 
 Through England's laughing meads 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: 
 * Joanna Baillie. 
 
 Not for fair Devon's meads forsake 
 Bennevis gray, and Garry's lake. 
 
 Thus, while I ape the measure wild 
 Of tales that charm'd 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 charm'd myfancy's wakening hour. 
 Though no broad river swept along. 
 To claim, perchance, heroic song; 
 Though sigh'd no groves in summer gale, 
 To prompt of love a softer tale : 
 Though soarce a puny streamlet's speed 
 Claim'd homage from a shepherd's reed; 
 Yet was poetic impulse given, 
 By the green hill and clear blue heaven. 
 It was a barren scene, and wild. 
 Where naked cliffs were rudely piled; 
 But ever and anon between 
 Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; 
 And well the lonely infant knew 
 Recesses where the wall-flower grew, 
 And honey-suckle loved to crawl 
 Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. 
 I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade 
 The sun in all its round survey 'd; 
 And still I thought that shatter'd tower* 
 The mightiest work of human power; 
 And marvell'd as the aged hind 
 With some strange tale bewitch'd my 
 
 mind. 
 Of forayers, who, with headlong force, 
 Down from that strength had spurr'd 
 
 their horse, 
 Their southern rapine to renew, 
 Far in the distant Cheviots blue. 
 And, home returning, fill'd the hall 
 With revel, wassail-rout, and brawl. 
 Methought that still with trump and clang 
 The gateway's broken arches rang; 
 Methought grim features, seam'd with 
 
 scars. 
 Glared through the window's rusty bars, 
 And ever, by the winter hearth. 
 Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, 
 Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms, 
 Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms; 
 
 t Sinailholm tower, in Berwickshire. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE HOSTEL, OR INN. 
 
 73 
 
 Of patriot battles, won of old 
 By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold; 
 Of later fields of feud and fight, 
 When, pouring from their Highland 
 
 height. 
 The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 
 Had swept the scarlet ranks away. 
 While stretch'd at length upon the floor, 
 Again I fought each combat o'er, 
 Pebbles and shells, in order laid, 
 The mimic ranks of war display 'd; 
 And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, 
 And still the scatter 'd Southron fled before. 
 
 Still, with vain fondness, could I trace. 
 Anew, each kind familiar face. 
 That brighten'd at our evening fire! 
 From the thatch'd mansion's gray-hair'd 
 
 Sire,* 
 Wise without learning, plain and good, 
 And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood; 
 Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen, 
 Show'd 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. 
 Whose life and manners well could paint 
 Alike the student and the saint; 
 Alas ! whose speech too oft I broke 
 With gamlxjl rude and timeless joke: 
 For I was wayward, bold, and wild, 
 A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child; 
 But half a plague, and half a jest, 
 Was still endured, beloved, caress'd. 
 
 For me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask 
 The classic poet's well-conn'd task? 
 Nay, Erskine, nay. — ■ On the wild hill 
 Let the wild heath-bell flourish still; 
 Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, 
 But freely let the woodbine twine, 
 And leave untrimm'd the eglantine; 
 Nay, my friend, nay. — Since oft thy 
 
 praise 
 Hath given fresh vigor to my lays; 
 Since oft thy judgment could refine 
 My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous line; 
 Still kind, as is thy wont, attend. 
 And in the minstrel spare the friend. 
 
 * Roliert Scott of Sandyknows, the grand- 
 father of the poet. 
 
 Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale. 
 Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale ! 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 THE HOSTEL, OR INN. 
 I. 
 
 The lifelong day Lord Marmion rode : 
 The mountain path the Palmer show'd. 
 By glen and streamlet winded still, 
 Where stunted birches hid the rill. 
 They might not choose the lowland road. 
 For the Merse foraycrs were abroad, 
 Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey, 
 Had scarcely fail'd to bar their way. 
 Oft on the trampling band, from crown 
 Of some tall cliff, the deer look'ddown; 
 On wing of jet, from his repose 
 In the deep heath, the black-cock 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 pass'd before 
 They gain'd the height of Lammermoor; 
 Thence winding down the northern way 
 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. 
 
 Lord Marmion drew his rein : 
 The village inn seem'd large, though 
 
 rude; ^ 
 Its cheerful fire and hearty fo»d 
 
 Might well relieve his train. 
 Down from their seats the horsemen 
 
 sprung. 
 With jingling spurs the court-yard rung; 
 
74 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 They bind their horses to the stall, 
 For forage, food, and firing call, 
 And various clamor fills the hall : 
 Weighing the labor with the cost. 
 Toils everywhere the bustling host. 
 
 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. 
 The chimney arch projected wide; 
 AVjove, around it, and beside. 
 
 Were tools for housewives' hand; 
 Nor wanted, in that martial day, 
 The implements of Scottish fray. 
 
 The buckler, lance, and brand. 
 Beneath its shade, the place of state, 
 On oaken settle Marmion sate, 
 And view'd around the blazing liearlh. 
 His followers mix in noisy mirth; 
 Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, 
 From ancient vessels ranged aside. 
 Full actively their host supplied. 
 
 Theirs was the glee of martial breast, 
 Antl laughter theirs at little jest; 
 And oft Lord Marmion deign'd to aid, 
 And mingle in the mirth they made; 
 For though with men of high degree, 
 The proudest of the proud was he. 
 Yet, train'd in camps, he knew the art 
 To win the soldier's hardy heart. 
 They love a captain to obey. 
 Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; 
 With open hand and brow as free. 
 Lover of wine and minstrelsy; 
 Ever the first to scale a tower. 
 As venturous in a lady's bower: — 
 Such buxom chief shall lead his host 
 From India's fires to Zembla's frost. 
 
 Resting upon his pilgrim staff. 
 Right opposite the Palmer stood; 
 
 His thin dark visage seen but half, 
 Half hidden by his hood. 
 
 Still fix'd on Marmion was his look. 
 Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, 
 
 Strove by a frown to quell; 
 But not for that, though more than once 
 Full met their stern encountering glance. 
 
 The Palmer's visage fell. 
 
 By fits less frequent from the crowd 
 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 whisper'd forth his mind: — 
 " Saint Mary ! saw'st thou e'er such sight ? 
 How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, 
 Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light. 
 
 Glances beneath his cowl ! 
 Full on our Lord he sets his eye; 
 For his best palfrey, would not I 
 
 Endure that sullen scowl." 
 
 But Marmion, as to chase the awe 
 Which thus had quell'd their hearts, whc 
 
 saw 
 The ever-varying firelight show 
 That figure stern and face of woe, 
 
 Now call'd upon a squire: — 
 " 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 rejoin'd, 
 " Our choicest minstrel's left behind. 
 Ill may we hope to please your ear, 
 Accustom'd Constant's strain to hear. 
 The harp full deftly can he strike. 
 And wake the lover's lute alike; 
 To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush 
 Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush, 
 No nightingale her lovelorn tune 
 More sweetly warbles to the moon. 
 Woe to the cause, whate'er it be. 
 Detains from us his melody, 
 Lavish'd on rocks, and liillows stern. 
 Or duller monks of Lindisfarne. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 TIIE^ HOSTEL, OR INN. 
 
 75 
 
 Now must I venture, as I may, 
 To sing his favorite roundelay." 
 
 A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 
 The air he chose was wild and sad; 
 Such have I heard, in Scottish land. 
 Rise from the busy harvest hand. 
 When falls before the mountaineer. 
 On Lowland plains the ripen'd ear. 
 Now one shrill voice the notes prolong. 
 Now a wild chorus swells the song: 
 Oft have I listen'd and stood still, 
 As it came soften'd up the hill. 
 And deeni'd it the lament of men 
 Who langnish'd for their native glen; 
 And thought how sad would Vx; such 
 
 sound 
 On Susquehanna's swampy ground, 
 Kentucky's wood-encumber'd brake. 
 Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, 
 Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain, 
 Recall'd fair Scotland's hills again! 
 
 Where shall the lover rest, 
 
 Whom the fates sever 
 From his true maiden's breast, 
 
 Parted forever? 
 Where, through groves deep and high. 
 
 Sounds the far billow, 
 Where early violets die. 
 
 Under the willow. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Elcu loro, etc. Soft shall be his pillow. 
 
 There, through the summer day, 
 
 Cool streams are laving; 
 There, while the tempests sway. 
 
 Scarce are boughs waving; 
 There, thy rest shalt thou take, 
 
 Parted forever. 
 Never again to wake, 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Eleti loro, etc. Never, O never ! 
 
 Where shall the traitor rest, 
 
 He, the deceiver, 
 Who could win maiden's breast. 
 
 Ruin, and leave her? 
 In the lost battle, 
 
 Borne down by the flying, 
 Where mingles war's rattle 
 
 With groans of the dying. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Elc'u 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. 
 Blessing shall hallow it, — 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Eieu loro, etc. Never, O never ! 
 
 It ceased, the melancholy sound; 
 And silence sunk on all around. 
 The air was sad; but sadder still 
 
 It fell on Marmion's ear. 
 And plain'd as if disgrace and ill. 
 
 And shameful death, were near. 
 He drew his mantle past his face. 
 
 Between it and the band, 
 And rested with his head a space. 
 
 Reclining on his hand. 
 His thoughts I scan not; but I ween. 
 That, could their import have been seen. 
 The meanest groom in all the hall, 
 That e'er tied courser to a stall. 
 Would scarce have wish'd to be their prey, 
 For Lutterward and Fontenaye. 
 
 High minds, of native pride and force. 
 Most deeply feel thy pangs. Remorse! 
 Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have. 
 Thou art the torturer of the brave ! 
 Yet fatal strength they boast to steel 
 Their minds to bear the wounds they feel. 
 
76 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Even while they writhe beneath the smart 
 Of civil conflict in the heart. 
 For soon Lord Marmion raised his head, 
 And, smiling, to Fitz- Eustace said, — 
 " Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, 
 Seem'd in mine ear a death-peal rung, 
 Such as in nunneries they toll 
 For some departing sister's soul? 
 
 Say, what may this portend? " — 
 Then first the Palmer silence broke, 
 (The livelong day he had not spoke,) 
 
 " The death of a dear friend." ^ 
 
 Marmion, whose steady heart and eye 
 Ne'er changed in worst extremity; 
 Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook. 
 Even from his King, a haughty look; 
 Whose accent of command controll'd, 
 In camps, the boldest of the bold — 
 Thought, look, and utterance fail'd him 
 
 now, 
 Fall'n was hisglance,andflush'dhis brow; 
 
 For either in the tone. 
 Or something in the Palmer's look, 
 So full upon his conscience strook. 
 
 That answer he found none. 
 Thus oft it haps, that when within 
 They shrink at sense of secret sin, 
 
 A feather daunts the brave; 
 A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, 
 And proudest princes vail their eyes 
 
 Before their meanest slave. 
 
 Well might he falter ! — By his aid 
 Was Constance Beverley betray'd. 
 Not that he augur'd of the doom. 
 Which on the living closed the tomb: 
 But, tired to hear the desperate maid 
 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 deem'd 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, 
 For some slight mulct of penance-gold. 
 This judging, he gave secret way, 
 Whe n the stern priests surprised their prey. 
 
 His train but deem'd the favorite page 
 Was left behind, to spare his age; 
 Or other if they deem'd, none dared 
 To mutter what he thought and heard : 
 Woe to the vassal, who durst pry 
 Into Lord Marmion's privacy ! 
 
 His conscience slept — he deem'd her 
 
 well. 
 And safe secured in distant cell : 
 But, waken'd 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'd throes. 
 Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose; 
 And Constance, late betray'd and scorn'd. 
 All lovely on his soul return 'd; 
 Lovely as when, at treacherous call. 
 She left her convent's peaceful wall 
 Crimson'd 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 steel'd her brow, and arm'd her 
 
 eyes ! 
 No more of virgin terror speaks 
 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 
 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 ! " — • 
 
Canto III, 
 
 Tim HOSTEL, OR INN. 
 
 77 
 
 And twice his Sovereign's mandate came, 
 Like damp upon a kindling flame; 
 And twice he thought, " Gave I not charge 
 She should be safe, though not at large? 
 They durst not, for their island, shred 
 One golden ringlet from her head." 
 
 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 Pal mer 's speech had heard , 
 
 And, talkative, took up the word: 
 
 " Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray 
 
 From Scotland's simple land away, 
 
 To visit realms afar. 
 Full often learn the art to know 
 Of future weal, or future woe, 
 
 By word, or sign, or star; 
 Yet might a knight his fortune hear, 
 If, knight-like, he despises fear, 
 Not far from hence; — if fathers old 
 Aright our hamlet legend told." — 
 These broken words the menials move, 
 (For marvels still the vulgar love,) 
 And, Marmion giving license cold, 
 His tale the host thus gladly told: — 
 
 THE host's tale. 
 
 " A Clerk could tell what years have flown 
 
 Since Alexander fill'd 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 
 
 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 toil'd a mortal arm, 
 
 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 labor'd under Hugo's spell, 
 
 Sounded as loud as ocean's war. 
 Among the caverns of Dunbar. 
 
 " The King Lord Gifford's castle sought, 
 Deep laboring with uncertain thought ; 
 Even then he muster'd all his host. 
 To meet upon the western coast: 
 For Norse and Danish galleys plied 
 Their oars within the frith of Clyde. 
 There floated Haco's banner trim,^ 
 Above Norweyan warriors grim. 
 Savage of heart, and large of limb; 
 Threatening both continent and isle, 
 Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle. 
 Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground, 
 Heard Alexander's bugle sound. 
 And tarried not 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 mark'd with cross and 
 
 spell. 
 Upon his breast a pentacle; ** 
 His zone, of virgin parchment thin, 
 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. 
 
 " Dire dealings with the fiendish race 
 Had mark'd strange lines upon his face; 
 Vigil and fast had worn him grim, 
 His eyesight dazzled se^fri'd and dim, 
 As one unused to upper day; 
 Even his own menials with dismay 
 Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire, 
 In his unwonted wild attire; 
 Unwonted, for traditions run, 
 He seldom thus beheld the sun. — 
 ' I know,' he said — his voice was hoarse, 
 And broken seem'd its hollow force, — 
 ' I know the cause, although untold. 
 Why the King seeks his vassal's hold : 
 Vainly from me my liege would know 
 His kingdom's future weal or woe; 
 But yet, if strong his arm and heart, 
 His courage may do more than art. 
 
78 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto III, 
 
 " ' Of middle air the demons proud, 
 Who ride upon the racking cloud, 
 Can read, in fix'd or wandering star, 
 The issue of events afar; 
 But still their sullen aid withhold. 
 Save when by mightier force rontrolPd. 
 Such late I summon'd to my hall; 
 And though so potent was the call, 
 That scarce the deepest nook of hell 
 I deem'd a refuge from the spell, 
 Vet, obstinate in silence still, 
 The haughty demon mocks my skill. 
 But lliou — wh(5 little know'st thy migiit. 
 As born upon that blessed night ^ 
 When yawning graves, and dying groan, 
 Proclaim'd hell's empire overthrown, — 
 With untaught valor shall compel 
 Response denied to magic spell.' 
 'Gramercy,' quoth our Monarch free, 
 * Place him but front to front with me. 
 And, by this good and honor'd brand. 
 The gift of CcEur-de-Lion's hand, 
 Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide, 
 The demon shall a buffet bide.' — 
 His bearing bold the wizard view'd. 
 And thus, well pleased, his speech re- 
 new 'd: — 
 ' There spoke the blood of Malcolm ! — 
 
 mark: 
 Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark. 
 The rampart seek, whose circling crown 
 Crests the ascent of yonder down : 
 A southern entrance shall 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 shall know 
 Whate'er these airy sprites can show; — 
 If tliy heart fail thee in the strife, 
 I am no warrant for thy life.' 
 
 " Soon as the midnight bell did ring. 
 Alone, and arm'd, 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, 
 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 ! 
 ITie 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 past. 
 Halted, and blew a gallant blast; 
 And on the north, within the ring, 
 Appear'd the form of England's King, 
 Who then, a thousand leagues afar, 
 In Palestine wagetl holy war: 
 Yet arms like England's did he wield. 
 Alike the leopards in the shield, 
 Alike his Syrian courser's frame. 
 The rider's length of limb the same : 
 Long afterwards did Scotland know. 
 Fell Edward * was her deadliest foe. 
 
 "The vision made our Monarch start, 
 But soon he niann'd 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 
 Compell'd the future war to show. 
 Of Largs he saw the glorious plain, 
 Where still gigantic bones remain. 
 
 Memorial of the Danish war; 
 Himself he saw, amid the field. 
 On high his brandish'd war-axe \yield. 
 
 And strike proud Haco from his car, 
 While all around the shadowy Kings 
 Denmark's grim ravens cower'd their 
 
 wings. 
 'Tis said, that, in that awful night, 
 Remoter visions met his sight. 
 Foreshowing future conquests far, 
 When our sons' sons wage northern 
 
 war; 
 A royal city, tower and spire, 
 Redden'd the midnight sky with fire, 
 
 * Edward I. of England, sumamed " Long- 
 shanks." 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE HOSTEL, OR INN. 
 
 79 
 
 And shouting crews her navy Ixirc, 
 'I'riiiniph.int, to the victor shore.* 
 Such signs may learned clerks explain, 
 They pass the wit of simple swain. 
 
 "The joyful King turn'd home again. 
 Headed his host, and quell'd the Dane; 
 But yearly, when return'd the night 
 Of his strange combat with the sprite, 
 
 His wound must bleed and smart; 
 Lord Gifford then would gibing say, 
 ' Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay 
 
 The penance of your start.' 
 Long since, tjenealh Dunfermline's nave. 
 King Alexander fills his grave, 
 
 Our Lady give him rest ! 
 Yet still the knightly spear and shield 
 The Elfin Warrior doth wield. 
 
 Upon the brown hill's breast; ^ 
 And many a knight hath proved his 
 
 chance. 
 In the charm'd ring to break a lance. 
 
 But all have foully sped; 
 Save two, as legends tell, and they 
 Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay. — 
 
 Gentles, my tale is said." 
 
 The quaighs t 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 lords, 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, 
 Oppress'd with toil and ale, they snore: 
 The dying flame, in fitful change. 
 Threw on the group its shadows strange. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 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 : 
 
 • An allusion to the battle of Copenhagen, 
 iSoi. 
 
 t Quai^h, a wooJen cup. 
 
 Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream 
 Of sport by thicket, or by stream. 
 Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove, 
 Or, lighter yet, of lady's love. 
 A cautious tread his slumber broke. 
 And, close beside him, when he woke. 
 In moonbeam half, and half in gloom, 
 .Stood a tall form, with nodding plume; 
 But, ere his dagger Eustace drew. 
 His master Marmion's voice he knew. 
 
 — " Fitz-Eustace ! rise, I cannot rest; 
 Von churl's wild legend haunts my 
 
 breast, 
 And graver thoughts have chafed my 
 
 mood: 
 The air must cool my feverish blood; 
 And fain would I ride forth, to see 
 The scene of Elfin chivalry. 
 Arise, and saddle me my steed; 
 And, gentle Eustace, take good heed 
 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 stejis they slid, 
 Eustace the stable-door undid. 
 And, darkling, Marmion's steed array'd. 
 While, whispering, thus the Baron said : — 
 
 " Did'st 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. 
 That I could meet this Elfin Foe ! 
 Blithe would I battle, for the right 
 To ask one question at the sprite : — 
 Vain thought I for elves, if elves there 
 
 be. 
 An empty race, by fount or sea. 
 To dashing waters dance and sing, 
 Orround the green oak wheel their ring.'" 
 Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode, 
 And from the hostel slowly rode. 
 
8o 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Fitz-Eustace foUow'd him abroad, 
 And mark'd him pace the village 
 road, 
 
 And listen'd to his horse's tramp. 
 Till, by the lessening sound, 
 
 He judged that of the Pictish camp 
 Lord Marmion sought the round. 
 Wonder it scom'd, in the squire's 
 
 eyes, 
 That one, so wary held, and wise, — 
 Of whom 'twas said, he scarce received 
 For gospel, what the church believed, — 
 
 Should, stirr'd by idle tale. 
 Ride forth in silence of the night, 
 As hoping half to meet a sprite, 
 
 Array'd in plate and mail. 
 For little did Fitz-Eustace know. 
 That passions in contending flow, 
 
 Unfix the strongest mind; 
 Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee. 
 We welcome fond credulity. 
 
 Guide confident, though blind. 
 
 Litlle for this Fitz-Eustace cared. 
 Rut, patient, waited till he heard. 
 At distance, prick'd to utmost speed. 
 The foot-tramp of a flying steed, 
 
 Come town- ward rushing on; 
 First, dead, as if on turf it trode. 
 Then, clattering on the village road, — 
 In other pace than forth he yode,* 
 
 Return'd Lord Marmion. 
 Down hastily he sprung from selle. 
 And, in his haste, wellnigh he fell; 
 To the squire's hand the rein he 
 
 threw. 
 And spoke no word as he withdrew : 
 But yet the moonlight did betray. 
 The falcon-crest was soil'd with clay; 
 And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see, 
 Ky stains upon the charger's knee, 
 And his left side, that on the moor 
 He had not kept his footing sure. 
 Long musing on these wondrous signs. 
 At length to rest the squire reclines. 
 Broken and short; for still, between, 
 Would dreams of terror intervene: 
 Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark 
 The first notes of the morning lark. 
 
 * Yode, used by old poets for nvent. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
 FOURTH. 
 
 TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.t 
 
 A sheitjel, Ettrick Forest. 
 An ancient Minstrel sagely said, 
 " Where is the life which late we led? " 
 That motley clown in Arden wood, 
 Whom humorous Jacques with envy 
 
 view'd, 
 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, 
 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 mark'd, like all below, 
 With chequer'il shades of joy and woe; 
 Though thou o'er realms and seas hast 
 
 ranged, 
 Mark'd cities lost, and empires changed. 
 While here, at home, my narrower ken 
 .Somewhat of manners saw, and men; 
 Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, 
 Fever'd the progress of these years. 
 Yet now, days, weeks, and months, but 
 
 seem 
 The recollection of a dream. 
 So still we glide down to the sea 
 Of fathomless eternity. 
 
 Even now it scarcely seems a day. 
 Since first I tuned this idle lay; 
 A task so often thrown aside. 
 When leisure graver cares denied. 
 That now, November's dreary gale, 
 Whose voice inspired my oju'ning tale, 
 That same November gale once more 
 Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. 
 Their vex'd boughs streaming to the sky. 
 Once more our naked birches sigh, 
 And lilackhouse heights, and Ettrick I'en, 
 Have donn'd their wintry shrouds again : 
 And mountain dark, and flooded mead, 
 Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 
 Earlier than wont along the sky, 
 Mix'd with the rack, the snow mists fly: 
 
 t James Skene, Esq., of Rubislaw, Aberdeen 
 shire. 
 
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO IV. 
 
 8i 
 
 The shepherd, who in summer sun, 
 Mad something of our envy won. 
 As thou with pencil, I with pen. 
 The features traced of hill and glen; — 
 He who, outstretch'd the live-long day, 
 At ease among the heath-flowers lay, 
 View'd the light clouds with vacant look. 
 Or sluniber'd o'er his tatter'd book. 
 Or idly busied him to guide 
 His angle o'er the lessen'd tide, — 
 At midnight now, the snowy plain 
 Finds sterner labor for the swain. 
 
 When red hath set the beamless sun. 
 Through heavy vapors dark 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; 
 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 tlangerous 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, 
 To leave his 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. 
 His cottage window seems a star, — 
 Loses its feeble gleam, — and then 
 furns 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. 
 The morn may find the stiffen'd swain ;*^ 
 The widow sees, at dawning pale. 
 His orphans raise their feeble wailj 
 
 And, close beside him, in the snow, 
 Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe. 
 Couches upon his master's breast. 
 And licks his cheek to break his rest. 
 
 Who envies now the shepherd's lot. 
 His healthy fare, his rural cot. 
 His summer couch by greenwood tree. 
 His rustic kirn's * loud revelry, 
 His native hill-notes, tuned on high, 
 To Marion of the blithesome eye; 
 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, 
 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, 
 Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms. 
 Then happy those, since each must drain 
 His share of pleasure, share of pain, — 
 Then happy those, beloved of Heaven, 
 To whom the mingled cup is given; 
 Whose lenient sorrows find relief. 
 Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief. 
 And such a lot, my Skene, was thine. 
 When thou of late, wert doom'd to twine. 
 Just when thy bridal hour was by, — 
 The cypress with the myrtle tie. 
 Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled. 
 And bless'd the union of his child, 
 When love must change its joyous cheer 
 And wipe affection's filial tear. 
 Nor did the actions next his end. 
 Speak more the father than the friend. 
 Scarce had lamented Forbes *^ paid 
 The tribute to his Minstrel's shade; 
 The tale of friendship scarce was told, 
 Ere the narrator's heart was cold — 
 Far may we search before we find 
 A heart so manly and so kind ! 
 But not around his honor'd urn. 
 Shall friends alone and kindred mourn; 
 The thousand eyes his care had dried, 
 Pour at his name a bitter tide; 
 
 * Scottish harvest-home. 
 
82 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 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'sstay." 
 Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem 
 My verse intrudes on this sad theme; 
 For sacred was the pen that wrote, 
 "Thy father's friend forget thou not:" 
 And grateful title may I plead, 
 For many a kindly word and deed, 
 To bring my tribute to his grave: — 
 'Tis little — but 'tis all I have. 
 
 To thee, perchance, this rambling strain 
 Recalls our summer walks again; 
 When, doing naught, — and, tospeak true. 
 Not anxious to find aught to do, — 
 The wild unbounded hills we ranged. 
 While oft our talk its topic changed. 
 And, desultory as our way. 
 Ranged, unconfincd, from grave to gay. 
 Even when it flagg'd, as oft will chance. 
 No effort made to break its trance. 
 We could right pleasantly pursue 
 Our sports in social silence too; 
 Thou bravely laljoring to portray 
 The blighted oak's fantastic spray; 
 I spelling o'er, with much delight. 
 The legend of that antique knight, 
 Tirante by name, yclep'd the White. 
 At cither's feet a trusty squire, 
 Pandour and Camp,* with eyes of fire, 
 Jealous, each other's motions view'd. 
 And scarce suppress'd their ancient feud. 
 The laverock t whistled from the cloud; 
 The stream was lively, but not loud; 
 From the whitethorn the May- flower shed 
 Its dewy fragrance round our head: 
 Not Ariel lived more merrily 
 Under the blossom'd bough, than we. 
 
 And blithesome nights, too, have been 
 ours. 
 When Winter stript the summer's bowers. 
 Careless we heard, what now I hear. 
 The wild blast sighing deep and drear, ■ 
 When fires were bright, and lamps beam'd 
 
 And ladies tuned the lovely lay; 
 
 * A favorite bull-terrier of Sir Walter's, 
 t Laverock, the lark. 
 
 And he was held a laggard soul, 
 Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling Ijowl. 
 Then he, whose absence we deplore, t 
 Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, 
 The longer miss'd, bewail'd the more; 
 
 And thou, and I, and dear loved R ,§ 
 
 And one whose name I may not say, — II 
 
 For not mimosa's tender tree 
 
 Shrinks sooner from the touch than he, — 
 
 In merry chorus well combined. 
 
 With laughterdrown'd the whistling wind. 
 
 Mirth was within; and Care without 
 
 Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. 
 
 Not but amid the buxom scene 
 
 Some grave discourse night intervene — 
 
 Of the good horse that bore him best. 
 
 His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest: 
 
 For, like mad Tom's, If 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. 
 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. 
 I. 
 
 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 yeomen 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. 
 
 X Colin Mackenzie, of Portmore. 
 
 § Sir William Rae, Bart., of St. Catharine's. 
 
 II Sir William Forbes, Bart., of Pitsligo. Son 
 of the author of the life of Beattie and brother- 
 in-law of James Skene. 
 
 H Common name for an idiot; assumed by 
 Edgar in King Lear. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE CAMP. 
 
 83 
 
 Some clamor 'd loud for armor lost; 
 Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host ; 
 " By Becket's bones," cried one, " I 
 
 fear. 
 That some false Scot has stolen my 
 
 spear ! " — 
 Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second 
 
 squire, 
 Found his steed wet with sweat and mire; 
 Although the rated horse-l)oy sware. 
 Last night he dressed him sleek and fair. 
 While chafed the impatient squire, like 
 
 thunder 
 Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder, — 
 "Help, gentle Blount ! help, comrades all ! 
 Bevis 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 
 Been lantern-led by Friar Rush." *'^ 
 
 Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but 
 guess'd, 
 Nor wholly understood. 
 His comrades' clamorous plaints sup- 
 press'd; 
 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 naught 
 To cause such disarray. 
 Lord Marmion gave attention cold, 
 Nor marvell'd at the wonders told, — 
 Pass'd them as accidents of course, 
 And bade his clarions sound to horse. 
 
 Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost 
 Had reckon'd with their Scottish host; 
 And, as the charge he cast and paid, 
 " 111 thou deserv'st thy hire," he said ; 
 " Dost see, thou knave, my horse's 
 
 plight ? 
 Fairies have ridden him all the night. 
 
 And left him in a foam ! 
 I trust that soon a conjuring band. 
 With English cross and blazing brand, 
 Shall drive the devils from this land. 
 
 To their infernal home: 
 For in this haunted den, I trow, 
 All night they trample to and fro." 
 The laughing host look'd on the hire : — 
 " Gramercy, gentle southern squire. 
 And if thou comest among the rest, 
 With Scottish broadsword to l>e blest, 
 Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow. 
 And short the pang to undergo." 
 Here stay'd their talk, — for Marmion 
 Gave now a signal to set on. 
 The Palmer showing forth the way, 
 They journey'd all the morning day. 
 
 The green-sward way was smooth and 
 
 good. 
 Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's 
 
 wood; 
 A forest glade, which, varying still. 
 Here gave a view of dale and hill. 
 There narrower closed, till over-head 
 A vaulted screen the branches made. 
 " A pleasant path," Fitz-Eustace said; 
 " Such as where errant-knights might 
 
 see 
 Adventures of high chivalry; 
 Might meet some damsel flying fast. 
 With hair unbound and looks aghast; 
 And smooth and level course were here. 
 In her defence to break a spear. 
 Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells; 
 And oft, in such, the story tells. 
 The damsel kind, from danger freed, 
 Did grateful pay her champion's meed." 
 He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind: 
 Perchance to show his lore design'd; 
 
 For Eustace much had pored 
 Upon a huge romantic tome. 
 In the hall window of his home. 
 Imprinted at the antique dome 
 
 Of Caxton, or De Worde.* 
 Therefore he spoke, — but spoke in 
 
 vain, 
 For Marmion answer'd naught again. 
 
 » William Caxton was the earliest English 
 printer; bom in Kent, a.d. 1412, died i4<)i ; 
 Wynken de Worde was his successor. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 Canto IV 
 
 Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill, 
 In notes prolong'd by wood and hill, 
 
 Were heard to echo far; 
 Each ready archer grasp'd his bow. 
 But by the flourish soon they know, 
 
 They breathed no point of war. 
 Yet cautious, as in foeman's land. 
 Lord Marmion's order speeds the band, 
 
 Some opener ground lo gain; 
 And scarce a furlong had they rode. 
 When thinner trees, receding, show'd 
 
 A little woodland plain. 
 Just in that advantageous glade, 
 The halting troop a line had made, 
 As forth from the opposing shade 
 
 Issued a gallant train. 
 
 First came the trumpets at whose clang 
 So late the forest echoes rang; 
 On prancing steeds they forward press'd, 
 With scarlet mantle, azure vest; 
 Each at his trump a banner wore. 
 Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore: 
 Heralds and pursuivants, by name 
 Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came, 
 In painted tabards, proudly showing 
 Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing. 
 
 Attendant on a King-at-arms, 
 Whose hand the armorial truncheon held 
 That feudal strife had often quell'd. 
 
 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. 
 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, 
 
 Embroider'd round and round. 
 
 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, blazon'd brave. 
 The Lion, which his title gave; 
 A train which well beseem'd his state, 
 Rut all unarm'd, around him wait. 
 
 Still is thy name in high account, 
 And still thy verse has charms. 
 
 Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, 
 Lord Lion King-at-arms !"*•* 
 
 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 crown'd. 
 
 And on his temples placed the round 
 
 Of Scotland's ancient diadem : 
 And wet his brow with hallow'd wine. 
 And on his 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; 
 Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name. 
 And honors much his warlike fame, 
 My liege hath deem'd it shame, and lack 
 Of courtesy, to turn him back; 
 And, by his order, I, your guide, 
 Must lodging fit and fair provide. 
 Till finds King James meet time to see 
 The flower of English chivalry." 
 
 Though inly chafed at this delay, 
 Lord Marmion bears it as he may. 
 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 ; " 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE CAMP. 
 
 85 
 
 To Marchmount thus, apart, he said, 
 But fair pretext to Marmion made. 
 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 assign'd 
 
 A lodging meet for Marmion's rank. 
 That Castle rises on the steep 
 
 Of the green vale of Tyne : 
 And far beneath, where slow they creep, 
 From pool to eddy, dark and deep. 
 Where alders moist, and willows weep. 
 
 You hear her streams repine. 
 The towers in different ages rose; 
 Their various architecture shows 
 
 The builders' various hands; 
 A mighty mass, that could oppose, • 
 When deadliest hatred fired its foes. 
 
 The vengeful Douglas bands. 
 
 Crichtoun ! though now thy miry court 
 But pens the lazy steer and sheep. 
 Thy turrets rude, and totter'd Keep, 
 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, 
 Quarter'd in old armorial sort, 
 
 Remains of rude magnificence. 
 Nor wholly yet had time defaced 
 
 Thy lordly gallery fair; 
 Nor yet the stony cord unbraced. 
 Whose twisted knots, with roses laced. 
 
 Adorn thy ruin'd stair; 
 Still rises unimpair'd 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 Init houseless cattle go, 
 To shield them from the storm. 
 And, shuddering, still may we explore, 
 Where oft whilom werecaptives pent. 
 The darkness of thy Massy More; 
 Or, from thygrass-grown battlement. 
 May trace, in undulating line. 
 The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. 
 
 Another aspect Crichtoun show'd. 
 
 As through its portals Marmion rode; 
 
 But yet 'twas melancholy state 
 
 Received him at the outer gate; 
 
 For none were in the Castle then, 
 
 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, 
 Proffer'd the Baron's rein to hold; 
 For each man that could draw a sword 
 Had march'd that morning with their lord. 
 Earl Adam Hepburn,'"' he who died 
 On Flodden, by his sovereign's side. 
 Long may his Lady look in vain ! 
 She ne'er shall see his gallant train 
 Come sweeping back through Crichtoun- 
 
 Dean, 
 'Twas a brave race, Ijefore the name 
 Of hated Bothwell stain'd their fame. 
 
 And here two days did Marmion rest, 
 
 With every rite that honor claims. 
 Attended as the King's own guest : — 
 
 Such the command of royal James, 
 Who marshall'd then his land's array. 
 Upon the Borough-moor that lay. 
 Perchance he would not foeman's eye 
 Upon his gathering host should pry. 
 Till full prepared 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, 
 Train'd in the lore of Rome and Greece, 
 And policies of war and peace. 
 
 It chanced, as fell the second night. 
 
 That on the battlements they walk'd. 
 And, by the slowly fading light, 
 
 Of varying topics talk'd; 
 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; *'' 
 
86 
 
 M ARM ION. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 And, closer question'd, thus he told 
 A tale, which chronicles of old 
 In Scottish story have enroU'd: — 
 
 XV. 
 SIR DAVID LINDKSAY'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 ! 
 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 ! 
 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; 
 While, for his royal fatiier's soul. 
 The chanters sung, the bells did toll, 
 
 The Bishop mass was saying — • 
 For now the year lirought round again 
 The day the luckless king was slain — 
 In Katharine's aisle the Monarch knelt. 
 With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt, 
 
 And eyes with sorrow streaming; 
 Around him in their stalls of state. 
 The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate, 
 
 Their banners o'er them beaming. 
 I too was there, and, sooth to tell, 
 Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell, 
 Was watching where the sun1)eams fell. 
 
 Through thestain'tl casementgleaming; 
 But, while I mark'd what next befell, 
 
 It seem'd as I were dreaming. 
 Stcpp'd from the crowd a ghostly wight, 
 In azure gown, with cincture white; 
 His forehead bald, his head was bare, 
 Down hung at length his yellow hair, — 
 
 Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord, 
 I pledge to you my knightly word. 
 That, when I saw his placid grace, 
 His simj)le majesty of face, 
 His solemn bearing, and his pace 
 
 So stately gliding on, — 
 Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint 
 So just an image of the Saint, 
 Who propp'd the V-'irgin in her faiit, — 
 
 The loved Apostle John ! 
 
 '' He stepp'd before the Monarch's chair. 
 And stood with rustic plainness there, 
 
 And little reverence made; 
 Nor head, nor body, bow'd nor bent, 
 But on the desk his arm he leant. 
 
 And words like these he said. 
 In a low voice, but never tone 
 So thrill'd through vein, and nerve and 
 
 bone : — 
 ' My 'mother sent me from afar. 
 Sir King, to warn thee not to war, — 
 
 Woe waits on thine array; 
 If war thou wilt, of woman fair. 
 Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 
 James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware: 
 God keep thee as he may ! ' 
 
 The wondering Monarch seem'd to 
 seek 
 For answer, and found none; 
 And when he raised his head to 
 speak. 
 The monitor was gone; 
 The Marshal and myself had cast 
 To stop him as he outward pass'd; 
 But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast, 
 
 He vanish'd from our eyes. 
 
 Like sunlieam on the billow cast. 
 
 That glances but, and dies." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 While Lindesay told his marvel strange, 
 
 The twilight was so pale. 
 He mark'd 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 
 Could e'er control their course. 
 And, three days since, had judged your aim 
 Was but to make your guest your game. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE CAMP. 
 
 87 
 
 But I have seen, since past the Tweed, 
 What much has changed my skeptic creed, 
 And made me credit aught." — He staid, 
 And seem'd to wish his words unsaid: 
 But, by that strong emotion press'd. 
 Which prompts us to unload our breast. 
 
 Even when discovery's pain, 
 To Lindesay did at length unfold 
 The tale his village host had told. 
 
 At Gifford, to his train. 
 Naught of the Palmer says he there. 
 And naught of Constance or of Clare; 
 The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he 
 
 seems 
 To mention but as feverish dreams. 
 
 " In vain," said he, " to rest I spread 
 My burning limbs, and couch'd my head: 
 
 Fantastic thoughts return 'd; 
 And, by their wild dominion led. 
 
 My heart within me burn'd. 
 So sore was the delirious goad, 
 I took my steed, and forth I rode. 
 And, as the moon shone bright and cold, 
 Soon reach'd the camp upon the wold. 
 The southern entrance I pass'd through. 
 And halted, and my bugle blew. 
 Methought an answer met my ear, — 
 Yet was the blast so low and drear, 
 So hollow, and so faintly blown, 
 It might be echo of my own. 
 
 "Thus judging, for a little space 
 I listen'd, ere I left the place; 
 
 But scarce could trust my eyes. 
 Nor yet can think they served me true. 
 When sudden in the ring I view. 
 In form distinct of shape and hue, 
 
 A mounted champion rise. — 
 I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day. 
 In single fight, and mix'd affray, 
 And ever, I myself may say. 
 
 Have borne me as a knight; 
 But when this unexpected foe 
 Seem'd 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 coucb '*^ right. 
 
 " Why need my tongue the issue tell? 
 We ran our course, — my charger fell : — 
 What could he 'gainst the shock of hell ? — 
 
 I roll'd upon the plain. 
 High o'er my head, with threatening 
 
 hand, 
 The spectre shook his naked brand, — 
 
 Yet did the worst remain: 
 My dazzled eyes I upward cast.. — 
 Not opening hell itself could blast 
 
 Their sight, like what I saw ! 
 Full on his face the moonbeam strook, — 
 A face could never be mistook ! 
 I kn^w the stern vindictive look, 
 
 And held my breath for awe. 
 I saw the face of one who, fled 
 To foreign climes, has long been dead, — 
 
 I well believe the last; 
 For ne'er, from vizor raised, did stare 
 A human warrior, with a glare. 
 
 So grimly and so ghast. 
 Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade; 
 But when to good Saint George I pray'd, 
 (The first time e'er I ask'd his aid,) 
 
 He plunged it in the sheath; 
 And, on his courser mounting light. 
 He seem'd to vanish from my sight: 
 The moonbeam droop'd, and deepest 
 night 
 
 Sunk down upon the heath. — 
 
 'Twere long to tell what cause I have 
 To know his face, that met me there, 
 
 Caird by his hatred from the grave. 
 To cumber upper air: 
 Dead or alive, good cause had he 
 To be my mortal enemy." 
 
 Marveird Sir David of the Mount; 
 Then, learn'd in story, 'gan recount 
 
 Such chance had happ'd of old. 
 When once, near Norham, there did 
 
 fight 
 A spectre fell of fiendish might 
 In likeness of a Scottish knight, 
 
 W^ith Brian Bulmer bold. 
 And train'd him nigh to disallow 
 The aid of his baptismal vow. 
 "And such a phantom, too, 'tis said. 
 With Highland broadsword, targe, and 
 plaid. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 And fingers, red with gore, 
 Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, 
 Or where the sable pine-trees shade 
 Dark Toniantoul, and Auchnaslaid, 
 
 Uromouchty, or Glenmore.* 
 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 " — 
 Lord Marmion turn'd him half aside, 
 And twice to clear his voice he tried. 
 
 Then press'd Sir David's hand, — 
 But naught, at length, in answer said; 
 And here their farther converse staid, 
 
 Each ordering that his band 
 Jphould boune them with the rising day. 
 To Scotland's camp to take their way. — 
 
 Such was the King's command. 
 
 Early they took Dun-Edin's road. 
 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 the route was laid 
 Across the furzy hills of Braid. 
 They pass'd the glen and scanty rill. 
 And climb'd the opposing bank, until 
 They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill. 
 
 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 city crowd, 
 
 And, from his steeple jangling loud. 
 Saint Giles's mingling din. 
 
 Now, from the summit to the plain. 
 
 Waves all the hill with yellow grain; 
 
 • See note 40. 
 
 And o'er the landscape as I look. 
 Naught do I see unchanged remain, 
 Save the rude cliffs and chimingbrook. 
 To me they make a heavy moan, 
 Of early friendships past and gone. 
 
 But different far the change has l)een. 
 
 Since Marmion, from the crown 
 Of Blackford, saw that martial scene 
 
 Upon the bent so brown: 
 Thousand pavilions, white as snow. 
 Spread all the Borough -moor ^' below. 
 
 Upland, and dale, and down: — 
 A thousand did I say? I ween. 
 Thousands on thousands there were seen. 
 That chequer'd all the heath lx;tween 
 
 The streamlet and the town; 
 In crossing ranks extending far. 
 Forming a canij) irregular; 
 Oft giving way, where still there stood 
 Some relics of the old oak wood, 
 That darkly huge did intervene. 
 And tamed the glaring white with green: 
 In these extended lines there lay 
 A martial kingdom's vast array. 
 
 For from nebudes,^^ dark with rain, 
 To eastern Lodon's fertile plain. 
 And from the Southern Redswire edge. 
 To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge; 
 From west to east, from south to north, 
 Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 
 Marmion might hear the mingled hum 
 Of myriads up the mountain ct)me; 
 The horses' tramp, and tingling clank. 
 Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank, 
 
 And charger's shrilling neigh; 
 And see the shifting lines advance, 
 While frequent flash'd, from shield and 
 lance. 
 
 The sun's reflected ray. 
 
 Thin curling in the morning air. 
 The wreaths of failing smoke declare 
 To embers now the brands decay 'd. 
 Where the night-watch their fires had 
 made. 
 
 t The ancient name of the Hebrides. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE CAMP. 
 
 89 
 
 They saw, slow rolling on the plain, 
 
 Full many a baggage-cart and wain, 
 
 And dire artillery's clumsy car, 
 
 By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war; 
 
 And there were Borthwick's Sisters 
 
 Seven,* 
 And culverins which France had given. 
 Ill-omen'd gift ! the guns remain 
 The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain. 
 
 Nor mark'd 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-tail'd, and square, 
 Scroll, pennon, pensil, 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, 
 Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone, 
 Which still in memory is shown. 
 
 Yet bent lieneath the standard's weight 
 Whene'er the western wind unroll'd. 
 
 With toil, the huge and cuml)rous fold. 
 And gave to view the dazzling field. 
 Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield. 
 
 The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.^* 
 
 Lord Marmion view'd the landscape 
 
 bright, — 
 He view'd it with a chief's delight, — 
 
 Until within him burn'd his heart, 
 
 And lightning from his eye did part, 
 As on the battle-day; 
 
 Such glance did falcon never dart. 
 When stooping on his prey. 
 "Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, 
 Thy King from warfare to dissuade 
 
 Were but a vain essay : 
 For, V)y St. George, were that host mine, 
 Not power infernal nor divine. 
 Should once to peace my soul incline. 
 Till I had dimm'd their armor's shine 
 
 In glorious battle-fray ! " 
 Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood: 
 " Fair is the sight, — and yet 'twere good, 
 
 * Seven culverins, so called from him who 
 cast them. 
 
 That kings would think withal. 
 When peace and wealth their land has 
 
 bless'd, 
 'Tis better to sit still at rest, 
 
 Than rise, perchance to fall." 
 
 Still on the spot Lord Marmion .stay'd. 
 For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd. 
 
 When sated with the martial show 
 
 That peopled all the plain below. 
 
 The wandering eye could o'er it go 
 
 And mark the distant city glow 
 With gloomy 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. 
 
 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 kiss'd. 
 It gleam'd a purple amethyst. 
 Yonder the shores of Fife you saw; 
 Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law : 
 
 And, broad between them roU'd, 
 The gallant Frith the eye might note 
 Whose islands on its bosom float. 
 
 Like emeralds chased in gold. 
 Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent; 
 As if to give his rapture vent. 
 The spur he to his charger lent. 
 
 And raised his bridle hand. 
 And, making demi-volte in air, 
 Cried, " Where's the coward that would 
 not dare 
 
 To fight for such a land? " 
 The Lindesay smiled his joy to see; 
 Nor Marmion's frown repressed his 
 glee. 
 
 Thus while they look'd, a flourish ]iroud, 
 Where mingled trump and clarion loud. 
 
90 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 And fife, and kettle-drum, 
 And sackbut deep, and psaltery, 
 And war-pipe with discordant cry, 
 And cymbal clattering to the sky. 
 Making wild music bold and high, 
 
 Did up the mountain come; 
 The whilst the bells, with distant chime. 
 Merrily told the hour of prime. 
 And thus the Lindesay spoke : — 
 " Thus clamor still the war-notes when 
 The king to mass his way has ta'en. 
 Or to St. Katharine's of Sienne, 
 
 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 
 
 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 the 'larum call 
 The burghers forth to watch and ward, 
 'Gainst southern sack and fires to guard 
 
 Dun-Edin's leaguer'd wall. — 
 But not for my presaging thought. 
 Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought ! 
 
 Lord Marmion, I say nay : 
 God is the guider of the field, 
 He Ijreaks the champion's spear and 
 shield, — 
 
 But thou thyself shalt say, 
 When joins yon host in deadly stowre, 
 That England's dames must weep in 
 bower. 
 
 Her monks the death-mass sing; 
 For never saw'st thou such a power 
 
 Led on by such a King." — 
 And now, d<jwn winding to the plain. 
 The barriers of the camp they gain, 
 
 And there they made a stay. — 
 There slays 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, 
 
 In the succeeding lay. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
 FIFTH. 
 
 TO GEORGE EU.IS, ESQ.* 
 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 When dark December glooms the day. 
 And takes our autumn joys away; 
 When short and scant the sunbeam 
 
 throws. 
 Upon the weary waste of snows, 
 A cold and profitless regard, 
 Like patron on a needy bard; 
 When silvan occupation's done. 
 And o'er the chimney rests the gun. 
 And hang, in idle trophy, near. 
 The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; 
 When wiry terrier, rougli and grim. 
 And greyhound, with his length of limb. 
 And pointer, now employ'd 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; 
 When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn'd 
 
 o'er. 
 Beguiles the dreary hour no more. 
 And darkling politician, cross'd. 
 Inveighs against the lingering post, 
 And answering housewife sore 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, 
 And welcome, with ronew'il delight. 
 The busy day and social night. 
 
 * The learned editor of the " Specimens of 
 Ancient English Romances." He died April 
 Jo, 1.S15, aged 70. 
 
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO V. 
 
 91 
 
 Not here need my desponding rhyme 
 Lament the ravages of time, 
 As erst by Newark's riven towers, 
 And Ettrick stripp'd 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. 
 And flanking towers, and laky flood, 
 Guarded and garrison'd 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, 
 A wicket churlishly supplied. 
 Stern, then, and steel-girt was thy brow, 
 Dun-Edin ! O, how alter'd now. 
 When safe amid thy mountain court 
 Thou sit'st, like Empress at her sport. 
 And liberal, unconfined, and free. 
 Flinging thy white arms to the sea. 
 For thy dark cloud, with umber'd lower. 
 That hung o'er cliff, and lake, and tower, 
 Thou gleam'st against the western ray 
 Ten thousand lines of brighter day. 
 
 Not she, the Championess of old. 
 In Spenser's magic tale enroll'd. 
 She, for the charmed spear renown'd, 
 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 corslet's grasp relieved, 
 Free to the sight her bosom heaved; 
 Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile. 
 Erst hidden by the aventayle; 
 And down her shoulders graceful roU'd, 
 Her locks profuse, of paly gold. 
 They who whilom, in midnight fight. 
 Had marvell'd at her matchless might, 
 No less her maiden charms approved. 
 But looking liked, and liking loved. 
 The sight could jealous pangs beguile, 
 And charm Malbecco's cares a while; 
 And he, the wandering Squire of Dames, 
 Forgot his Columbella's claims, 
 
 And passion, erst unknown, could gain 
 
 The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane; 
 
 Nor durst light Paridel advance. 
 
 Bold as he was, a looser glance. 
 
 She charm'd at once, and tamed the 
 
 heart, 
 Incomparable Britomarte ! * 
 
 So thou, fair City ! disarray 'd 
 Of battled wall, and rampart's aid, 
 As stately seem'st, but lovelier. far 
 Than in that panoply of war. 
 Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne 
 Strength and security are flown ; 
 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; 
 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, — 
 Renown'd for hospitable deed. 
 That virtue much with Heaven may plead, 
 In patriarchal times whose care 
 Descending angels deign'd to share; 
 That claim may wrestle blessings down 
 On those who fight for The Good Town, 
 Destined in every age to be 
 Refuge of injured royalty; 
 Since first, when conquering York arose. 
 To Henry meek she gave repose, t 
 Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe. 
 Great Bourbon's relics, sad she saw.t 
 
 * The Maiden Knight in Spenser's " Faerie 
 Queen," book iii. canto 9. 
 
 t Henry VI. of England, who with his Queen, 
 his heir, and the chiefs of his family, sought 
 refuge in Scotland after the fatal battle of Tow- 
 ton. " The Meek Usurper," see Gray. 
 
 + In Januar)', 1796, the exiled Comte d'Artois, 
 afterwards Charles X. of France, took up his 
 residence at Holy-Rood, where he remained till 
 August, 1799. When again driven from his coun- 
 try bv the Revolution of 1830, the same unfortu- 
 nate Prince, with all the immediate members of 
 his family, sought refuge once more in the ancient 
 palace of the Stuarts, and remained there till 
 Sept. 18. 18+2. 
 
92 
 
 MAKMION. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 Truce to these thoughts ! — For, as they 
 rise, 
 How gladly I avert mine eyes, 
 Bodings, or true or false, to change, 
 For Fiction's fair romantic range. 
 Or for Tradition's dubious light, 
 That hovers 'twixt the day and night: 
 Dazzling alternately and dim, 
 Her wavering lamp I'd rather trim, 
 Knights, squires, and lovely dames to 
 
 see, 
 Creation of my fantasy. 
 Than gaze abroad on reeky fen, 
 And make of mists invading men. 
 Who loves not more the night of June 
 Than dull December's gloomy noon ? 
 The moonlight than the fog of frost? 
 And can we say, which cheats the most? 
 
 But who shall teach my harp to gain 
 A sound of the romantic strain. 
 Whose Anglo-Norman tones ,whilere 
 Could win the royal Henry's ear, 
 Famed Beauclerc call'd, 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 t translated, Blondel sung? — 
 O ! born, Time's ravage to repair. 
 And make the dying Muse thy care; 
 Who, when his scythe her hoary foe 
 Was poising for the final blow. 
 The weapon from his hand could wring. 
 And Ijreak 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 honor'd, and beloved, — 
 Dear Ellis! to the bard impart 
 A lesson of thy magic art. 
 To win at once the head and heart. — - 
 At once to charm, instruct, and mend. 
 My guide, my pattern, and my friend ! 
 
 * Philip de Than. 
 
 t Marie of France, who translated the " Lais " 
 of Hrittany into French. She resided at the 
 Court of Henry III. of England, to whom she 
 dedicated her book. 
 
 Such minstrel lesson to bestow 
 Be long thy pleasing task, — but, O! 
 No more by thy example teach, 
 — What few can practise, all can 
 
 preach, — 
 With even patience to endure 
 Lingering disease, and painful cure. 
 And boast affliction's 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, 
 With wonder heard the northern strain. 
 Come listen ! lx)ld in thy applause, 
 The liard shall scorn pedantic laws; 
 And, as the ancient art could stain 
 Achievements on the storied pane. 
 Irregularly traced and plann'd, 
 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, 
 And all the pomp of chivalry. 
 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 
 THE COURT. 
 
 Thk train has left the hills of Braid; 
 The Iwrrier 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 wo uler rose. 
 To see such well-appointed foes; 
 Such length of shafts, such mighty bows, 
 So huge, that many simply thought. 
 But for a vaunt such weapons wrought; 
 And little deem'd their force to feel, 
 Through links of mail, and plates of steel, 
 When rattling upon Flodden vale, 
 The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail.^ 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE COURT. 
 
 93 
 
 Nor less did Marmion's skilful view 
 Glance every line and squadron through, 
 And much he marvell'd one small land 
 Could marshal forth such various band : 
 
 For men-at-arms were here, 
 Heavily sheathed in mail and plate. 
 Like iron towers for strength and weight, 
 On Flemish steeds of bone and height, 
 
 With battle-axe and spear. 
 Young knights and squires, a lighter train. 
 Practised their chargers on the plain. 
 By aid of leg, of hand, and rein, 
 
 F]ach warlike feat to show, 
 To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain. 
 And high curvett, that not in vain 
 The sword sway might descend amain 
 
 On foeman's casque below. 
 He saw the hardy burghers there 
 March arm'd, on foot, with faces bare,*^ 
 
 For vizor they wore none. 
 Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight; 
 But burnished were their corslets bright. 
 Their brigantines, and gorgets light. 
 
 Like very silver shone. 
 Long pikes they had for standing fight, 
 
 Two-handed swords they wore. 
 And many wielded mace of weight. 
 
 And bucklers bright they bore. 
 
 On foot the yeoman too, but dress'd 
 In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest. 
 
 With iron quilted well; 
 Each at his back (a slender store) 
 His forty days' prcjvision bore, 
 
 As feudal statutes tell. 
 His arms were halbert, axe, or spear, ^ 
 A crossbow there, a hagbut here, 
 
 A dagger-knife, and brand. 
 Sober he seem'd, and sad of cheer. 
 As loth to leave his cottage dear, 
 
 .\nd march to foreign strand; 
 Or musing, who would guide his steer, 
 
 To till the fallow land. 
 Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye 
 Did aught of dastard terror lie; 
 
 More dreadful far his ire. 
 Than theirs, who, scorning danger's 
 
 name. 
 In eager mood to battle came, 
 Their valor like light strar. on flame, 
 
 A fierce but fading fire. 
 
 Not so the Borderer: — bred to war. 
 He knew the battle's din afar, 
 
 And joy'd to hear it swell. 
 His peaceful day was slothful ease; 
 Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please 
 
 Like the loud slogan yell. 
 On active steed, with lance and blade. 
 The light-arm'd pricker plied his trade, — 
 
 Let nobles fight for fame; 
 Let vassals follow where they lead. 
 Burghers to guard their townships bleed, 
 
 But war's the Borderer's game. 
 Their gain, their glory, their delight, 
 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 pass'd by, 
 Look'd on at first with careless eye. 
 Nor marvell'd aught, well taught to know 
 The form and force of English bow. 
 But when they saw the Lord array'd 
 In splendid arms and rich brocade. 
 Each Borderer to his kinsman said; — 
 
 " Hist, Ringan ! seest thou there ! 
 Canst guess which road they'll homeward 
 
 ride ? — 
 O ! could we but on Border side. 
 By Eusedale's glen, or Liddell's tide, 
 
 Beset a prize so fair ! 
 That fangless Lion, too, their guide, 
 Might chance to lose his glistering hide; 
 Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied. 
 
 Could make a kirtle rare." 
 
 Next, Marmion mark'd the Celtic race, 
 Of different language, form, and face, 
 
 A various race of man; 
 Just then the Chiefs their tribes array'd, 
 And wild and garish semblance made. 
 The chequer'd trews, and lielted plaid, 
 And varying notes the war-pipes bray'd 
 
 To every varying clan; 
 Wild through their red or sable hair 
 Look'd out their eyes with savage stare. 
 
 On Marmion as he pass'd; 
 Their legs above the knee were bare; 
 Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare 
 
 And harden'd to the blast; 
 
94 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 Of taller race, the chiefs they own 
 Were by the eagle's plumage known. 
 The hunted red deer's undress'd hide 
 Their hairy buskins well supplied; 
 The graceful bonnet deck'd their head: 
 Back from their shoulders hung the plaid; 
 A broadsword of unwieldy length, 
 A dagger proved for edge and strength, 
 
 A studded targe they wore, 
 And quivers, bows, and shafts, — but, O ! 
 Short was the shaft, and weak the bow. 
 
 To that which England bore. 
 The Isles-men carried at their backs 
 The ancient Danish battle-axe. 
 They raised a wild and wondering cry, 
 As with his guide rode Marmion by. 
 Loud were their clamoring tongues, as 
 
 when 
 The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen. 
 And, with their cries discordant mix'd. 
 Grumbled and yell'd the pipes betwixt. 
 
 Thus through the Scottish camp they 
 
 pass'd, 
 .And reach'd the City gate at last. 
 Where all around, a wakeful guard, 
 .Arm'd burghers kept their watch and 
 
 ward. 
 Well had they cause of jealous fear, 
 When lay encamp'd, in field so near, 
 The Borderer and the Mountaineer. 
 .\s through the bustling streets they 
 
 go, 
 All was alive with martial show : 
 At every turn, with dinning clang, 
 The armorer's anvil clash'd and rang; 
 Or loil'd the swarthy smith, to wheel 
 The bar that arms the charger's heel; 
 Or axe, or falchion, to the side 
 Of jarring grindstone was applied. 
 Page, groom, and squire, with 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, 
 Discuss'd his lineage, told his name. 
 His following, and his warlike fame. 
 The Lion led to lodging meet. 
 Which high o'erlook'd the crowded 
 street ; 
 
 There must the Baron rest, 
 Till past the hour of vesper tide, 
 And then to Holy-Rood must: ride, — 
 
 Such was the King's behest. 
 Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns 
 A banquet rich, and costly wines, 
 
 To Marmion and his train; "*' 
 And when the appointed hour succeeds. 
 The Baron dons his peaceful weeds. 
 And following Lindesay as he leads, 
 
 The palace-halls they gain. 
 
 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, 
 Summon'd to spend the parting hour; 
 For he had charged, that his array 
 Should southward march by break of 
 
 day. 
 Well loved that splendid monarch aye 
 
 The banquet and the song. 
 By day the tourney, and by night 
 The merry dance, traced fast and light, 
 The maskers quaint, the pageant bright. 
 
 The revel loud and long. 
 This fe.ast outshone his banquets past. 
 It was his blithest — and his last. 
 The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay. 
 Cast on the Court a dancing ray; 
 Here to the harp did minstrels sing; 
 There ladies touch'd a softer string; 
 With long-ear'd cap, and motley vest 
 The licensed fool retail'd his jest; 
 His magic tricks the juggler plied; 
 At dice and draughts the gallants vied; 
 While some, in close recess apart, 
 Courted the ladies of their heart. 
 
 Nor courted them in vain; 
 For often, in the parting hour. 
 Victorious Love asserts his power 
 
 O'er coldness and disdain; 
 And flinty is her heart, can view 
 To battle march a lover true — 
 Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, 
 
 Nor own her share of pain. 
 
 Through this mix'd crowd of glee and 
 
 game. 
 The King to greet Lord Marmion came. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE COURT. 
 
 95 
 
 While, reverent, all made room. 
 An easy task it was, I trow, 
 King James's manly form to know. 
 Although, his courtesy to show. 
 He doff' d to Marmion bending low, 
 
 His broider'd cap and plume. 
 For royal was his garb and mien, 
 
 His cloak, of crimson velvet piled, 
 
 Trimm'd with the fur of marten wild; 
 His vest of changeful satin sheen. 
 
 The dazzled eye beguiled; 
 His gorgeous collar hung adown, 
 Wrought with the badge of Scotland's 
 
 crown, 
 The thistle brave, of old renown : 
 His trusty blade, Toledo right. 
 Descended from a baldric bright ; 
 White were his buskins, on the heel 
 I lis spurs inlaid of gold and steel; 
 His bonnet, all of crimson fair, 
 Was button'd with a ruby rare: 
 And Marmion deem'd he ne'er had seen 
 A prince of such a noble mien. 
 
 The monarch's form was middle size; 
 For feat of strength, or exercise. 
 
 Shaped in proportion fair; 
 And hazel was his eagle eye. 
 And auburn of the darkest dye. 
 
 His short curl'd beard and hair. 
 Light was his footstep in the dance, 
 
 And firm his stirrup in the lists; 
 And, oh ! he had that merry glance. 
 
 That seldom lady's heart resists. 
 Lightly from fair to fair he flew. 
 And loved to plead, lament, and sue; - 
 .Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain. 
 For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. 
 
 I said he joy'd in banquet Iwwer; 
 But mid his mirth, 'twas often strange, 
 How suddenly his cheer would change, 
 
 His look o'ercast and lower. 
 If, in a sudden turn, he felt 
 The pressure of his iron belt, 
 That bound his breast in penance-pain. 
 In memory of his father slain.-^" 
 Even so 'twas strange how evermore, 
 Soon as the passing pang was o'er 
 Forward he rush'd, with double glee, 
 Into the stream of revelry: 
 Thus, dim-seen object of affright 
 Startles the courser in his flight. 
 
 And half he halts, half springs aside; 
 But feels the quickening spur applied, 
 And, straining on the tighten'd rein. 
 Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain. 
 
 O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, 
 Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway: ^ 
 
 To Scotland's Court she came, 
 To be a hostage for her lord, 
 Who Cessford'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 turquois ring and glove. 
 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 counsels still to share; 
 And thus for both, he madly plann'd 
 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. 
 
 The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile. 
 
 And weeps the weary day. 
 The war against her native soil, 
 Her monarch's risk in battle broil: — 
 And in gay Holy-Rood, the while. 
 Dame Heron rises with a smile 
 
 Upon the harp to play. 
 Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er 
 
 The strings her fingers flew; 
 And as she touch'd and tuned them all, 
 Even her bosom's rise and fall 
 
 Was plainer given to view; 
 
96 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 For, all for heat, was laid aside 
 Her wimple, and her hood untied. 
 And first she pitch'd her voice to sing, 
 Then glanced her dark eye on the King, 
 And then around the silent ring; 
 And laugh'd, and blush'd, and oft did 
 
 say 
 Her pretty oath, by Yea and Nay, 
 .She could not, would not, durst not play ! 
 At length, upon the harp, with glee. 
 Mingled with arch simplicity, 
 A soft, yet lively air she rung, 
 While thus the wily lady sung: — 
 
 XII. 
 
 LOCHINVAR.* 
 
 LADY HERON'S SONG. 
 
 O, young Lochinvar is come out of the 
 west. 
 
 Through all the wide Border his steed was 
 the best; 
 
 And save his good broadsword he wea- 
 pons had none, 
 
 lie rode all unarm'd, and he rode all 
 alone. 
 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in 
 war. 
 
 There never was knight like the young 
 Lochinvar. 
 
 rie staid not for brake, and he stopp'd 
 not for stone, 
 
 He swam the Esk river where ford there 
 was none; 
 
 But ere he alighted at Nelherby 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 cnter'd the Netherby Hall, 
 Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and 
 
 brothers, and all : 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand 
 
 on his sword, 
 (For the poor craven bridegroom said 
 
 never a word,) 
 
 * See the ballad called " Kalharine Janfarie," 
 ill " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," vol. iii. 
 
 " O come ye in peace here, or come ye in 
 
 war, 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 
 
 Lochinvar ? " — 
 
 " I long woo'd your daughter, my suit 
 you denied; — 
 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like 
 its tide — 
 
 And now am I come, with this lost love 
 of mine, 
 
 To lead but one measure, drink one cup of 
 wine. 
 
 There are maidens in Scotland more love- 
 ly by far. 
 
 That would gladly be bride to the young 
 Lochinvar." 
 
 The bride kiss'd the goblet : the knight 
 
 took it up, 
 He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw 
 
 down the cup. 
 She look'd down toblush, and she look'd 
 
 up to sigh. 
 With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her 
 
 eye. 
 He took her soft hand, ere her 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 whisper'd, 
 
 " 'Twere better by far. 
 To have match'd our fair cousin with 
 
 young Lochinvar." 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one word in 
 
 her car, 
 When they reach'd the hall-door, and the 
 
 charger stood near; 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he 
 
 swung. 
 So light to the saddle before he> he 
 
 sprung ! 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE COURT, 
 
 9'/ 
 
 " She is won! we are gone, over bank, 
 
 bush, and scaur; 
 They'll have fleet steeds that follow," 
 
 quoth young Lochinvar. 
 
 There was mounting 'niong Groemes of 
 
 the Netherby clan; 
 Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 
 
 rode and they ran; 
 There was racing and chasing, on Canno- 
 
 bie 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? 
 
 The Monarch o'er the siren hung 
 And beat the measure as she sung; 
 And, pressing closer, and more near. 
 He whisper'd praises in her car. 
 In loud applause the courtiers vied; 
 And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside. 
 The witching dame to Marmion threw 
 
 A glance, where seem'd to reign 
 The pride that claims applauses due. 
 And of her royal con(|uest too, 
 A real or f eign'd disdain : 
 Familiar was tlie 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 
 
 show'd: 
 " Our Borders sack'd by many a raid, 
 Our peaceful liege-men robb'd," he said : 
 " On day of truce our Warden slain. 
 Stout Barton kill'd, his vassals ta'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." 
 
 He paused, and led where Douglas stood, 
 And with stern eye the pageant view'd: 
 I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, 
 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; 80 
 The same who left the dusky vale 
 Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, 
 
 Its dungeons, and its towers. 
 Where Bothwell's turrets brave the air. 
 And Bothwell bank is blooming fair. 
 
 To fix his princely bowers. 
 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: 
 And even that day, at council board. 
 
 Unapt to soothe his sovereign's mood. 
 
 Against the war had Angus stood, 
 And chafed his royal lord.*"^ 
 
 His giant-form, like ruin'd tower. 
 Though fall'n its muscles' brawny vaunt, 
 Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and 
 gaunt, 
 
 Seem'd o'er the gaudy scene to lower : 
 His locks and beard in silver grew; 
 His eyebrows kept their sable hue. 
 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, — 
 A chief unlike his sires of old. 
 He wears their motto on his blade,*^ 
 Their blazon o'er his towers display'd; 
 Yet loves his sovereign to oppose. 
 More than to face his country's foes 
 And, I bethink me, by St. Stephen, 
 But e'en this morn to me was given 
 A prize, the first-fruits of the war, 
 Ta'en by a galley from Dunliar, 
 
 A bevy of the maids of Heaven. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 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 slaughter'd favorite's name. 
 Across the Monarch's brow there came 
 A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame. 
 
 In answer naught could Angus speak; 
 His proudheartswell'd wellnigh to break : 
 He turn'd aside, and down his cheek 
 
 A burning tear there stole. 
 His hand the Monarch sudden took, 
 That sight his kind heart could not brook : 
 
 "Now, by the Bruce's soul, 
 Angus, my hasty speech forgive ! 
 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, 
 
 More tender and more true : 
 Forgive mc, 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, 
 And whisper'd to the King aside: 
 "Oh! let such tears unwonted plead 
 For respite short from dubious deed ! 
 A child will weep a bramble 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 
 
 view'd 
 And tamper'd with his changing mood. 
 " Laugh those that can, weep those that 
 
 may," 
 Thus did the fiery Monarch say, 
 " Southward I march by break of day; 
 And if within Tantallon strong. 
 The good Lord Marmion tarries long. 
 Perchance our meeting next may fall 
 At Tamworth, in his castle-hall." — 
 The haughty Marmion felt the taunt, 
 And answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt: — 
 
 " Much honor'd were my humble home, 
 If in its halls King James should come; 
 But Nottingham has archers good, 
 And Yorkshire men are stern of mood; 
 Northuml)rian prickers wild and rude. 
 On Derby Mills 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 turn'd away, 
 And to his nobles loud did call, — 
 "Lords, to the dance, — a hall ! a hall ! "* 
 Himself his cloak and sword flung by. 
 And led Dame Heron gallantly; 
 And minstrels, at the royal order. 
 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 sail'd again 
 To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en. 
 Now at Dun-Edin did they bide. 
 Till James should of their fate decide; 
 
 And soon, by his command. 
 Were gently sumnion'd to prepare 
 To journey under Marmion's care. 
 As escort honor'd, safe, and fair. 
 
 Again to English land. 
 The Abbess told her chaplet o'er, 
 Nor knew which saint she should implore, 
 For, when she thought of Constance, 
 sore 
 
 She feared Lord Marmion's mood. 
 And judge what Clara must have felt ! 
 The sword, that hung in Marmion's belt. 
 
 Had drunk De Wilton's blood. 
 Unwittingly, King James had given, 
 
 As guard to Whitliy's shades. 
 The man most dreaded under Heaven 
 
 By these defenceless maids : 
 Yet what petition could avail. 
 Or who would listen to the tale 
 Of woman, prisoner, and nun, 
 Mid bustle of a war begun? 
 
 * Tlie ancient cry to make room for a daate, 
 or pageant. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE COURT. 
 
 99 
 
 They deem'd it hopeless to avoid 
 The convoy of their dangerous guide. 
 
 Their lodging, so the King assign'd, 
 To Marmion's, as their guardian, join'd; 
 And thus it fell, that passing nigh, 
 The Palmer caught the Abbess' eye, 
 
 Who warn'd him by a scroll, 
 She had a secret to reveal. 
 That much conccrn'd the Church's weal, 
 
 And health of sinner's soul; 
 Anil, with deep charge of secrecy, 
 
 She named a place to meet, 
 Within an open balcony. 
 That hung from dizzy pitch, and high, 
 
 AV)Ove the stately street; 
 To which, as common to each home, 
 At night they might in secret come. 
 
 At night, in secret there they came. 
 The F'alnier and the holy Dame. 
 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. 
 
 Were here wrapt deep in shade; 
 There on their brows the moon-beam 
 
 broke. 
 Through the faint wreaths of silvery 
 smoke. 
 
 And on the casements play'd. 
 
 And other light was none to see, 
 Save torches gliding far, 
 
 Before some chieftain of degree. 
 
 Who left the royal revelry 
 
 To boune him for the war. — 
 A solemn scene the Abbess chose; 
 A solemn hour, her secret to disclose. 
 
 " O, holy Palmer ! " she began, — 
 " 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 woo'd 
 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 rel)el aid on .Stokefield's plain, — 
 And down he threw his glove : — the 
 
 thing 
 Was tried, as wont, l>efore the King; 
 Where frankly did De Wilton own. 
 That Swart in Gueldrcs he had known; 
 And that between them then there went 
 Some scroll of courteous compliment. 
 For this he to his castle sent; 
 But when his messenger return'd. 
 Judge how De Wilton's fury burn'd ! 
 For in his packet there were laid 
 Letters that claim'd disloyal aid, 
 And proved King Henry's cause betray'd. 
 His fame, thus blighted, in the field 
 He strove to clear, by spear and shield; 
 To clear his fame in vain he strove, 
 For wondrous are His ways above ! 
 Perchance some form was unobserved; 
 Perchance in prayer or faith he swerved; 
 Else how could guiltless champion quail, 
 Or how the blessed ordeal fail ? 
 
 " His squire, who now De W'ilton saw 
 As recreant doom'd to suffer law, 
 
 Repentant, own'd in vain, 
 That, while he had the scrolls in care, 
 A stranger maiden, passing fair, 
 Had drench'd him with a beverage rare; 
 
 His words no faith could gain. 
 With Clare alone he credence won. 
 Who, rather than wed Marmion, 
 Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair. 
 To give our house her livings fair 
 And die a vestal vot'ress there. 
 The impulse from the earth was given. 
 But bent her to the paths of heaven. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 A purer heart, a lovelier maid, 
 Ne'er shelter'd her in Whitby's shade, 
 No, not since Saxon Edelfled; 
 Only one trace of earthly strain, 
 
 That for her lover's loss 
 She cherishes a sorrow vain, 
 
 And murmurs at the cross. — 
 And then her heritage; it goes 
 
 Along the 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 vot'ress here, 
 
 Should do a deadly sin, 
 Her temple spoil'd before m.ine eyes, 
 If this false Marmion such a prize 
 
 By my consent should win; 
 Yot 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 betray'd 
 To evil power, I claim thine aid, 
 
 By every step that thou hast trod 
 To holy shrine and grotto dim, 
 By every martyr's tortured limb. 
 By angel, saint, and seraphim, 
 
 And by the Church of (lod! 
 For mark : — When Wilton was betray'd. 
 And with his squire forged letters laid. 
 She was, alas ! that sinful maid. 
 
 By whom the deed was done, — 
 O ! shame and horror to be said ! — 
 
 She was a perjured nun ! 
 No clerk in all the land, like her. 
 Traced quaint and varying char.acter. 
 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 
 As privy to his honor's stain, 
 
 Illimitable power : 
 For this she secretly retain'd 
 
 Each proof that might the plot reveal. 
 
 Instructions with his hand and seal; 
 And thus Saint Hilda deign'd. 
 
 Through sinner's perfidy impure, 
 Her house's glory to secure, 
 And Clare's immortal weal. 
 
 '"Twere 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! 
 Who knows what outrage he might do. 
 
 While journeying by the way ? — 
 O, blessed Saint, if e'er again 
 I venturous leave thy calm domain. 
 To travel or by land 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 O ! with cautious speed. 
 To Wolsey's hand the papers bring, 
 That he may show them to the King: 
 
 And, for thy well-earn'd 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. 
 Like distant clarion feebly blown. 
 
 That f)n the breeze did die; 
 And loud the Abbess shriek'd in fear: — 
 "Saint Withold,s.aveus ! — What is here ! 
 
 Look at yon City Cross ! 
 See on its battled tower appear 
 Phantoms,' that scutcheons seem to rear. 
 
 And blazon'il Ijanners toss ! " 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillar'd stone,*""'' 
 
 Rose on a turret octagon; 
 
 (But now is razed that monument, 
 
 Whence royal edict rang. 
 And voice of Scotland's law was sent 
 
 In glorious trumpet-clang. 
 O! be his toml) 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, 
 
 * Curse, 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE COURT. 
 
 lOI 
 
 Strange, wild, and dimly seen; 
 Figures that seem'd to rise and die, 
 Gibber and sign, advance and fly. 
 While naught confirm' d 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. 
 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 camc:*^ — 
 
 " 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, 
 
 I summon one and all : 
 I cite you by each deadly sin. 
 That e'er hath soil'd your hearts within : 
 I cite you by each brutal lust, 
 That e'er defiled your earthly dust, — 
 
 By wrath, by pride, by fear, 
 By each o'er-mastering passion's tone. 
 By the dark grave, and dying groan ! 
 When forty days are pass'd and gone, 
 I cite you, at your Monarch's throne. 
 
 To answer and appear." 
 Then thunder'd forth a roll of names : 
 The first was thine, unhappy James ! 
 
 Then all thy nobles came; 
 Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, 
 Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle, — 
 Why should I tell their separate style? 
 
 Each chief of birth and fame. 
 Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, 
 Fore-doom'd to Flodden's carnage pile. 
 
 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." 
 
 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 tdl; 
 Her nuns came, startled by the yell, 
 
 And found her there alone. 
 She mark'd not, at the scene aghast. 
 What time, or how, the Palmer pass'd. 
 
 XXVII. ', 
 
 Shift we the scene. — The camp doth 
 move, 
 
 Dun-Edin's streets are empty now. 
 Save when, for weal of those they love. 
 
 To pray the prayer, and vow the vow, 
 The tottering child, the anxious fair. 
 The gray-hair'd 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: 
 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 look'd high, as if he plann'd 
 
 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 govern'd fair, 
 A troop escorting Hilda's Dame, 
 
 With all her nuns, and Clare. 
 No audience had Lord Marmion sought: 
 
 Ever he fear'd to aggravate 
 
 Clara de Clare's suspicious hate; 
 And safer 'twas, he thought, 
 
MARMION. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 To wait till, from the nuns removed, 
 The influence of kinsmen loved, 
 And suit by Henry's self-approved. 
 Her slow consent had wrought. 
 
 His was no flickering flame, that dies 
 Unless when fann'd by looks and sighs. 
 And lighted oft at lady's eyes; 
 He long'd to stretch his wide command 
 O'er luckless Clara's ample land: 
 Besides, when Wilton with him vied. 
 Although the pang of humbled pride 
 The |)hice of jealousy supplied, 
 Yet conquest by that meanness won 
 He almost loath'd to think upon, 
 Led him, at times, to hate the cause. 
 Which made him burst through honor's 
 
 laws. 
 If e'er he loved, ,'twas 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 view'd, afar, 
 The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 
 
 The ocean's peace or war. 
 At tolling of a bell, forth came 
 The convent's venerable Dame, 
 And pray'd Saint Hilda's Abbess rest 
 With her, a loved and honor'd guest. 
 Till Douglas should a bark prepare 
 To waft her back to Whitby fair. 
 Glad was the Abbess, you may guess. 
 And thank'd the Scottish Prioress; 
 And tedious were to tell, I ween. 
 The courteous speech that pass'd between. 
 
 O'erjoy'd the nuns their palfreys leave; 
 But when fair Clara did intend. 
 Like them, from horseback to descend, 
 
 Fitz-Eustace said, — "I grieve. 
 Fair lady, grieve e'en from my heart. 
 Such gentle company to part; — 
 
 Think not discourtesy. 
 But lords' commands must be obey'd; 
 And Marmion and the Douglas said. 
 
 That you must wend with me. 
 Lord Marmion hath a letter broad. 
 Which to the Scottish Earl he show'd. 
 Commanding that, beneath his care, 
 
 * A convent of Cistertian nuns, founded by 
 Duncan, Earl of Fife, in 12 16. 
 
 Without delay, you shall repair 
 
 To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare." 
 
 The startled Abbess loud exclaim'd; 
 But she, at whom the blow was aim'd. 
 Grew pale as death, and cold as lead, — 
 She deem'd she heard her death-doom 
 
 read. 
 "Cheer thee, my child!" the 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 
 Will bring us to the English side. 
 Female attendance to provide 
 
 Befitting Gloster's heir: 
 Nor thinks nor dreams my noble lord, 
 By slightest look, or act, or word. 
 
 To harass Lady 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." 
 He spoke, and blush'd with earnest 
 
 grace; 
 His faith was painted on his face. 
 
 And Clare's worst fear relieved. 
 The Lady Abbess loud exclaim'd 
 On Henry, and the Douglas blamed. 
 
 Entreated, thrcaten'd, grieved; 
 To martyr, saint, and prophet pray'd. 
 Against Lord Marmion inveigh'd. 
 And call'd the Prioress to aid. 
 To curse with candle, bell, and book. 
 Her head the grave Cistertian shook: 
 " The Douglas, and the King," she said, 
 " In their commands will be obey'd; 
 Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall 
 The maiden in Tantallon hall." 
 
 XXXI. 
 The Abbess, seeing strife was vain, 
 Assumed her wonted state again, — ; 
 
 For much of state she had, — 
 Composed her veil, and raised her head. 
 And — " P-i<l," in solemn voice she said, 
 
 " Thy master, bold and bad, 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE COURT. 
 
 103 
 
 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 hurl'd him to the dust, 
 And, by a base plebeian thrust. 
 
 He died his band before. 
 
 God judge 'twixt Marmion and me; 
 He is a Chief of high degree. 
 
 And I a poor recluse: 
 
 Vet 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 : 
 
 " Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band; 
 
 St. Anton' fire thee! wilt thou stand 
 
 All day, with bonnet in thy hand. 
 To hear the lady preach? 
 
 By this good light ! if thus we stay. 
 
 Lord Marmion, for our fond delay, 
 Will sharper sermon teach. 
 
 Come, don thy cap, and mount thy 
 horse ; 
 
 The dame must patience take perforce." 
 
 " Submit we then to force," said Clare, 
 " But let this barbarous lord despair 
 
 His purposed aim to win; 
 Let him take living, land, and life : 
 But to be Marmion's wedded wife 
 
 In me were deadly sin : 
 And if it be the King's decree; 
 That I must find no sanctuary. 
 In that inviolable dome. 
 Where even a homicide might come. 
 
 And safely rest his head. 
 Though at its open portals stood. 
 Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood. 
 
 The kinsmen of the dead; 
 Yet one asylum is my own 
 
 Against the dreaded hour; 
 A low, a silent, and a lone. 
 
 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 
 
 Kind blessings many a one : 
 Weeping and wailing loud arose, 
 Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes 
 
 Of every simple nun. 
 His eyes the gentle Eustace dried. 
 And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide. 
 
 Then took the squire her rein, 
 And gently led away her steed. 
 And, by each courteous word and deed, 
 
 To cheer her strove in vain. , 
 
 But scant three miles the band had rode 
 
 When o'er a height they pass'd. 
 And, sudden, close before them show'd 
 
 His towers, Tantallon vast; 
 Broad, massive, high, and stretching far. 
 And held impregnable in war. 
 On a projecting rock they rose. 
 And round three sides the ocean flows. 
 The fourth did battled walls enclose. 
 
 And double mound and fosse. 
 By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong. 
 Through studded gates, and entrance 
 long. 
 
 To the main court they cross. 
 It was a wide and stately square : 
 Around were lodgings, fit and fair, 
 
 And towers of various form. 
 Which on the court projected far. 
 And broke its lines quadrangular. 
 Here was square keep, there turret high, 
 Or pinnacle that sought the sky, 
 Whence oft the wanderer could descry 
 
 The gathering ocean-storm. 
 
 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 
 
 Etall, and Wark, and Ford: and then. 
 
 That Norham Castle strong was ta'en. 
 At that sore marvell'd Marmion; — 
 And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand 
 Would soon subdue Northumterland : 
 
 But whisper'd news there came. 
 
I04 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 That, while his host inactive lay. 
 And melted by degrees away, 
 King James was dallying off the day 
 
 With Heron's wily dame. — 
 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 
 On that high ridge had made their post, 
 
 Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain; 
 And that brave Surrey many a band 
 Had gather 'd in the Southern land, 
 And march'd into Northumberland, 
 
 And camp at Wooler ta'en. 
 Marmion, like charger in the stall, 
 That hears, without, the trumpet-call. 
 
 Began to chafe, and swear: — 
 "A sorry thing to hide my head 
 In castle, like a fearful maid, 
 
 When such a field is near ! 
 Needs must I see this battle-day : 
 Death to my fame if such a fray 
 Were fought, and Marmion away ! 
 The Douglas, too, I wot not why, 
 Hath 'bated of his courtesy: 
 No longer in his halls I'll stay." 
 Then bade his band they should array 
 For march against the dawning day. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
 SIXTH. 
 
 TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ. 
 
 Mertmin House,* Christmas. 
 Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill ; 
 But let it whistle as it will. 
 We'll keep our Christmas merry still. 
 Each age has deem'd the new-born year 
 The fittest time for festal cheer : 
 Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane 
 At lol more deep the mead did drain ; *^ 
 High on the beach his galleys drew. 
 And feasted all his pirate crew; 
 Then in his low and pine-built hall. 
 Where shields and axes deck'd the wall, 
 They gorged upon the half-dress'd steer; 
 Caroused in seas of sable beer ; 
 
 * Mertoun-House, the seat of Hugh Scott, 
 Esq., of Harden, is beautifully situated on the 
 Tweed about two miles below Dryburgh Abbey. 
 
 While round, in brutal .jest, were thrown 
 The half-gnaw'd rib and marrow-bone: 
 Or listen'd all, in grim delight. 
 While Scalds yell'd out the joys of fight. 
 Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie, 
 While wildly-loose their red locks fly. 
 And dancing round the blazing pile, 
 Theymakesuch 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 roll'd, 
 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; 
 On Christmas eve the mass was sung; 
 That only night in all the year. 
 Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. t 
 The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen; 
 The hall was dress'd with holly green; 
 Forth to the wood did merry-men go, 
 To gather in the mistletoe. 
 Then open'd wide the Baron's hall 
 To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; 
 Power laid his rod of rule aside. 
 And Ceremony doff'd his pride. 
 The heir with roses in his shoes. 
 That night might village partner choose; 
 The Lord, underogating, share 
 The vulgar game of "post and pair."t 
 All hail'd with uncontroll'd 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, 
 Went roaring up the chimney wide; 
 The huge hall-table's oaken face, 
 Scrubb'd 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 thegrimboar'sheadfrown'donhigh, 
 Crested with bays and rosemary. 
 Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell. 
 How, when, and where, the monster fell; 
 
 t In the Roman Catholic Church mass is 
 never said at night except on Christmas Eve. 
 X An old game at cards. 
 
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO VI. 
 
 105 
 
 What dogs before his death he tore, 
 And all the baiting of the boar. 
 The wasscl round, in good brown bowls, 
 Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls. 
 There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by 
 Plum-porridge stood, and Christinas pie; 
 Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce, 
 At such high tide, her savory goose. 
 Then came the merry maskers in. 
 And carols roar'd with blithesome din; 
 If unnielodious 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, O! what maskers, richly dight. 
 Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 
 England was merry England, when 
 Old Christmas brought his sports again. 
 'Twas Christmas broach'd the 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-fetch'd 
 
 claim 
 To Southron ear sounds empty name ; 
 For course of blood, our proverbs deem, 
 Is warmer than the mountain-stream.* 
 And thus, my Christmas still I hold 
 Where my great grandsire came of old, 
 With amber beard, and flaxen hair, 
 And reverend apostolic air — 
 The feast and holy-tide to share. 
 And mix sobriety with wine. 
 And honest mirth with thoughts divine: 
 Small thought was his, in after time 
 E'er to be hitch'd into a rhyme. 
 The simple sire could only boast, 
 That he was loyal to his cost; 
 The banish'd race of kings revered. 
 And lost his land, — but kept his l>eard. 
 
 In these dear halls, where welcome kind 
 Is with fair liberty combined; 
 
 • " Blood is warmer tlian water." 
 
 Where cordial friendship gives the hand. 
 And flies constraint the magic wand 
 Of the fair dame that rules the land.t 
 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 loth to leave the sweet domain. 
 And holds his mirror to her face, 
 And clips her with a close embrace : — 
 Gladly as he, we seek the dome. 
 And as reluctant turn us home. 
 
 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 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. 
 These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, 
 " Were pretty fellows in their day;" 
 But time and tide o'er all prevail — 
 On Christmas eve a Christmas tale — 
 Of wonder and of war — ' ' Profane ! 
 What ! leave the lofty Latian strain. 
 Her stately prose, her verse's charms. 
 To hear the clash of rusty arms: 
 In Fairy Land or Limlx) lost, 
 To jostle conjurer and ghost. 
 Goblin and witch !" — Nay, Hel)er dear. 
 Before you touch my charter, hear: 
 Though Leyden aids, alas ! no more. 
 My cause with mahy-languaged lore. 
 This may I say : — in realms of death 
 Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith^; 
 .(•Eneas, upon Thracia's shore, 
 The ghost of murder'd Polydore; 
 For omens, we in Livy cross. 
 At every turn, locutus Bos. 
 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. 
 
 t A lady of noble German descent, borii 
 Countess Harriet Hriihl of Martinskirchen, and 
 married to H. Scott, Esq., of Harden. 
 
io6 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 To Cambria look — the peasant see, 
 
 Bethink him of Glendowerdy, 
 
 And shun '" the spirit's Blasted Tree." * 
 
 The Highlander, whose red claymore 
 
 The battle turn'd on Maida's shore. 
 
 Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, 
 
 If ask'd to tell a fairy tale: ™ 
 
 He fears the vengeful Elfin King, 
 
 Who leaves that day his grassy ring: 
 
 Invisible to human ken, 
 
 He walks among the sons of men. 
 
 Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along 
 Beneath the towers of Franchemont, 
 Which, like an eagle's nest in air, 
 Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair? 
 Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, 
 A mighty treasure buried lay, 
 Amass 'd through rapine and through 
 
 wrong, 
 By the last Lord of Franchemont. ''i 
 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 lilood-hounds lie. 
 An 'twere not for his gloomy eye, 
 Whose witheringglancenoheartcanbrook, 
 As true a huntsman doth he look. 
 As bugle e'er in brake did sound. 
 Or ever halloo'd to a hound. 
 To chase the fiend, and win the prize. 
 In that same dungeon ever tries 
 An aged necromantic priest; 
 It is a hundred years at least, 
 Since 'twixt them first the strife begun. 
 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 'tis open'd, shuts again. 
 That magic strife within the tomb 
 May last until the day of doom. 
 Unless the adept shall learn to tell 
 The very word that clench'd the spell, 
 When Franch'mont lock'd the treasure 
 
 cell. 
 A hundred years are pass'd and gone. 
 And scarce three letters has he won. 
 
 * Alluding to the Welsh tradition of Howel 
 Sell and Owen Glendwr. Howel fell in single 
 combat against fllendwr, and his body was 
 concealed in a hollow oak. 
 
 Such general superstition may 
 Excuse for old Pitscottie say; 
 Whose gossip history has given 
 My song the messenger from Heaven, 
 That warn'd, in Lithgow, Scotland's 
 
 King, 
 Nor less the infernal summoning; 
 May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, 
 Whose demon fought in Gothic mail; 
 May pardon plead for Fordun grave. 
 Who told of Gifford's Goblin-Cave. 
 But why such instances to you. 
 Who, in an instant, can renew 
 Your treasured hoards of various lore, 
 And furnish twenty thousand more; 
 Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes 
 
 rest 
 Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest, 
 While gripple owners still refuse 
 To others what they cannot use; 
 Give them the priest's whole century, 
 They shall not spell you letters tluree: 
 Their pleasure in the books the same 
 The magpie takes in pilfcr'd 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? — 
 But, hark ! I hear the distant drum ! 
 The day of Flodden Field is come. — 
 Adieu, dear Heber ! life and health. 
 And store of literary wealth. 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 
 THE BATTLE. 
 
 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 snuff'd the battle from afar; 
 
 And hopes were none, that back again 
 
 Herald should come from Terouenne, 
 
 Where England's King in leaguer lay. 
 
 Before decisive battle-day; 
 
 Whilst these things were, the mournful 
 
 Clare 
 Did in the Dame's devotions share: 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE BATTLE. 
 
 107 
 
 For the good Countess ceaseless pray'd 
 
 To heaven and Saints, her sons to aid, 
 
 And, with short interval, did pass 
 
 From prayer to took, from book to mass, 
 
 And all in high Baronial pride, — 
 
 A life Ixjth dull and dignified; 
 
 Yet as Lord Marmion nothing press'd 
 
 Upon her intervals of rest. 
 
 Dejected Clara well could bear 
 
 The formal state, the lengthen'd prayer. 
 
 Though dearest to her wounded heart 
 
 The hours that she might spend apart. 
 
 I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep 
 
 Hung o'er the margin of the deep. 
 
 Many a rude tower and rampart there 
 
 Repell'd the insult of the air, 
 
 which, when the tempest vex'd the sky, 
 
 Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by. 
 
 Above the rest, a turret square 
 
 Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear. 
 
 Of sculpture rude, a stony shield; 
 
 The Bloody Heart was in the Field, 
 
 And in the chief three mullets stood. 
 
 The cognizance of Douglas blood. 
 
 The turret held a narrow stair. 
 
 Which, mounted, gave you access where 
 
 A parapet's embattled row 
 
 Did seaward round the castle go. 
 
 Sometimes in dizzy steps descending. 
 
 Sometimes in narrow circuit bending. 
 
 Sometimes in platform broad extending. 
 
 Its varying circle did combine 
 
 Bulwark, and bartizan, and line. 
 
 And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign; 
 
 Alxjve the booming ocean leant 
 
 The far-projecting battlement; 
 
 The billows Vjurst, in ceaseless flow, 
 
 Upon the precipice below. 
 
 Where'er Tantallon faced the land, 
 
 Gate-works, and walls, were strongly 
 
 mann'd; 
 No need upon the sea-girt side; 
 The steepy rock, and frantic tide, 
 Approach of human step denied; 
 And thus these lines and ramparts rude, 
 Were left in deepest solitude. 
 
 And, for they were so lonely, Clare 
 Would to these battlements repair. 
 And muse upon her sorrows there, 
 
 And list the sea-bird's cry; 
 Or slow, like noontide ghost, 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 W^hitby's fane, — 
 A home she ne'er might see again; 
 
 For she had laid adown, 
 So Douglas bade, the hood and veil. 
 And frontlet of the cloister pale. 
 
 And Benedictine gown : 
 It were unseemly sight, he said, 
 A novice out of convent shade. — 
 Now her bright locks, with sunny glow. 
 Again adorn'd her brow of snow; 
 Her mantle rich, whose borders, round, 
 A deep and fretted broidery bound. 
 In golden foldings sought the ground; 
 Of holy ornament, alone 
 Remain'd a cross with ruby stone; 
 
 And often did she look 
 On that which in her hand she bore. 
 With velvet bound, and broider'd 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 dress'd. 
 With book in hand, and cross on breast. 
 
 And such a woeful 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 love-lorn Fay she might have been, 
 Or, in Romance, some spell-bound 
 
 Queen; 
 Nor ne'er, in work-day world, was seen 
 
 A form so witching fair. 
 
 Once walking thus, at evening tide. 
 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; 
 
io8 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 The very form of Hilda fair. 
 
 Hovering upon the sunny air, 
 
 And smiling on her votaries' prayer. 
 
 O ! wherefore, to my duller eye, 
 
 Did still the Saint her form deny; 
 
 Was it, that, sear'd by sinful scorn, 
 
 My heart could neither melt nor burn? 
 
 Or lie my warm affections low. 
 
 With him, that taught them first to 
 
 glow? 
 Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew, 
 To pay thy kindness grateful due. 
 And well could brook the mild command, 
 That ruled thy simple maiden band. 
 How different now ! condemn'd 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. 
 
 " But see ! what makes this armor 
 
 here? " — 
 For in her path there lay 
 Targe, corslet, helm; — she view'd them 
 
 near. — 
 " The breast-plate pierced ! — Ay, much 
 
 I fear, 
 Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's 
 
 spear, 
 That hath made fatal entrance here, 
 As these dark blood-gouts say. — 
 Thus Wilton ! — Oh ! not corslet's ward. 
 Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, 
 Could be thy manly bosom's guard, 
 
 On yon disastrous day ! " — 
 She raised her eyes in mournful mood, — 
 Wilton himself before her stood ! 
 It might have seem'd his passing ghost, 
 For every youthful grace was lost; 
 And joy unwonted, and surprise, 
 Gave their strange wildness to his eyes. — 
 Expect not, noble dames and lords, 
 That I can tell such scene in words : 
 What skilful limner e'er would choose 
 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 display'd : 
 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 delay'd, 
 And modest blush, and bursting sigh, 
 And question kind, and fond reply: — 
 
 VI. 
 DE WILTON'S HISTORY. 
 " Forget we that disastrous day. 
 When senseless in the lists I lay. 
 
 Thence dragg'd, — but how I 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? 
 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 return'd to wake despair; 
 
 For I did tear the closing wound. 
 
 And dash me frantic on the ground, 
 If e'er I heard the name of Clare. 
 At length, to calmer reason brought, 
 Much by his kind attendance wrought, 
 
 With him I left my native strand. 
 And, in a Palmer's weeds array'd. 
 My hated name and form to shade, 
 
 I journey'd many a land; 
 No more a lord of rank and birth. 
 But mingled with the dregs of earth. 
 
 Oft Austin for my reason fear'd, 
 When I would sit and deeply brood 
 On dark revenge, and deeds of blood, 
 
 Or wild mad schemes uprear'd. 
 My friend at length fell sick, and said, 
 
 God would remove him soon; 
 And, while upon his dying bed, 
 
 He begg'd of me a boon — 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE BATTLE. 
 
 109 
 
 If e'er my deadliest enemy 
 IJeneath my brand should conquer'd 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, 
 
 Full well the paths I knew. 
 Fame of my fate made various sound, 
 That death in pilgrimage I found, 
 Tiiat I had perish'd 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 trimm'd my shaggy beard and head, 
 I scarcely know me in the glass. 
 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 of 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; 
 But in my bosom muster'd Hell 
 
 Its plans of dark revenge. 
 
 " 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 lx)rrow'd steed and mail. 
 And weapons, from his sleeping band; 
 
 And, passing from a postern door. 
 We met, and 'counter'd hand to hand, — 
 
 He fell on Gifford moor. 
 For the death-stroke my brand I drew, 
 (O then my helmed head he knew, 
 
 The Palmer's cowl was gone,) 
 Then had three inches of my blade 
 The heavy debt of vengeance paid, — 
 My hand the thought of Austin staid; — 
 
 I left him there alone. — 
 O good old man ! even from the grave 
 Thy spirit could thy master save.- 
 
 If I had slain my foeman, ne'er 
 Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear, 
 Given to my hand this packet dear. 
 Of power to clear my injured fame. 
 And vindicate De Wilton's name. — 
 Perchance you heard the Abljess tell 
 Of the strange pageantry of Hell, 
 
 That broke our secret speech — 
 It rose from the infernal shade. 
 Or featly was some juggle play'd, 
 
 A tale of peace to teach. 
 Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, 
 When my name came among the rest. 
 
 "Now here, within Tantallon Hold, 
 To Douglas late my tale I told. 
 To whom my house was known of old. 
 Won by my proofs, his falchion bright 
 This eve anew shall dub me knight. 
 These were the arms that once did turn 
 The tide of fight on Otterlxjurne, 
 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 naught, he said, was in his halls. 
 But ancient armor on the walls. 
 And aged chargers in his stalls. 
 And women, priests, and gray-hair'd 
 
 men; 
 The rest were all in Twisel glen.t 
 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. 
 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, 
 
 * See the ballad of Otterboume, in the 
 " Border Minstrelsy," vol. i. p. 345- 
 
 t Where James encamped before taking post 
 uu Flodden. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 CWTO VI 
 
 Trust fate of arms once more? 
 And is there not a humble glen, 
 
 Where we, content and poor, 
 Might build a cottage in the shade, 
 A shepherd thou, and I to aid 
 
 Thy task on dale and moor ? — 
 That reddening brow ! — too well I know. 
 Not even thy Clare can peace bestow. 
 
 While falsehood stains thy name; 
 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 witii thy brand of steel, 
 
 And send thee forth to fame ! ' ' 
 
 That night, upon the rocks and bay, 
 The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay, 
 And pour'd its silver light, and pure, 
 Through loop-hole, ajid through embra- 
 zure. 
 
 Upon Tantallon tower and hall; 
 But chief where arched windows wide 
 Illuminate the chapel's pride, 
 
 The sober glances fall. 
 Much was their need; though seam'd 
 
 with scars. 
 Two veterans of the Douglas' wars. 
 
 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. 
 Chequering the silver moon-shine bright, 
 
 A bishop by the altar stood,* 
 
 A noble lord of Douglas blood, 
 With mitre sheen, and rocquet white. 
 Yet show'd 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. 
 Beside him ancient Angus stood, 
 Doff'd his furr'd gown and sable hood: 
 
 * The well-known Gawain Douglas, Bishop of 
 Dunkeld, son of Archibald Bell-the-Cat, Earl of 
 Angus. He was author of a Scottish metrical 
 version of the ^-Eneid, and of many other poetical 
 pieces of great merit. He had not at this period 
 attained the mitre. 
 
 O'er his huge form and visage pale, 
 
 He wore a cap and shirt of mail; 
 
 And leau'd his large and wrinkled hand 
 
 Upon the huge and sweeping brand 
 
 Which wont of yore, in battle fray. 
 
 His foeman's limbs to sbred away. 
 
 As wood-knife lops the sapling spray. ''^ 
 
 He seem'd 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 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 doub'ie." 
 De Wilton sobb'd, for sob he must — 
 " Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust 
 
 That Douglas is my brother ! " — 
 " Nay, nay," old Angus said, " not so; 
 To Surrey's 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 ! " 
 
 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 : 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE BATTLE. 
 
 til 
 
 The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 
 Would Clara on her palfrey place. 
 And whisper'd in an under tone, 
 " Let the hawk stoop, his prey is 
 
 flown." — 
 The train from out the castle drew, 
 But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu: — 
 
 "Though something I might plain," 
 he said, 
 " Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
 Sent hither by your King's behest. 
 
 While in Tantallon's lowers I staid; 
 Part we in friendship from your land, 
 And, noble Earl, receive my hand." — 
 But Douglas round him drew his cloak. 
 Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : — 
 " My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still 
 Be open, at my Sovereign's will. 
 To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
 Unmeet to 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." — 
 
 Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, 
 And shook his very frame for ire, 
 
 And — " This to me ! " he said, — 
 " An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
 Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 
 
 To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
 And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 
 He, who does England's message here, 
 Although the meanest in her state. 
 May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: 
 And, Douglas, more I tell thee here. 
 
 Even in thy pitch of pride, 
 Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
 (Nay, never look upon your lord, 
 And lay your 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: 
 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 turn'd, — well was his 
 
 need, 
 And dash'd the rowels in his steed, 
 Like arrow through the archway sprung. 
 The ponderous gate behind him rung : 
 To pass there was such scanty room. 
 The bars, descending, razed his plume. 
 
 The steed along the drawbridge flies, 
 Just as it trembled on the rise; 
 Nor lighter does the swallow skim 
 iVlong the smooth lake's level brim: 
 And when Lord Marmion reach'd his 
 
 band, 
 He halts, and turn'd with clenched hand, 
 And shout of loud defiance pours, 
 And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 
 " Horse ! horse ! " the Douglas cried, 
 
 " and chase ! " 
 But soon he rein'd his fury's pace : 
 " A royal messenger he came, 
 Though most unworthy of 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, 
 .Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line. 
 So swore L ^n*! I swear it still. 
 Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — 
 .Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! 
 Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 
 I thought to slay him where he stood. 
 'Tis pity of him too," he cried : 
 " Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, 
 I warrant him a warrior tried." 
 With this his mandate he recalls, 
 And slowly seeks his castle halls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The day in Marmion's journey wore; 
 Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er, 
 They cross'd the heights of Stanrig-Moor. 
 His troop more closely there he scann'd, 
 And miss'd the Palmer from the band. — 
 
112 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 " 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 Marinion quick. 
 " 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 loop-hole while I peep. 
 Old Bell-the-Cat came from the Keep, 
 Wrapp'd in a gown of sables fair, 
 As fearful of the morning air; 
 Beneath, when that was blown aside, 
 A rusty shirt of mail I spied. 
 By Archibald won in bloody work. 
 Against the Saracen and Turk : 
 Last night it hung not in the hall; 
 I thought some marvel would befall. 
 And next I saw them saddled lead 
 Old Cheviot forth, the Earl's best steed; 
 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 
 To use him on the battle-day; 
 Buthepreferr'd — " "Nay, Menry, cease ! 
 Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace. 
 Eustace, thou bear'st a brain — 1 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. 
 And much resembled that same knight. 
 Subdued by you in Cotswold fight : 
 
 Lord Angus wish'd him speed." — 
 The instant that Fitz- Eustace spoke, 
 A sudden light on Marmion broke: — 
 " Ah ! dastard fool, to reason lost ! " 
 He mutter'd; " 'Twas nor fay nor ghost 
 I met upon the moonlight wold. 
 But living man of earthly mould. — 
 
 O dotage blind and gross ! 
 Had I but fought as wont, one thrust 
 Had laid De VVilton in the dust. 
 
 My path no more to cross. — 
 How stand we now? — he told his tale 
 To Douglas; and with some avail; 
 
 * His eldest son, the Master of Angus. 
 
 'Twas therefore gloom'd his rugged 
 brow. — 
 Will Surrey dare to entertain, 
 'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and 
 vain? 
 
 Small risk of that, I trow. 
 Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun; 
 Must separate Constance from the Nun — 
 O, what a tangled web we weave. 
 When first we practise to deceive ! 
 A Palmer too ! — no wonder why 
 I felt rebuked beneath his eye : 
 I might have known there was but one 
 Whose look could quell Lord Marmion." 
 
 Stung with these thoughts, he urged to 
 
 speed 
 His troop, and reach'd at eve, the Tweed, 
 Where Lennel's convent t closed their 
 
 march. 
 (There now is left but one frail arch; 
 
 Yet mourn thou not its cells; 
 Our time a fair exchange has made; 
 Hard by, in hospitable shade, 
 
 A reverend pilgrim dwells. 
 Well worth the whole Bernardine brood, 
 That e'er wore sandal, frock, or h(3od.) 
 Yet did St. Bernard's Abbot there 
 (jive Marmion entertainment fair. 
 And lodging for his train and Clare. 
 Next morn the Baron climb'd the tower. 
 To view afar the Scottish power, 
 
 Encamp'il on Flodden edge: 
 The white pavilions made a show. 
 Like remnants of the winter snow. 
 
 Along the dusky ridge. 
 Lord Marmion look'd : — at length his eye 
 Unusual movement might descry 
 
 Amid the shifting lines: 
 The Scottish host drawn out appears. 
 For, flashing on the hedge of spears 
 
 The eastern sunbeam shines. 
 Their front now deepening, now extend- 
 ing; 
 Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending. 
 Now drawing back, and now descending. 
 The skilful Marmion well could know. 
 They watch'd the motions of some foe, 
 Who traversed on the plain below. 
 
 t A Cistertian convent. At I.ennel House 
 resided Patrick Brydone, Scott's venerable 
 friend. 
 
Canto VI, 
 
 THE BATTLE. 
 
 "3 
 
 Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 
 
 The Scots beheld the English host 
 
 Leave Barmore-wood, their evening 
 post, 
 
 And heedful watch'd them as they 
 cross'd 
 The Till by Twisel Bridgets 
 
 High sight it is, and haughty, while 
 They dive into the deep defile; 
 
 Beneath the cavern'd 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 rearing. 
 Upon the eastern bank you see. 
 Still pouring down the rocky den. 
 
 Where flows the sullen Till, 
 And rising from the dim-wood glen, 
 Standards on standards, men on men. 
 
 In slow succession still, 
 And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, 
 And pressing on, in ceaseless march. 
 
 To gain the opposing hill. 
 That morn, to many a trumpet clang, 
 Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang; 
 And many a chief of birth and rank; 
 Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. 
 Thy 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. 
 
 And why stands Scotland idly now. 
 Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow. 
 Since England gains the pass the while, 
 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 ! 
 O for one hour of Wallace wight, 
 Or well-skill'd Bruce to rule the fight, 
 And cry — ' ' Saint Andrew and our right ! " 
 
 Another sight had seen that morn. 
 From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn. 
 And Flodden had been Bannock- 
 bourne ! — 
 The precious hour has pass'd in vain, 
 And England's host has gain'd the plain : 
 Wheeling their march, and circling still. 
 Around the base of Flodden hill. 
 
 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 far array'd 
 They file from out the hawthorn shade. 
 
 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 array'd, 
 The river must be quickly cross'd. 
 That we may join Lord Surrey's host. 
 If fight King James, — as well I trust. 
 That fight he will, and fight he must, — 
 The Lady Clare behind our lines 
 Shall tarry, while the battle joins.' 
 
 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, . 
 And mutter'd 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 Leafs eddies creep. 
 
 He ventured desperately : 
 
114 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 And not a moment will he bide, 
 
 Till squire, or groom, before him ride; 
 
 Headmost of all he stems the tide; 
 
 And stems it gillantly. 
 Eustace held Clare upon her horse, 
 
 Old Hubert led her rein. 
 Stoutly they braved the current's course. 
 And, though far downward driven per 
 force 
 
 The southern bank they gain; 
 Behind them straggling, came to shore. 
 
 As best they might, the train : 
 Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 
 
 A caution not in vain; 
 Deep need that day that every string. 
 By wet unharm'd, should sharply ring. 
 A moment then Lord Marmion staid. 
 And breathed his steed, his men array'd. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Hence might they see the full array 
 Of either host, for deadly fray; ^'' 
 Their marshall'd lines stretch'd east and 
 west, 
 
 And fronted north and south. 
 And distant salutation pass'd 
 
 From the loud cannon mouth; 
 Not in the close successive rattle. 
 That breathes the voice of modern battle. 
 
 But slow and far between. — 
 The hillock gain'd. Lord Marmion staid: 
 " Here by this Cross," he gently said: 
 
 " You well may view the scene. 
 Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare: 
 O ! think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — 
 Thou wilt not? — well, — no less my 
 
 care 
 Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare. — 
 You, Blount and Eustace, are her 
 guard, 
 
 With ten pick'd archers of my train; 
 With England if the day go hard. 
 
 To Berwick speed amain. — 
 But if we conquer, cruel maid. 
 My spoils shall at your feet be laid, 
 
 when here we meet again." 
 He waited not for answer there. 
 And would not mark the maid's despair, 
 
 Nor heed the discontented look 
 From either squire; but spurr'd amain. 
 And, dashing through the battle plain. 
 
 His way to Surrey took. 
 
 " The good Lord Marmion, by my 
 
 life ! 
 
 Welcome to danger's hour ! 
 Short greeting serves in time of strife ! 
 
 Thus have I ranged my power : — 
 Myself will rule this 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 rear-ward of the fight. 
 And succor those that need it most. 
 
 Now, gallant Marmion, well I know. 
 
 Would gladly to the vanguard go; 
 Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there. 
 With thee their charge will blithely share; 
 There fight thine own retainers too, 
 Beneath De Burg, thy steward true." 
 " Thanks, noble Surrey ! " Marmion said, 
 Nor farther greeting there he paid; 
 But, parting like a thunderbolt. 
 First in the vanguard made a halt. 
 
 Where such a shout there rose 
 Of " Marmion ! Marmion ! " that the cry, 
 Up Flodden mountains shrilling high. 
 
 Startled the Scottish foes. 
 
 Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
 With Lady Clare upon the hill ! 
 On which (for far the day was spent) 
 The western sunbeams now were bent. 
 The cry they heard, its meaning knew. 
 Could plain their distant comrades view; 
 Sadly to Blount did Eustace say : — 
 " Unworthy 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 fast, and rolling far, 
 The cloud enveloped Scotland's war. 
 
 As down the hill they broke; 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE BATTLE. 
 
 "5 
 
 Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone. 
 Announced their march ; their tread alone, 
 At times one warning trumpet blown, 
 
 At times a stifled hum. 
 Told England, from his mountain-throne 
 
 King James did rushing come. — 
 Scarce could they hear or see their foes, 
 
 Until at weapon-point they close. — 
 They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, 
 With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust; 
 
 And such a yell was there. 
 Of sudden and portentous birth. 
 As if men fought upon the earth, 
 
 And fiends in upper air; 
 O life and death were in the shout. 
 Recoil and rally, charge and rout. 
 
 And triumph and despair. 
 Long look'd the anxious squires; their eye 
 Could in the darkness naught 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 sea-mew. 
 
 Then mark'd they, dashing broad and far, 
 
 The broken billows of the war, 
 
 And plumed crests of chieftains brave. 
 
 Floating like foam upon the wave; 
 
 But naught distinct they see : 
 Wide raged the battle on the plain; 
 Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain. 
 Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; 
 Crests rose, and stoop'd, and rose again. 
 
 Wild and disorderly. 
 Amid the scene of tumult, high 
 They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly: 
 And stainless Tunstall's l)anner white. 
 And Edmund Howard's lion bright. 
 Still bare them bravely in the fight. 
 
 Although against them come, 
 Of gallant Gordons many a one. 
 And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 
 And many a rugged Border clan, 
 
 With Huntly, and with Home. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Far on the left, unseen the while, 
 Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle; 
 Though there the western mountaineer 
 Rush'd with bare bosom on the spear. 
 
 And flung the feeble targe aside. 
 
 And with both hands the broadsword 
 
 plied, 
 'Twas vain : — But Fortune, on the right. 
 With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's 
 
 fight. 
 Then fell that spotless banner white, 
 
 The Howard's lion fell; 
 Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
 With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 
 
 Around the battle-yell. 
 The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
 A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry: 
 
 Loud were the clanging blows; 
 Advanced, — forced back, — now low, 
 now high. 
 
 The pennon sunk and rose; 
 As bends the bark's mast in the gale. 
 When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail. 
 
 It waver'd mid the foes. 
 No longer Blount the view could bear : — 
 " By Heaven, and all its saints ! I swear 
 
 I will not see it lost ! 
 Fitz- Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
 May bid your l^eads, and patter prayer, — 
 
 I gallop to the host." 
 And to the fray he rode amain, 
 Follow'd by all the archer train. 
 The fiery youth, with desperate charge. 
 Made, for a space, an opening large, — 
 
 The rescued banner rose, — 
 But darkly closed the war around. 
 Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, 
 
 It sunk among the foes. 
 Then Eustace mounted too : — yet staid 
 As loth to leave the helpless maid, 
 
 When, fast as shaft can fly. 
 Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread. 
 The loose rein dangling from his head. 
 Housing and saddle bloody red. 
 
 Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by; 
 And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 
 
 A look and sign to Clara cast 
 
 To mark he would return in haste, 
 Then plunged into the fight. 
 
 Ask me not what the maiden feels, 
 Left in that dreadful hour alone: 
 
 Perchance her reason stoops, or reels; 
 Perchance a courage, not her own, 
 Braces her mind to desperate tone. — 
 
 The scatter'd van of England wheels : — 
 
Ii6 
 
 MARMJON. 
 
 Canto VI, 
 
 She only said, as loud in air 
 
 The tumult roar'd, " Is Wilton 
 there? " — 
 
 They fly, or madden'd by despair, 
 
 Fight but to die, — "Is Wilton 
 there? " 
 With that, straight up the hill there rode 
 Two horsemen drench 'd with gore, 
 And in their arms, a helpless load, 
 
 A wounded knight they bore. 
 His hand still strain'd the broken brand; 
 His arms were smear'd with blood and 
 
 sand. 
 Dragg'd from among the horses' feet. 
 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." — 
 " Unnurtured Blount ! thy brawling cease : 
 He opes his eyes," said Eustace; 
 " peace ! " 
 
 When, doff 'd 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, 
 To Dacre bear my signet-ring: 
 Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — 
 
 Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie; 
 Tunstall lies dead upon the field, 
 His life-blood stains the spotless shield. 
 Edmund is down : — my life is reft; 
 The Admiral alone is left. 
 Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — 
 With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
 Full upon Scotland's central host, 
 Or victory and England's lost. — 
 Must I bid twice ? — hence, varlcts ! 
 
 fly! 
 Leave Marmion here alone — to die." 
 
 They parted, and alone he lay; 
 
 Clare drew her from the sight away. 
 Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
 And half he murmur'd^ — " Is there none 
 
 Of all my halls have nurst. 
 Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
 Of blessed water from the spring. 
 
 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: 
 Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; 
 The plaintive voice alone she hears, 
 
 Sees but the dying man. 
 She stoop'd 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. 
 Where water, clear as diamond-spark. 
 
 In a stone basin fell. 
 Above, some half-worn letters say, 
 
 ©rink, fajcarj. pilgrim. Brink. anlJ. prnj. 
 JFor. t})c. kinti. soul. of. S^bil. ©rco. 
 JTOIjo. fcuilt. tf)is. cross, anil, fairll." 
 
 She fili'd the helm, and liack she hied. 
 And with surprise and joy espied 
 
 A monk supporting Marmion 's head: 
 A pious man, whom duty brought 
 To dubious verge of battle fought, 
 
 To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. 
 
 Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, 
 And, as she stoop'd 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. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE nATTLE. 
 
 117 
 
 Short space, few words, are mine to 
 
 spare; 
 Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " — 
 " Alas ! " she said, *' the while, — 
 O, think of your immortal weal ! 
 In vain for Constance is your zeal; 
 
 She died at Holy Isle." — 
 
 Lord Marmion started from the ground, 
 As light as if he felt no wound; 
 Though in the action burst the tide, 
 In torrents, from his wounded side. 
 " Then it was truth," — he said — "Iknew 
 That the dark presage must be true. — 
 I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
 The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 
 
 Would spare me but a day ! 
 For wasting fire, and dying groan. 
 And priests slain on the altar-stone, 
 
 Might bribe him for delay. 
 It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — 
 Curse on yon base marauder's lance. 
 And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 
 A sinful heart makes feeble hand." 
 Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, 
 Supported by the trembling monk. 
 
 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. 
 
 For that she ever sung, 
 " In the lost battle, borne down by the 
 
 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 ! — 
 O, look, my son, upon yon sign 
 Of the Redeemer's grace divine; 
 
 O, think on faith and bliss ! — 
 By many a death-bed I have been. 
 And many a sinner's parting seen, 
 
 But never aught like this." — 
 The war, that for a space did fail, 
 Now trebly thundering swell'd 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 ! — 
 Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, 
 
 on ! " 
 Were the last words of Marmion. 
 
 By this, though deep the evening fell. 
 Still rose the battle's deadly swell. 
 For still the Scots, around their King, 
 Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
 Where's now their victor vaward wing, 
 
 Where Muntly, and where Home? — 
 O, for a blast of that dread horn, 
 On Fontarabian echoes borne. 
 
 That to King Charles did come. 
 When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
 And every paladin and peer. 
 
 On Roncesvalles died ! 
 Such 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, 
 
 Our Caledonian pride ! 
 In vain the wish — for far away. 
 While spoil and havoc mark their way, 
 Near Sybil'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 Tillmouth upon Tweed. 
 There all the night they spent in prayer. 
 And at the dawn of morning, there 
 She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. 
 
 But as they left the dark'ning heath, 
 More desperate grew the strife of death. 
 The English shafts in volleys hail'd. 
 In headlong charge their horse assail'd; 
 Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons 
 
 sweep 
 To break the Scottish circle deep. 
 That fought around their King. 
 But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
 Though charging knights like whirlwinds 
 
 go. 
 Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, 
 Unbroken was the ring; 
 
MARMIOM. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 The stubborn spear-men still made good 
 
 Their dark impenetral)le wood, 
 
 Each stepping where his comrade stood, 
 
 The instant that he fell. 
 No thought was there of dastard flight; 
 Link'd in the serried phalanx tight, 
 Groom fought like noble, squire likeknight 
 
 As fearlessly and well; 
 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 shatter'd bands; 
 And from the charge they drew. 
 As mountain-waves, from wasted lands. 
 
 Sweep back to ocean blue. 
 Then did their loss his foeman know; 
 Their King, their Lords, their mightiest 
 
 low, 
 They melted from the field, as snow, 
 When streams are swoln and south winds 
 blow. 
 
 Dissolves in silent dew. 
 Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, 
 
 While many a broken band, 
 Disorder'd, through her currents dash. 
 
 To gain the Scottish land; 
 To town and tower, to down and dale. 
 To tell red Flodden's dismal tale. 
 And raise the universal wail. 
 Tradition, legend, tune, and song, 
 Shall many an age that wail prolong: 
 Still from the sire the son shall hear 
 Of the stern strife, and carnage dear, 
 
 Of Flodden's fatal f^eld. 
 Where shiver'd 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 — 
 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, 
 
 And fell on Flodden plain; 
 
 And well in death his trusty brand, 
 Firm clench'd within his manly hand, 
 
 Beseem'd the monarch slain. '^^ 
 But, O ! how changed since yon blithe 
 
 night ! — 
 Gladly I turn me from the sight, 
 
 Unto my tale again. 
 
 Short is my tale: — Fitz-Eustace' care 
 A pierced and mangled body bare 
 To moated Litchfield's lofty pile; 
 And there, beneath the southern aisle, 
 A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair. 
 Did long Lord Marmion's image bear, 
 (Now vainly for its sight you look; 
 'Twas levell'd when fanatic Brook 
 The fair cathedral storm'd and took; '^^ 
 But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint 
 
 Chad, 
 A guerdon meet the spoiler had !) 
 There erst was martial Marmion found, 
 His feet upon a couchant hound. 
 
 His hands to heaven upraised; 
 And all around, 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 
 Follow'd his lord to Flodden plain, — 
 One of those flowers, whom plaintive 
 
 lay 
 In Scotland mourns as " wede away: " 
 Sore wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied. 
 And dragg'd him to its foot, and died. 
 Close by the noble Marmion's side. 
 The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd the slain, 
 And thus their corpses were 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, 
 
 But every mark is gone; 
 Time's wasting hand has done away 
 The simple cross of Sybil Grey, 
 And broke her font of stone; 
 
Canto VI, 
 
 THE BATTLE. 
 
 "9 
 
 But yet from out the little hill 
 Oozes the slender springlet still. 
 
 Oft halts the stranger there, 
 For thence may best his curious eye 
 The memorable field descry; 
 
 And shepherd boys repair 
 To seek the water-flag and rush. 
 And rest them by the hazel bush, 
 
 And plait their garlands fair; 
 Nor dream they sit upon the grave. 
 That holds the lx)nes 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; 
 If every devious step, thus trod, 
 Still led thee farther 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." 
 
 I do not rhyme to that dull elf. 
 Who cannot image to himself. 
 That all through Flodden's dismal night, 
 Wilton was foremost in the fight; 
 That, when brave Surrey's steed was slain, 
 'Twas Wilton mounted him again; 
 'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hew'd, 
 Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood; 
 Unnamed by 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. 
 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, passdthe joke, 
 That bluff King Hal the curtain drew. 
 And Catherine's hand the stocking 
 
 threw; 
 And afterwards, for many a day. 
 That it was held enough to say. 
 In blessing to a wedded pair, 
 " Love they like Wilton and like Clare ! ' ' 
 
 V 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 hands, 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 to the head of age. 
 To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay 
 Has cheated of thy hour of play. 
 Light task, and merry holiday ! 
 To all, to each, a fair good-night, 
 And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light ! 
 
 » Story. 
 
THE 
 
 LADY OF THE LAKE 
 
 A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 
 
 TO THE MOST NOBLE 
 
 JOHN JAMES, MARQUIS OF ABERCORN, 
 
 ETC., ETC., ETC. 
 THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 
 
 After the success of " Marniion," I felt inclined to exclaim with Ulysses in the 
 " Odyssey " — 
 
 OCtos f-iv i») dedAot aaaros eKT^TsAtiTTai. 
 tivv avTe (TKonby aWov. — Odys. x- $• 6. 
 
 " One venturesome game my hand has won to-day — 
 Another, gallants, yet remains to play." 
 
 The ancient manners, the habits and customs, of the aboriginal race by whom the 
 Highlands of Scotland were inhabited, had always appeared to me p>eculiarly 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 jx)etical conijx)sition. The feuds and political dissensions, which, half a cen- 
 tury 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 sank in 
 the generous compassion which the English, more than any other nation, feel for the mis- 
 fortunes of an honorable foe. The Poems of Ossian had, by their popularity, sufficiently 
 shown, that if writings on Highland subjects were qualified to interest the reader, mere 
 national prejudices were, in the present day, very unlikely to interfere with their success. 
 
 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 
 
 1 20 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. I2i 
 
 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 recollection, was a labor of love, and it was no less so to recall 
 the manners and incidents introduced. The frequent custom of James IV., and particu- 
 larly of James V., to walk through their kingdom in disguise, afforded me the hint of an 
 incident, which never fails to be interesting, if managed with the sUghtest address or 
 dexterity. 
 
 I may now confess, however, that the employment, though attended with great pleas- 
 ure, was not without its doubts and anxieties. A lady, to whom I was nearly related, 
 and with whom I lived, during her whole Ufe, 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 conven- 
 ient time 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 that even I, or other partial friends, can fairly allow to your merit. Vou 
 stand high — do not rashly attempt to climb higher, and incur the risk of a fall ; for, 
 depend 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 liis deserts are small, 
 Who dares not put it to the touch 
 To gain or lose it all." 
 
 " 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. Nevertheless, although I answered thus confi- 
 dently, with the obstinacy often said to be propier to those who bear my surname, I ac- 
 knowledge that my confidence was considerably shaken by the warning of her excellent 
 taste and unbiassed friendship. Nor was I much comforted by her retraction of the unfa- 
 vorable judgment, when I recollected how likely a natural partiality was to affect that change 
 of opinion. In such cases, aftection rises like a light on the canvas, improves any favor- 
 able 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 feeling, perfectly compe- 
 tent to supply the wants of an imperfect or irregular 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 rei)re- 
 sentative of readers at large. It is, of course, to be supposed, 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 attention 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 calculated for the occasion, that the 
 dogs must liave been totally ruined by Ijeing permitted to take the water after such a severe 
 chase. I own I was much encouraged by the si^ecies of reverie 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 detected the identity of the King with the wandering knight, Fitz-James, when he 
 winds his bugle to summon his attendants. He was probably thinking of the lively, but 
 
122 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 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 amang them a'. 
 
 And we'll 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 troubled me ; and I was at a good deal of pains to efface any marks by which 1 thought 
 my secret could be traced before the conclusion, when I relied on it with the same hope of 
 producing effect, with which the Irish postboy is said to reserve a " trot for the avenue." 
 
 I took uncommon pains to verify the accuracy 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 pleasure 
 to satisfy myself that it was quite practicable. 
 
 After a considerable delay, " The Lady of the Lake " appeared in May, 1810 ; and its 
 success 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. 1 had attained, perhaps, that degree of public 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 increase it. But, as the celebrated John 
 Wilkes is said to have explained to his late Majesty, that he himself, amid his full tide 
 of popularity, was never a Wilkite, so I can, with the honest truth, exculpate myself 
 from having been at any time a partisan of my own poetry, even when it was in the high- 
 est fashion with the million. It must not be supposed that 1 was either so ungrateful, or 
 so superabundantly candid, as to despise or scorn the value of those whose voice had ele- 
 vated me so much higher than my own opinion told me 1 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 in- 
 terest of the public or my own. But the former had effectual means of defending them- 
 selves, 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 gen- 
 erously bestowed all my tediousness on the public, comforting myself 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 1 had the crown," and had enjoyed for a time 
 that popularity which is so much coveted. 
 
 I conceived, however, that I held the distinguished situation I had obtained, however 
 unworthily, rather like the champion of pugilism, 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 ca.se 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 precedence by some more worthy 
 rival, to sinking into contempt for my indolence, and losing my reputation by what Scot- 
 tish lawyers call the negative frescription. Accordingly, those who choose to look at the 
 Introduction to Rokeby, in the present edition, will be able to trace the steps by which I 
 declined as a poet to figure as a novelist ; as the ballad says. Queen Eleanor sunk at Char- 
 ing-Cross to rise again at Queenhithe. 
 
 It only remains for me to say, that, during my short pre-eminence of popularity, I faith- 
 fully observed the rules of moderation which I had resolved to follow before I began my 
 
 } "The Jolly Beggar," attributed to King James V. — Herd's Collection, 1776. 
 
INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 123 
 
 course as a man of letters. If a man is determined 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. E.\perienced persons know, that in 
 stretching to Hog 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 princi- 
 ple, 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 e-xplode 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 patience. 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 contemporaries. 
 
 W. S. 
 Abbotsford, April, 1830. 
 
 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 trans- 
 actions of each day occupy a Canto. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 THE CHASE. 
 
 Harp of the North ! that mouldering 
 long hast hung 
 On the witch-elm that shades Saint 
 Fillan'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 ac- 
 cents sleep? 
 Mid rustling leaves and fountains mur- 
 muring. 
 Still must thy sweeter sounds their 
 silence keep. 
 Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid 
 to weep? 
 
 Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 
 Was thy voice mute amidst 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 
 bow'd; 
 For still the burden of thy minstrelsy 
 Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and 
 Beauty's matchless eye. 
 
 O wake once more ! how rude soe'er the 
 hand 
 That ventures o'er thy magic maze to 
 Stray; 
 
 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 touch'd 
 in vain. 
 Then silent be no more ! Enchantress, 
 wake again ! 
 
 The stag at eve had drunk his fill. 
 Where danced the moon on Monan'srill, 
 And deep his midnight lair had made 
 In lone Glenartney's hazel shade; 
 But, when the sun his beacon red 
 Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,* 
 The deep-mouth'd bloodhound's heavy 
 
 bay 
 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 foemen storm the wall," 
 The antler'd monarch of the waste 
 Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. 
 But, ere his fleet career he took. 
 The dew-drops from his flanks he shook; 
 Like crested leader proud and high, 
 Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky; 
 A moment gazed adown the dale, 
 A moment snuff'd the tainted gale, 
 
 * One of tlie Grampian chain of mountains at 
 tlie head of the Valley of the Garry. 
 
 124. 
 
Canto 
 
 THE CHASE. 
 
 125 
 
 A moment listen'd to the cry, 
 That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh; 
 Then, as the headmost foes appear'd, 
 With one brave bound the copse he 
 
 clear'd, 
 And, stretching forward free and far, 
 Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var. 
 
 Yell'd on the view the opening pack; 
 Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back; 
 To many a mingled sound at once 
 The awaken'd mountain gave response. 
 A hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong, 
 Clatter'd a hundred steeds along. 
 Their peal the merry horns rung out, 
 A hundred voices join'd the shout; 
 With hark and whoop and wild halloo, 
 No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. 
 Far from the tumult fled the roe, 
 Close in her covert cower'd the doe, 
 The falcon, from her cairn on high. 
 Cast on the rout a wondering eye. 
 Till far beyond her piercing ken 
 The hurricane had swept the glen. 
 Faint and more faint, its failing din 
 Return'd 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 
 Disturb'd the heights of Uam-Var, 
 And roused the cavern, where 'tis told, 
 A giant made his den of old;i 
 For ere that steep ascent was won. 
 High in his pathway hung the sun, 
 And many a gallant, stay'd perforce, 
 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 wander'd o'er 
 Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, 
 
 And ponder'd refuge from his toil. 
 By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. 
 But nearer was the copsewood 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 return'd. 
 With flying foot the heath he spurn'd. 
 Held westward with unwearied race, 
 And left behind the panting chase. 
 
 'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er. 
 As swept the hunt through Cam bus-more; 
 What reins were tighten'd in despair. 
 When rose Benledi's ridge in air;* 
 Who flagg'd upon Bochastle's heath. 
 Who shunn'd to stem the flooded 
 
 Teith.t — 
 For twice that day, from shore to shore. 
 The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. 
 Few were the stragglers following far, 
 That reach'd the lake of Venachar; 
 And when the Brigg % of Turk was won. 
 The headmost horseman rode alone. 
 
 Alone, but with unbated zeal. 
 
 That horseman plied the scourge and steel : 
 
 For jaded now, and spent with toil, 
 
 Emboss'd with foam, and dark with soil, 
 
 While every gasp with sobs he drew, 
 
 The laboring stag strain'd full in view. 
 
 Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 
 
 Unmatch'd for courage, breath, andspeed,^ 
 
 Fast on his flying traces came, 
 
 And all but won that desperate game; 
 
 For, scarce a spear's length from his 
 
 haunch. 
 Vindictive toil'd the bloodhounds 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. 
 
 * Benledi is a high mountain on the north- 
 west of Callander. Its name signifies the moun- 
 tain of God. 
 
 t A river which gives its name to the territory 
 of Menteith. 
 
 X Bri^^y a bridge. 
 
126 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 The Hunter mark'd that mountain high, 
 The lone lake's western boundary, 
 And deem'd the stag must turn to bay. 
 Where that huge rampart barr'd the way; 
 Already glorying in the prize. 
 Measured his antlers with his eyes; 
 For the death-wound and death-halloo, 
 Muster'd his breath, his whinyard 
 
 drew;" — 
 But thundering as he came prepared, 
 With ready arm and weapon bared, 
 The wily quarry shunn'd the shock. 
 And turn'd him from the opposing rock; 
 Then, dashing down a darksome glen. 
 Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, 
 In the deep Trosach's wildest nook 
 His solitary refuge took. 
 There, wiiile close couch'd, the thicket 
 
 shed 
 Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head. 
 He heard the baffled dogs in vain 
 Rave through the hollow pass amain. 
 Chiding the rocks that yell'd again. 
 
 Close on the hounds the Hunter came, 
 To cheer them on the vanish'd game; 
 But, stumbling in the rugged dell. 
 The gallant horse exhausted fell. 
 The impatient rider strove in vain 
 To rouse him with the spur and rein. 
 For the good steed, his lalx)rs o'er, 
 Stretch'd his stiff limbs to rise no more; 
 Then, touch'd with pity and remorse. 
 He sorrow'd o'er the expiring horse: — 
 " I little thought when first thy rein 
 I slack'd upon the banks of Seine, 
 That Highland eagle e'er should feed 
 On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed. 
 Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day. 
 That costs thy life, my gallant gray! " 
 
 Then through the dell his horn resounds, 
 YxovA vain pursuit to call the hounds. 
 Back limp'd, with slow and crippled pace. 
 The sulky leaders of the chase; 
 Close to their master's side they press'd. 
 With drooping tail and humbled crest; 
 But still the dingle's hollow throat 
 Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note. 
 
 The owlets started from their dream. 
 The eagles answer'd with their scream. 
 Round and around the sounds were cast. 
 Till echo seem'd an answering blast; 
 And on the Hunter hied his way, 
 To join some comrades of the day; 
 Yet often paused, so strange the road. 
 So wondrous were the scenes it show'd. 
 
 The western waves of ebbing day 
 RoU'd o'er the glen their level way; 
 Each purple peak, each flinty spire. 
 Was bathed in floods of living fire. 
 But not a setting beam could glow 
 Within the dark ravines Ix'low, 
 Where twined the path in shadow hid. 
 Round many a rocky pyramid. 
 Shooting abruptly from the dell 
 Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle; 
 Round many an insulated mass. 
 The native Ijulwarks of the pass. 
 Huge as the tower* which builders vain 
 Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 
 The rocky summits, split and rent, 
 Form'd turret, dome, or battlement, 
 Or seem'd fantastically set 
 With cupola or minaret. 
 Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd. 
 Or moscjue of Eastern architect. 
 Nor were these earth-born castles bare. 
 Nor lack'd they many a banner fair; 
 For, from their shiver'd brows display'd,. 
 Far o'er the unfathomable glade. 
 All twinkling with the dew-drops sheen, 
 The brier-rose fell in streamers green, 
 And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes. 
 Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. 
 
 Boon nature scatter'd, free and wild. 
 Each plant or flower, the mountain's 
 
 child, 
 Here eglantine embalm'd the air, 
 Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; 
 The primrose pale and violet flower. 
 Found in each cleft a narrow bower; 
 Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side. 
 Emblems of punishment and pride, 
 Group'd their dark hues with every stain 
 The weather-beaten crags retain. 
 
 * The Tower of Babel. — Genesis xi. 1-9. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE CHASE. 
 
 12J 
 
 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 shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung, 
 Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high, 
 His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky. 
 Highest of ail, where white peaks glanced. 
 Where glist'ning streamers waved and 
 
 danced, 
 The wanderer's eye could barely view 
 The summer heaven's delicious blue; 
 So wondrous wild, the whole might seem 
 The scenerj' of a fairy dream. 
 
 Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep 
 A narrow inlet, still and deep. 
 Affording scarce such breadth of brim. 
 As served the wild duck's brood to swim. 
 Lost for a space, through thickets veering, 
 But broader when again appearing. 
 Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face 
 Could on the dark-blue mirror trace; 
 And farther as the hunter stray'd. 
 Still broader sweeps its channels made. 
 The shaggy mounds no longer stood. 
 Emerging from entangled wood, 
 But, wave encircled, seem'd to float. 
 Like castle girdled with its moat; 
 Yet broader floods extending still 
 Divide them from their parent hill, 
 Till each, retiring, claims to be 
 An islet in an inland sea. 
 
 And now, to issue from the glen. 
 No pathway meets tlie 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. 
 Where, gleaming with the setting sun, 
 One burnish'd sheet of living gold. 
 Loch Katrine lay beneath him roU'd, 
 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 
 Down on the lake in masses threw 
 Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly 
 
 hurl'd. 
 The fragments of an earlier world; 
 A wildering forest feather'd o'er 
 His ruin'd sides and summit hoar. 
 While on the north, through middle air, 
 Benan heaved high his forehead bare. 
 
 From the steep promontory gazed 
 The stranger, raptured and amazed. 
 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 Ixjwer; 
 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. 
 How solemn on the ear would come 
 The holy matins' distant hum. 
 While the deep peal's commanding tone 
 Should wake, in yonder islet lone, 
 A sainted hermit from his cell, 
 To drop a bead with every knell — 
 And bugle, lute, and bell, and all. 
 Should each bewilder'd stranger call 
 To friendly feast, and lighted hall. 
 
 " 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 l)ank 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 : 
 But hosts may in these wilds alwund. 
 Such as are better miss'd than found; 
 
128 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 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." 
 
 But scarce again his horn he wound, 
 
 When lo ! forth starting at the sound, 
 
 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. 
 The boat had touchVl this silver strand, 
 Just as the hunter left his stand. 
 And stood conceal'd amid the brake. 
 To view this Lady of the I^ake. 
 The maiden paused, as if again 
 She thought to catch the distant strain. 
 With head up-raised, and look intent. 
 And eye and ear attentive bent. 
 And locks flung back, and lips apart, 
 Like monument of Grecian art. 
 In listening mood, she seem'd to stand. 
 The guardian Naiad of the strand. 
 
 And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 
 
 A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 
 
 Of finer form, or lovelier face: 
 
 What though the sun, with ardent frown, 
 
 Had slightly tinged her cheek with 
 
 brown, — 
 The sportive toil, which, short and light. 
 Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, 
 Served too in hastier swell to show 
 Short glimpses of a breast of snow : 
 What though no rule of courtly grace 
 To measured mood had trained her pace, 
 A foot more light, a step more true, 
 Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd 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 clear, 
 The listener held his breath to hear ! 
 
 A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid. 
 Her satin snood,* her silken plaid, 
 Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd. 
 And seldom was a snood amid 
 Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, 
 Whose glossy black to shame might bring 
 The plumage of the raven's wing; 
 And seldom o'er a breast so fair, 
 Mantled a plaid with modest care, 
 And never brooch the folds 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 confess'd 
 The guileless movements of her breast; 
 Whether joy danced in her dark eye, 
 Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh, 
 Or filial love was glowing there, 
 Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer, 
 Or tale of injury call'd forth 
 The indignant spirit of the North. 
 One only passion unreveal'd. 
 With maiden pride the maid conceal'd. 
 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 — 
 " Father ! " she cried; the rocks around 
 Loved to prolong the gentle sound. 
 Awhile she paused, no answer came : — 
 " Malcolm, was thine the blast? " — The 
 
 name 
 Less resolutely utter'd fell, 
 The echoes could not catch the swell. 
 "A stranger I," the Huntsman said. 
 Advancing from the hazel shade. 
 The maid, alarm'd, with hasty oar, 
 Push'd her light shallop from the shore. 
 And when a space was gain'd between, 
 Closer she drew her bosom's screen; 
 
 • Snood, the fillet worn round the hair of 
 maidens. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE CHASE. 
 
 129 
 
 (So forth the startled swan would swing. 
 So turn to prune his ruffled wing,) 
 Then safe, though flutter'd 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 press'd its signet sage. 
 
 Vet had not quench'd 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 array'd, 
 
 And weaponless, except his blade. 
 
 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 trod the shore. 
 
 Slighting the petty need he show'd. 
 
 He told of his benighted road; 
 
 His ready speech flow'd fair and free. 
 
 In phrase of gentlest courtesy; 
 
 Vet seem'd that tone, and gesture bland, 
 
 Less used to sue than to command. 
 
 A while the maid the stranger eyed, 
 And, reassured, at length replied. 
 That Highland halls were open still 
 To wllder'd wanderers of the hill. 
 " Nor think you unexpected come 
 To yon lone isle, our desert home; 
 Before the heath had lost the dew. 
 This morn, a couch was pull'd for you; 
 On yonder mountain's purple head 
 Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled. 
 And our broad nets have swept the mere 
 To furnish forth your evening cheer." — 
 '* Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, 
 Your courtesy has err'd," he said; 
 " No right have I to claim, misplaced. 
 The welcome of expected guest. 
 A wanderer, here by fortune tost, 
 My way, my friends, my courser, lost, 
 I ne'er before, believe me, fair. 
 Have ever drawn your mountain air. 
 
 Till on this lake's romantic strand, 
 I found a fay in fairy land ! " — 
 
 " I well believe," the maid replied. 
 As her light skiff approach'd the side, — 
 " I well believe, that ne'er before 
 Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore. 
 But yet, as far as yesternight. 
 Old Allan-Bane foretold your plight, — 
 A gray-hair'd sire, whose eye intent 
 Was on the vision'd future bent.® 
 He saw your steed, a dappled gray. 
 Lie dead beneath the birchen way: 
 Painted exact your form and mien. 
 Your hunting suit of Lincoln green, 
 That tassell'd horn so gayly gilt. 
 That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, 
 That cap with heron plumage trim. 
 And yon two hounds so dark and grim. 
 He bade that all should ready be. 
 To grace a guest of fair degree, 
 But light I held his prophecy. 
 And deem'd it was my father's horn, 
 Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne." 
 
 The stranger smil'd : " Since to your home 
 A destined errant-knight I come. 
 Announced by prophet sooth and old, 
 Doom'd, doubtless, for achievement bold, 
 I'll lightly front each high emprise. 
 For one kind glance of those bright eyes. 
 Permit me, first, the task to guide 
 Your fairy frigate o'er the tide." 
 The maid with smile suppress'd and sly 
 The toil unwonted saw him try; 
 For seldom sure, if e'er before. 
 His noble hand had grasp'd an oar : 
 Yet with main strength his strokes he 
 
 drew. 
 And o'er the lake the shallop flew; 
 With heads erect, and whimpering cry, 
 The hounds behind their passage ply. 
 Nor frequent does the bright oar break 
 The dark'ning mirror of the lake, 
 Until the rocky isle they reach, 
 And moor their shallop on the beach. 
 
 The stranger view'd the shore around, 
 'Twas all so close with copsewood bound. 
 
I30 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Nor track nor pathway might declare 
 That human foot frequented there. 
 Until the mountain-maiden show'd 
 A clambering, unsuspected road. 
 That winded through the tangled screen. 
 And open'd on a narrow green. 
 Where weeping birch and willow round 
 With their long fibres swept the ground. 
 Here, for retreat in dangerous hour, 
 Some chief had framed a rustic bower. ^ 
 
 It was a lodge of ample size. 
 
 But strange of structure and device. 
 
 Of such materials, as around 
 
 The workman's hands had readiest found. 
 
 Lopp'd off their boughs, their hoar trunks 
 
 bared. 
 And by the hatchet rudely squared, 
 To give the walls their destined height, 
 The sturdy oak and ash unite; 
 While moss and clay and leaves com- 
 bined 
 To fence each crevice from the wind. 
 The lighter pine-trees over-head. 
 Their slender length for rafters spread. 
 And wither 'd heath and rushes dry 
 Supplied a russet canopy. 
 Due westward, fronting to the green, 
 A rural portico was seen, 
 Aloft on native pillars borne, 
 Of mountain fir, with bark unshorn. 
 Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine 
 The ivy and Ida;an vine, 
 The clematis, the favor'd flower 
 Which lx)asts the name of virgin-bower. 
 And every hardy plant could bear 
 Loch Katrine's keen and searching air. 
 An instant in this porch she staid, 
 And 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." 
 He cross'd the threshold — and a clang 
 Of angry steel that instant rang. 
 To his bold brow his spirit rush'd, 
 But soon for vain alarm he blush'd, 
 When on the floor he saw display'd. 
 Cause of the din, a naked blade 
 
 Dropp'd 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 tusk'd trophies of the boar. 
 Here grins the wolf as when he died. 
 And there the wild-cat's brindled hide 
 The frontlet of the elk adorns, 
 Or mantles o'er the bison's horns; 
 I'ennons and flags defaced and stain'd. 
 That blackening streaks of blood retain'd, 
 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. 
 
 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 sway'd, 
 " I never knew but one," he said, 
 " Whose stalwart arm might brook to 
 
 wield 
 A blade like this in battle-field." 
 She sigh'd, then smiled and took the 
 
 word: 
 " You see the guardian champion's 
 
 sword : 
 As light it trembles in his hand, 
 As in my grasp a hazel wand; 
 My sire's tall form might grace the part 
 Of Ferragus or Ascabart ; * 
 But in the absent giant's hold 
 Are women now, and menials old." 
 
 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 kind-co 
 
 knew. 
 Young Ellen gave a mother's due. 
 Meet welcome to her guest she made. 
 And every courteous rite was paid, 
 
Canto 1. 
 
 THE CHASE. 
 
 13J 
 
 That hospitality could claim, 
 Though all unask'd his birth and name.^ 
 Such then the reverence to a guest. 
 That fellest foe might join the feast, 
 And from his deadliest foeman's door 
 Unquestion'd turn, the banquet o'er. 
 At length his rank the stranger names: — 
 "The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz- 
 
 James; 
 Lord of a barren heritage, 
 Which his brave sires, from age to age, 
 By their good swords had held with toil; 
 His sire had fallen in such turmoil. 
 And he, God wot, was forced to stand 
 Oft for his right with blade in hand. 
 This morning, with Lord Moray's train, 
 He chased a stalwart stag in vain. 
 Outstripped his comrades, miss'd the deer, 
 Lost his good steed, and wander'd here." 
 
 Fain would the knight in turn require 
 The name and state of Ellen's sire. 
 Well show'd the elder lady's mien. 
 That courts and cities she had seen; 
 Ellen, though more her looks display'd 
 The simple grace of sylvan maid. 
 In speech and gesture, form and face, 
 Show'd she was come of gentle race. 
 'Twere strange, in ruder rank to find. 
 Such looks, such manners, and such 
 
 mind. 
 Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave. 
 Dame Margaret heard with silence grave ; 
 Or Ellen, innocently gay, 
 Turn'd all inquiry light away: — 
 ' ' Weird women we ! by dale and down 
 W^e dwell, afar from tower and town. 
 We stem the flood, we ride the blast, 
 On wandering knights our spells we cast; 
 While viewless minstrels touch the string, 
 'TIS thus our charmed rhymes we sing." 
 She sung, and still a harp unseen 
 Fill'd up the symphony between. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er. 
 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; 
 
 Dream of battled fields no more, 
 Days of danger, nights of waking. 
 
 In our isle's enchanted hall. 
 
 Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
 Fairy strains of music fall, 
 
 Every sense in slumber dewing. 
 Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
 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, nor war-steed champing. 
 Trump nor pibroch summon here 
 
 Mustering clan, or squadron tramping; 
 Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 
 
 At the day-break 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 champing. 
 Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping." 
 
 She paused — then, blushing, led the 
 
 lay 
 To grace the stranger of the day. ^ 
 Her mellow notes awhile prolong 
 The cadence of the flowing song. 
 Till to her lips in measured frame 
 The minstrel verse spontaneous came: — 
 
 SONG CONTINUED. 
 
 " Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done. 
 
 While our slumb'rous 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. 
 
 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." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The hall was clear'd — the stranger's bed 
 W^is there of mountain heather spread, 
 Where oft a hundred guests had lain, 
 And dream'd their forest sports again. 
 But vainly did the heath-flower shed 
 Its moorland fragrance round his head; 
 
132 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Not Ellen's spell had luU'd to rest 
 The fever of his troubled breast. 
 In broken dreams the image rose 
 Of varied perils, pains, and woes: 
 His steed now flounders in the brake, 
 Now sinks his barge upon the lake; 
 Now leader of a broken host. 
 His standard falls, his honor's lost. 
 Then, — from my couch may heavenly 
 
 might 
 Chase that worst phantom of the night ! — 
 Again return'd 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. 
 O, were his senses false or true? 
 Dream'd he of death, or broken vow, 
 Or is it all a vision now? 
 
 At length, with Ellen in a grove 
 
 He seeni'd to walk, and speak of love; 
 
 She listen'd with a blush and sigh. 
 
 His suit was warm, his hopes were high. 
 
 He sought her yielded hand to clasp, 
 
 And a cold gauntlet met his grasp: 
 
 The phantom's sex was changed and 
 
 gone. 
 Upon its head a helmet shone; 
 Slowly enlarged to giant size, 
 With darken'd cheek and threatening 
 
 eyes, 
 The grisly visage, stern and hoar, 
 To Ellen still a likeness bore. — 
 He woke, and panting with affright, 
 Recall'd the vision of the night. 
 The hearth's decaying brands were red, 
 And deep and dusky lustre shed. 
 Half showing, half concealing, all 
 The uncouth trophies of the hall. 
 Mid those the stranger fix'd his eye. 
 Where that huge falchion hung on high. 
 And thoughts on thoughts, a countless 
 
 throng, 
 Rush'd, chasing countless thoughts along. 
 Until, the giddy whirl to cure. 
 He rose, and sought the moonshine pure. 
 
 The wild rose, eglantine, and broom, 
 Wafted around their rich perfume; 
 The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm, 
 The aspens slept beneath the calm; 
 The silver light, with quivering glance, 
 Play'd 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, 
 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, 
 Kut she must liear the Douglas eye? 
 Can I not view a Highland brand, 
 But it must match the Douglas hand? 
 Can I not frame a fever'd dream. 
 But still the Douglas is the theme? 
 I'll dream no more — by manly mind 
 Not even in sleep is will resign'd. 
 My midnight orisous said o'er, 
 I'll turn to rest, and dream no more." 
 His midnight orisons he told, 
 A prayer with every l)ead of gold. 
 Consign'd to heaven his cares and woes, 
 And sunk in undisturb'd repose; 
 Until the heath-cock shrilly crew. 
 And morning dawn'd on Benvenue. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 At morn the black-cock trims his jetty 
 wing, 
 'Tis morning prompts the linnet's 
 blithest 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 
 
 And sweetly o'er the lake was heard 
 thy strain, 
 Mix'd with the sounding harp, O white 
 hair'd Allan-Bane ! w 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 133 
 
 " Not faster yonder rowers' might 
 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 battle line. 
 Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport. 
 Where beauty sees the brave resort. 
 
 The honor'd meed be thine ! 
 True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, 
 Thy lady constant, kind, and dear, 
 And lost in love and friendship's smile 
 Be memory of the lonely isle. 
 
 I 
 
 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 
 
 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." 
 
 As died the sounds upon the tide. 
 The shallop reach'd the mainland side. 
 And ere his onward way he took. 
 The stranger cast a lingering look. 
 
 Where easily his eye might reach 
 
 The Harper on the islet beach, 
 
 Reclined against a blighted tree, 
 
 As wasted, gray, and worn as he. 
 
 To minstrel meditation given. 
 
 His reverend brow wa.s raised to heaven, 
 
 As from the rising sun to claim 
 
 A sparkle of inspiring flame. 
 
 His hand, reclined upon the wire, 
 
 Seem'd watching the awakening fire; 
 
 So still he sate, as those who wait 
 
 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. 
 
 Upon a rock with lichens wild, 
 Beside him Ellen sate and smiled. — 
 Smiled she to see the stately drake 
 Lead forth his fleet upon the lake. 
 While her vex'd spaniel from the beach 
 Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach ? 
 Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows, 
 Why deepen'd on her cheek the rose? — 
 Forgive, forgive. Fidelity ! 
 Perchance the maiden smiled to see 
 Yon parting lingerer wave adieu, 
 And stop and turn to wave anew; 
 And, lovely ladies, ere your ire 
 Condemn the heroine of my lyre. 
 Show me the fair would scorn to spy. 
 And prize such conquest of her eye ! 
 
 While yet he loiter'd on the spot. 
 It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not; 
 But when he turn'd him to the glade, 
 One courteous parting sign she made; 
 And after oft the Knight would say, 
 That not when prize of festal day 
 Was dealt him by the brightest fair 
 Who e'er wore jewel in her hair. 
 So highly did his bosom swell. 
 As at that simple mute farewell. 
 Now with a trusty mountain -guide. 
 And his dark stag-hounds by his side. 
 He parts — the maid, unconscious still, 
 Watch'd him wind slowly round the hill; 
 But when his stately form was hid, 
 The guardian in her bosom chid — 
 
 t 
 
134 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 " Thy Malcolm ! vain and selfish maid ! " 
 'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said, — 
 " Not so had Malcolm idly hung 
 On the smooth phrase of southern tongue; 
 fJot so had Malcolm strain'd his eye, 
 Another step than thine to spy. 
 Wake, Allan-Bane," aloud she cried, 
 To the old Minstrel by her side, — 
 " Arouse thee from thy moody dream ! 
 I'll give thy harp heroic theme. 
 And warm thee with a noble name; 
 Pour forth the glory of the Grrerne ! " H 
 Scarce from her lip the word had rush'd. 
 When deep the conscious maidenblush'd; 
 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 bid'st, O noble maid," 
 
 Clasping his wither'd hands, he said, 
 
 " Vainly thou bid'st me wake the strain. 
 
 Though all unwont to bid in vain. 
 
 Alas ! than mine a mightier hand 
 
 Has tuned my harp, my strings has 
 
 spann'd ! 
 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. 
 This harp, which erst Saint Modan 
 
 sway'd,'^ 
 Can thus its master's fate foretell. 
 Then welcome be the minstrel's knell ! 
 
 " But ah ! dear lady, thus it sigh'd 
 The eve thy sainted mother died; 
 And such the sounds which, while I strove 
 To wake a lay of war or love, 
 Came marring all the festal mirth, 
 Appalling me who gave them birth. 
 And, disobedient to my call, 
 Wail'd loud through Bothwell's banner'd 
 hall. 
 
 Ere Douglases, to ruin driven,'^ 
 Were exiled from their native heaven. — 
 Oh ! 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, 
 Fraught with unutterable woe. 
 Then shiver'd shall thy fragments lie. 
 Thy master cast him down and die ! " 
 
 Soothing she answer'd him : — •' Assuage, 
 Mine honor'd friend, the fears of age; 
 All melodies to thee are known. 
 That harp has rung, or pipe has blown. 
 In Lowland vale or Highland glen. 
 From Tweed to Spey — ^what marvel, then. 
 At times, unbidden notes should rise, 
 Confusedly bound in memory's ties. 
 Entangling, as they rush along. 
 The war-march with the funeral song? — 
 Small ground is now for boding fear; 
 Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. 
 My sire, in native virtue great, 
 Resigning lordship, lands, and state. 
 Not then to fortune more resign'd 
 Than yonder oak might give the wind; 
 The graceful foliage storms may reave, 
 The noble stem they cannot grieve. 
 For me," — she stoop'd, and, looking 
 
 round, 
 Pluck'd a blue hare-bell 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, 
 Allan, a bard is bound to swear 
 He ne'er saw coronet so fair." 
 Then playfully the chaplet wild 
 She wreath'd in her dark locks, and 
 
 smiled. 
 
 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, 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 135 
 
 He gazed, till fond regret and pride 
 Thrill'ti to a tear, then thus replied: — 
 " 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 birth-right 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! "* — 
 
 " Fair dreams are these," the maiden 
 
 cried 
 (Light was her accent, yet she sigh'd; ) 
 " Yet is this mossy rock to me 
 Worth splendid chair and canopy; 
 Nor would my footsteps 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, — 
 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 repress'd: — 
 " 111 hast thou chosen theme for jest ! 
 For who, through all this western wild. 
 Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and 
 
 smiled ! 
 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 outlaw'd, hath his hand 
 Full sternly kept his mountain land. 
 Who else dared give — ah ! woe the day, 
 That I such hated truth should say — 
 The Douglas, like a stricken deer, 
 Disown' d by every noble peer,^^ 
 Even the rude refuge we have here ? 
 Alas, this wild marauding Chief 
 Alone might hazard our relief, 
 
 1 
 
 * The cogwzance of the Douglas family. 
 
 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; 
 
 And though to Roderick thou'rt so 
 
 dear, 
 That thou might'st 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 sorrow'd o'er her sister's child; 
 To her brave chieftain son, from ire 
 Of Scotland's king who shrouds my sire, 
 A deeper, holier debt is owed; 
 And, could I pay it with my blood, 
 Allan ! Sir Roderick should command 
 My blood, my life, — but not my hand. 
 Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell 
 A votaress in Maronnan's cell;*® 
 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 shakest, good friend, thy tresses 
 
 gray, — 
 That pleading look, what can it say 
 But what I own? — I grant him brave. 
 But wild as Bracklinn's thundering 
 
 wave ; ^"^ 
 And generous — save vindictive mood. 
 Or jealous transport, chafe his blood. 
 I grant him true to friendly band, 
 As his claymore is to his hand; 
 But O ! that very blade of steel 
 More mercy for a foe would feel : 
 I grant him liberal, to fling 
 Among his clan the wealth they bring, 
 
i-,6 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 When back by lake and glen they wind, 
 And in the Lowland leave behind, 
 Where once some ])leasant 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 slaughter'd 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. 
 While yet a child, — and children know, 
 Instinctive taught, the friend and foe, — 
 I shudder'd 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. 
 To change such odious theme were best, — 
 What tliink'st thou of our stranger 
 guest?" — 
 
 " 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,'" 
 W'hat time he leagued, no longer foes, 
 His border spears with Hotspur's bows. 
 Did, self-unscabl)arded, foreshow 
 The footstep of a secret foe.''* 
 If courtly spy hath harbor'd here, 
 What may we for the Douglas fear? 
 What for this island, deem'd of old 
 '71an- Alpine's last and surest hold? 
 If neither spy nor foe, I pray, 
 What yet may jealous Roderick say? 
 — Nay, wave not thy disdainful head. 
 Bethink thee of the discord dread 
 That kindled, when at Beltane game 
 Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm 
 
 Graeme : 
 Still, though thy sire the peace renew'd. 
 Smoulders in Roderick's breast the feud; 
 Beware ! — But hark, what sounds are 
 
 these ? 
 My dull ears catch no faltering breeze. 
 No weeping birch nor aspens wake. 
 Nor breath is dimpling in the lake, 
 
 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." 
 
 Far up the lengthen'd lake were spied 
 Four darkening specks upon the tide. 
 That, slow enlarging on the view. 
 Four mann'd and masted barges grew, 
 And, bearing downwards from Glengyle, 
 Steer'd full upon the lonely isle; 
 The point of Brianchoil they pass'd. 
 And, to the windward, as they cast. 
 Against the sun they gave to shine 
 The lx)ld Sir Roderick's banner'd Pine. 
 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 
 From their loud chanters t down, and 
 
 sweep 
 The furrow'd bosom of the deep, 
 As, rushing through the lake amain. 
 They plied the ancient Highand strain. 
 
 Ever, as on they l)ore, more loud 
 And louder rung the pibroch proud. 
 At first the sound, by distance tame, 
 Mellow'd along the waters came. 
 And, lingering long by cape and bay, 
 Wail'd every harsher note away; 
 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. 2" 
 Thick beat the rapid notes, as when 
 The mustering hundreds shake the glen. 
 And, hurrying at the signal dread, 
 The baf^er'd earth returns their tread. 
 Then prelude light, of livelier tone, 
 Express'd their merry marching on, 
 
 * Cotton grass. 
 
 t The pipe of the bagpipe. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 137 
 
 Ere peal of closing battle rose. 
 With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows; 
 And mimic din of stroke and ward, 
 As broadsword upon target jarr'd; 
 And groaning pause, ere yet again, 
 Condensed, the battle yell'd amain; 
 The rapid charge, the rallying shout, 
 Retreat borne headlong into rout, 
 And bursts of triumph, to declare 
 Clau-Alpine's conquest — all were there. 
 Nor ended thus the strain; but slow, 
 Sunk in a moan prolong'd and low, 
 And changed the conquering clarion 
 
 swell, 
 For wild lament o'er those that fell. 
 
 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. 
 Each boatman, bending to his oar, 
 With measured sweep the burden Ixjre, 
 In such wild cadence, as the breeze 
 Makes through December's leafless trees. 
 The chorus first could Allan know, 
 " Roderigh Vich Alpine, ho ! iro ! " 
 And near, and nearer as they row'd. 
 Distinct the martial ditty flow'd. 
 
 BOAT SONG. 
 
 Hail tothe Chief whoin triumph advances '. 
 Honor'd and bless'd be the ever-green 
 Pine! 
 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 agen, 
 "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! 
 ieio ! " ^1 
 
 Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the 
 fountain, 
 Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; 
 
 When the whirlwind has stripp'd every 
 leaf on the mountain, 
 The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in 
 her shade. 
 
 Moor'd 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 agen, 
 "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! 
 iero ! " 
 
 Proudly our pibroch * has thrill'd in Glen 
 Fruin, 
 And Bannochar's groans to our slogan t 
 replied; 
 Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smok- 
 ing in ruin, 
 And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead 
 on her side. 
 
 Widow and Saxon maid 
 Long shall lament our raid. 
 Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and 
 with woe; 
 
 Lennox and Leven-glen 
 Shake when they hear agen, 
 "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! 
 iero ! " 
 
 Row, vassals, row, for the pride of ihe 
 Highlands ! 
 Stretch to your oars for the ever-green 
 Pine ! 
 O ! 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, 
 Honor'd and bless'd in their shadow 
 might grow ! 
 
 Loud should Clan-Alpine then 
 Ring from the deepmost glen, 
 "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! 
 iero ! " 
 
 With all her joyful female band. 
 
 Had Lady Margaret sought the strand, 
 
 * Bagpipe air belonging to a clan, 
 t Slogan, a war-cry. 
 
 I 
 
138 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 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 call'd Ellen to the strand, 
 To greet her kinsman ere he land : — • 
 " Come, loiterer, come ! a Douglas thou, 
 And shun to wreathe a victor's brow ? " — 
 Reluctantly and slow, the maid 
 The unwelcome summoning obey'd. 
 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. 
 And, eagerly, while Roderick scann'd, 
 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, 
 
 'Tis that which pious fathers shed 
 
 Upon a duteous daughter's head ! 
 
 And as the Douglas to his breast 
 
 His darling Ellen closely press'd. 
 
 Such holy drops her tresses steep'd, 
 
 Though 'twas a hero's eye that weep'd. 
 
 Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue 
 
 Her filial welcomes crowded hung, 
 
 Mark'd she, that fear (affection's proof) 
 
 Still held a graceful youth aloof; 
 
 No ! not till Douglas named his name. 
 
 Although the youth was Malcolm Graeme. 
 
 Allan, with wistful look the while, 
 Mark'd Roderick landing on the isle; 
 His master piteously he eyed. 
 Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride. 
 Then dash'd, with hasty hand, away 
 From his dimm'd eye the gathering spray; 
 
 And Douglas, as his hand he laid 
 
 On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said: — 
 
 " Canst thou, young friend, no meaning 
 
 spy 
 In my poor follower's glistening eye? 
 I'll tell thee: —he recalls the day. 
 When in my praise he led the lay 
 O'er the arch'd gate of Bothwell proud. 
 While many a minstrel answer'd loud. 
 When Percy's Norman pennon, won 
 In bloody field, before me shone. 
 And twice ten knights, the least a name 
 As mighty as yon Chief may claim. 
 Gracing my pomp, behind me came. 
 Vet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud 
 Was I of all that marshall'd crowd, 
 Though the waned crescent own'd my 
 
 might. 
 And in my train troop'd lord and knight. 
 Though Blantyre hynin'd her holiest lays. 
 And Bothwell's bards flung back my praise, 
 As when this old man's silent tear, 
 And this poor maid's affection dear, 
 A welcome give more kind and true, 
 Then aught my better fortunes knew. 
 Forgive, my friend, a father's boast, 
 O ! it out-beggars all I lost ! " 
 
 Delightful praise ! — Like summer rose. 
 That brighter in the dew-drop glows. 
 The bashful maiden's cheek appear'd, 
 For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard. 
 The flush of shame-faced joy to hide. 
 The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide; 
 The loved caresses of the maid 
 The dogs with crouch and whimper paid; 
 And, at her whistle, on her hand 
 The falcon took her favorite stand. 
 Closed his dark wing, relax'd his eye. 
 Nor, though unhoodcd, sought to fly. 
 And, trust, while in such guise she stood, 
 Like fabled Goddess of the wood. 
 That if a father's partial thought 
 O'erweigh'd her worth and beauty aught. 
 Well might the lover's judgment fail 
 To balance with a juster scale; 
 For with each secret glance he stole, 
 The fond enthusiast sent his soul. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Of stature tall, and slender frame, 
 But firmly knit, was Malcolm Grseme. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 139 
 
 The belted plaid and tartan hose 
 Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose; 
 His flaxen hair of sunny hue, 
 Curl'd closely round his bonnet blue. 
 Train'd to the chase, his eagle eye 
 The ptarmigan in snow could spy : 
 Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath, 
 He knew, through I^ennox and Menteith : 
 Vain was the bound of dark-brown 
 
 doe. 
 When Malcolm bent his sounding bow. 
 And scarce that doe, though wing'd with 
 
 fear, 
 Outstripp'd in speed the mountaineer : 
 Right up Ben-Lomond could he press, 
 And not a sob his toil confess. 
 His form accorded with a mind 
 Lively and ardent, frank and kind; 
 A blither heart, till Ellen came, 
 Did never love nor sorrow tame; 
 It danced as lightsome in his breast, 
 As play'd the feather on his crest. 
 Yet friends who nearest knew the youth. 
 His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth. 
 And bards, who saw his features bold, 
 When kindled by the tales of old, 
 Said, were that youth to manhood grown. 
 Not long should Roderick Dhu's renown 
 Be foremost voiced by mountain fame. 
 But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme. 
 
 Now back they wend their watery way, 
 And, " O my sire !" did Ellen say, 
 " Why urge thy chase so far astray? 
 And why so latereturn'd? And why — " 
 The rest was in her sparkling eye. 
 " My child, the chase I follow far; 
 Tis mimicry of noble war, 
 And with that gallant pastime reft. 
 Were all of Douglas I have left. 
 I met young Malcolm as I stray'd 
 Far eastward, in Glenfinlas' shade. 
 Nor stray'd I safe: for, all around. 
 Hunters and horsemen scour'd the ground. 
 This youth, though still a royal ward, 
 Risk'd life and land to be my guard, 
 And through the passes of the wood. 
 Guided my steps not unpursued; 
 And Roderick shall his welcome make. 
 Despite old spleen, for Douglas' sake. 
 Then must he seek Strath-Endrick glen, 
 Nor peril aught for me agen." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Sir Roderick, who to meet them came, 
 Redden'd at sight of Malcolm Graeme, 
 Yet, not in action, word, or eye, 
 Kail'd aught in hospitality. 
 In talk and sport they wiled away 
 The morning of that summer day; 
 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 seem'd toiling in his head; 
 Yet was the evening banquet made. 
 Ere he assembled round the flame. 
 His mother, Douglas, and the Grseme, 
 And Ellen, too; then cast around 
 His eyes, then hx'd them on the ground, 
 As studying phrase that might avail 
 Best to convey unpleasant tale. 
 Long with his dagger's hilt he play'd. 
 Then raised his haughty brow and said : — 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " Shortbe 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? — 
 And Graeme; 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, 
 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, 
 Now hither comes; his end the same. 
 The same pretext of sylvan game; 
 
140 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 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." 
 
 xxi.x. 
 Ellen and Margaret fearfully 
 Sought comfort in each other's eye, 
 Then turn'd their ghastly look, each one, 
 This to her sire — that to her son. 
 The hasty color went and came 
 In the bold cheek of Malcolm Graeme, 
 But from his glance it well appear'd, 
 'Twas but for Ellen that he fear'd; 
 While sorrowful, but undismay'd, 
 The Douglas thus his counsel said: — 
 " Bra veR<xlerick, though the tempest roar, 
 It may but thunder and pass o'er; 
 Nor will I here remain an hour, 
 To ilraw the lightning on thy bower; 
 For well thou know'st, at this gray head 
 The royal bolt were fiercest sped. 
 Vox thee, who, at thy King's command. 
 Canst aid him with a gallant band, 
 Sulimission, homage, humbled pride. 
 Shall turn the Monarch's wrath aside. 
 Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart, 
 Ellen and I will seek, apart, 
 The refuge of some forest cell. 
 There, like the hunted quarry, dwell. 
 Till on the mountain and the moor. 
 The stern pursuit be pass'd and o'er." 
 
 " No, by mine honor," Roderick said, 
 "So help me, heaven, and my good blade; 
 No, never ! Blasted be yon Pine, 
 My fathers' ancient crest and mine. 
 If from its shade in danger part 
 The lineage of the Bleeding Heart ! 
 Hear my blunt speech: Grant me this 
 
 maid 
 To wife, thy council to mine aid; 
 To Douglas, leagued with Roderick 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, 
 
 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 tight. 
 When the sage Douglas may unite 
 Each mountain clan in friendly band. 
 To guard the passes of their land. 
 Till the foil'd king, from pathless glen, 
 Shall bootless turn him home agen." 
 
 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, 
 Dream'd calmly out their dangerous 
 
 dream, 
 Till waken'd liy the mornmg Ixram; 
 When, dazzled by the eastern glow. 
 Such startler cast his glance Ijelow, 
 And saw unmeasured depth around, 
 And heard unintermitted sound, 
 And thought the battled fence so frail, 
 It waved like cobweb in the gale; 
 Amid his senses' giddy wheel. 
 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 yawn'd around. 
 By crossing terrors wildly toss'd, 
 Still for the Douglas fearing most, 
 Could scarce the desperate thought with- 
 stand 
 To buy his safety with her hand. 
 
 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 mark'd the hectic strife, 
 W'here death seemed combating with life: 
 For to her cheek, in feverish flood. 
 One instant rush'd the throbbing bloofl. 
 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. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 141 
 
 It may not be — forgive her, Chief, 
 Nor hazard aught for our relief. 
 Against his sovereign, Douglas ne'er 
 Will level a rebellious spear. 
 'Twas I that taught his youthful hand 
 To rein a steed and wield a brand; 
 I see him yet, the princely boy ! 
 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." 
 
 Twice through the hall the Chieftain 
 
 strode ; 
 The waving of his tartans broad, 
 And darken'd brow, where wounded pride 
 With ire and disajipointment vied, 
 Secm'd, by the torch's gloomy light, 
 I-iko the ill Demon of the night. 
 Stooping his pinions' shadowy sway 
 Upon the nighted pilgrim's way: 
 Hut, unrctjuited Love ! thy dart 
 Plunged deepest its envenom'd smart. 
 And Roderick, with thine anguish stung. 
 At length the hand of Douglas wrung. 
 While eyes, that mock'd at tears before, 
 5^ With bitter drops were running o'er. 
 
 The death-pangs of long-cherish'd hope 
 Scarce in that ample breast had scope. 
 But, struggling with his spirit proud, 
 Convulsive heaved itschecker'd shroud. 
 While every sob — so mute were all — ■ 
 Was heard distinctly through the hall. 
 The son's despair, the mother's look, 
 111 might the gentle Ellen brook; 
 She rose, and to her side there came. 
 To aid her parting steps, the Grsemc. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Then Roderick from the Douglas broke — 
 As flashes flame through sable smoke. 
 Kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and low, 
 To one broad blaze of ruddy glow. 
 So the deep anguish of despair 
 Burst, in fierce jealousy, to air. 
 With stalwart grasp his hand he laid 
 On Malcolm's breast and belted plaid: — 
 " Back, beardless boy ! " he sternly said, 
 "Back, minion! hold'st thou thus at 
 
 naught 
 The lesson I so lately taught? 
 
 I 
 
 This roof, the Douglas, and that maid, 
 Thank thou for punishment delay "d." 
 F^ager as greyhound on his game. 
 Fiercely with Roderick grappled Graeme. 
 " Perish my name, if aught afford 
 Its Chieftain safety save his sword ! " 
 Thus, as they strove, their desperate hand 
 Griped to the dagger or the brand. 
 And death had been — but Douglas rose. 
 And thrust V)etween the struggling foes 
 His giant strength: — "Chieftains, fore- 
 go! 
 I hold the first who strikes, my foe. — 
 Madmen, forbear your frantic jar ! 
 What ! is the Douglas fall'n so far. 
 His daughter's hand is deem'd the spoil 
 Of such dishonorable broil ! " 
 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. 
 
 Ere yet the brands aloft were flung, 
 Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung. 
 And Malcolm heard his Ellen's scream. 
 As falter'd through terrific dream. 
 Then Roderick plunged in sheath his 
 
 sword, 
 And veil'd his wrath in scornful word : — 
 " Rest safe till morning; pity 'twere 
 Such cheek should feel the midnight air ! 
 Then mayest thou to James Stuart tell, 
 I-voderick will keep the lake and fell. 
 Nor lackey with his freelxjrn 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." 
 Young Malcolm answer'd, calm and bold, 
 " Fear nothing for thy favorite hold; 
 The spot an angel deign'd to grace 
 Is bless'd, though robbers haunt the place. 
 Thy churlish courtesy for those 
 Reserve, who fear to be thy foes. 
 
 * A henchman was the confidential attendant 
 or Rilly of a chief. His standing behind his lord 
 at festivals originated the name of haunchman 
 or henchman. 
 
142 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto IF 
 
 As safe to me the mountain way 
 At midnight as in blaze of day. 
 Though with his boldest at his Ijack 
 Even Roderick Dhu beset the track. — 
 Brave Douglas, — lovely Ellen, — nay, 
 Naught here of parting will I say. 
 Earth does not hold a lonesome glen, 
 So secret, but we meet agen. — 
 Chieftain ! we too shall find an hour.'" 
 He said, and left the sylvan bower. 
 
 Old Allan follow'd to the strand, 
 (Such was the Douglas's command,) 
 And anxious told, how, on the morn. 
 The stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn, 
 The Fiery Cross should circle o'er 
 Dale, glen, and valley, down, and 
 
 moor. 
 Much were the peril to the Graeme, 
 From those who to the signal came; 
 Far up the lake 'twere safest land. 
 Himself would row him to the strand. 
 He gave his counsel to the wind. 
 While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind, 
 Round dirk and pouch and broadsword 
 
 rolPd, 
 His ample plaid in tighten'd fold. 
 And stripp'd his limVjs to such an ay. 
 As best might suit the watery way, — 
 
 Then spoke abrupt: " Farewell to thee. 
 Pattern of old fidelity ! " 
 The Minstrel's hand he kindly press 'd, — 
 " O ! could I point a place of rest ! 
 My sovereign holds in ward my land. 
 My uncle leads my vassal band ; 
 To tame his foes, his friends to aid. 
 Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade. 
 Yet, if there be one faithful Grjeme, 
 Who loves the Chieftain of his name. 
 Not long shall honor'd Douglas dwell. 
 Like hunted stag in mountain cell; 
 Nor, ere yon pride-swoll'n robber dare — 
 I may not give the rest to air ! 
 Tell Roderick Dhu, I owe him naught. 
 Not the poor service of a boat. 
 To waft me to yon mountain-side." 
 Then plunged he in the flashing tide. 
 Bold o'er the flood his head he bore, 
 And stoutly steer'd him from the shore; 
 And Allan strain'd his anxious eye, 
 Far mid the lake his form to spy. 
 
 Darkening across each puny wave. 
 To which the moon her silver gave, 
 Fast as the cormorant could skim. 
 The swimmer plied each active limb; 
 Then landing in the moonlight dell. 
 Loud shouted of his weal to tell. 
 The Minstrel heard the far halloo, 
 And joyful from the shore withdrew. 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 THE GATHERING. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 happ'd by 
 land or sea. 
 How are they blotted from the things 
 that be ! 
 How few, all weak, and wither 'd of 
 their force. 
 Wait on the verge of dark eternity. 
 Like stranded wrecks, the tide return- 
 ing hoarse. 
 To sweep them from our sight ! Time 
 rolls his ceaseless course. 
 
 Yet live there still who can remember 
 well. 
 How, when a mountain chief his bugle 
 blew. 
 Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and 
 dell. 
 And solitary heath, the signal knew; 
 And fast the faithful clan around him 
 drew. 
 What time the warning note was 
 keenly wound, 
 What time aloft their kindred banner flew, 
 While clamorous war -pipes yell'd the 
 gathering sound. 
 And while the Fiery Cross glanced, like 
 a meteor, round.*^ 
 
 The Summer dawn's reflected hue 
 
 To purple changed Loch Katrine blue; 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE GATHERING. 
 
 143 
 
 Mildly and soft the western breeze 
 
 Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the 
 
 trees. 
 And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, 
 Trembled but dimpled not for joy; 
 The mountain-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 rear'd of silver bright; 
 The doe awoke, and to the lawn, 
 Begemm'd with dew-drops, led her fawn; 
 The gray mist left the mountain-side. 
 The torrent show'd 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 coo'd the cushat dove 
 Her notes of peace, and rest, and love. 
 
 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 r(jck, his vassals' care 
 Was prompt the ritual to prepare, 
 With deep and deathful meaning fraught; 
 For such Antiquity had taught 
 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 warljlers of the brake. 
 
 A heap of wither'd boughs was piled. 
 Of juniper and rowan wild, 
 Mingled with shivers from the oak, 
 Rent by the lightning's recent stroke. 
 Brian, the Hermit, liy it stood. 
 Barefooted, in his frock and hood. 
 His grizzled beard and matted hair 
 Obscured a visage of despair; 
 
 His naked arms and legs, seam'd o'er. 
 The scars of frantic penance bore. 
 That monk, of savage form and face,^ 
 The 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 harden'd heart and eye might 
 
 brook 
 On human sacrifice to look; 
 And much, 'twas saitl, of heathen lore 
 Mix'd in the charms he mutter'd o'er. 
 The hallow'd creed gave only worse 
 And deadlier emphasis of curse; 
 No peasant sought that Hermit's prayer. 
 His cave the pilgrim shunn'd with care. 
 The eager huntsman knew his bound. 
 And in mid chase call'd off his hound; 
 Or if, in lonely glen or strath, 
 The desert-dweller met his path, 
 He pray'd, and sign'd the cross between, 
 While terror took devotion's mien. 
 
 Of Brian's birth strange tales were told;^ 
 His mother watch'd a midnight fold. 
 Built deep within a dreary glen. 
 Where scatter'd lay the bones of men, 
 In some forgotten battle slain. 
 And bleach'd by drifting wind and rain. 
 It might have tamed a warrior's heart, 
 To view such mockery of his art ! 
 The knot-grass fetter 'd there the hand, 
 Which once could burst an iron band; 
 Beneath the broad and ample bone. 
 That buckler'd heart to fear unknown, 
 A feeble and a timorous guest. 
 The field-fare framed her lowly nest, 
 There the slow blind-worm left his slime. 
 On the fleet limbs that mock'd at time; 
 And there, too, lay the leader's skull, 
 Stillwreathedwithchaplet,flush'd and full. 
 For heath-lx^ll with her purple bloom 
 Supplied the bonnet and the plume. 
 All night, in this sad glen, the maid 
 Sate, shrouded in her mantle's shade : 
 — She said, no shepherd sought her side. 
 No hunter's hand her snood untied. 
 Yet ne'er again to braid her hair 
 The virgin snood did Alice wear;^ 
 Gone was her maiden glee and sport. 
 Her maiden girdle al) too short. 
 
'44 
 
 THE I.ADV OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Nor sought she, from that fatal night, 
 Or holy church or blessed rite, 
 But lock'd her secret in her breast. 
 And died in travail, unconfess'd. 
 
 Alone, among his young compeers, 
 Was Brian from his infant years ; 
 A moody and heart-broken boy, 
 Estran,i,'ed from sympathy and joy, 
 Bearing each taunt which careless tongue 
 On his mysterious lineage flung. 
 Whole nights he spent by moonlight pale. 
 To wood and stream his hap to wail, 
 Till, frantic, he as truth received 
 What of his birth the crowd believed, 
 And sought, in mist and meteor fire, 
 To meet and know his Phantom Sire ! 
 In vain, to soothe his wayward fate. 
 The cloister oped her pitying gate ; 
 In vain, the learning of the age 
 Unclasp'd the sable-letter'd page; 
 Even in its treasures he could find 
 Food for the fever of his mind. 
 Eager he read whatever tells 
 Of magic, cabala, and spells, 
 And every dark pursuit allied 
 To curious and presumptuous pride ; 
 Till with fired brain and nerves o'erstrung. 
 And heart with mystic horrors wrimg. 
 Desperate he sought Benharrow's den. 
 And hid him from the haunts of men. 
 
 The desert gave him visions wild. 
 
 Such as might suit the Spectre's child. 
 
 Where with black cliffs the torrents toil, 
 
 He watch'd the wheeling eddies boil, 
 
 Till, from their foam, his dazzled eyes 
 
 Beheld the River Demon rise; 
 
 The mountain mist took form and limb, 
 
 Of noontide hag, or goblin grim; 
 
 The midnight wind came wild anddremi, 
 
 SwellM with the voices of the dead; 
 
 Far on the future battle-healh 
 
 His eye beheld the ranks oi death: 
 
 Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurl'd. 
 
 Shaped forth a disemlx)died 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 screani;-'' 
 Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast. 
 Of charging steeds, careering fast 
 Along Benharrow's shingly side, 
 Where mortal horsemen ne'er might 
 
 ride;-^ 
 The thunderbolt had .split the pine, — 
 All augur'd ill to Alpine's line. 
 IJe girt his loins, and came to show 
 Tlie signals of impending woe. 
 And now stood prompt to bless or Iwn, 
 As bade the Chieftain of his clan. 
 
 'Twas all prepared : — and from the rock, 
 A goat, the patriarch of the flock, 
 Before the kindling pile was laid, 
 And pierced by Roderick's ready blade. 
 P.atient the sickening victim eyed 
 The life-blood ebb in crimson tide, 
 Down his clogg'd beard and .shaggy limb. 
 Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. 
 The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, 
 A slender crosslet fram'd with care, 
 A cubit's length in measure due; 
 The siiaft and linibs were rods of yew. 
 Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave 
 Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave. 
 And, answering Lomond's breezes deep, 
 Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep. 
 The Cross, thus form'd,he held on high, 
 With wasted hand, and haggard eye. 
 And strange and mingled feelings woke, 
 While his anathema he spoke : — 
 
 "Woe to the clansman, who shall view 
 This syml)ol of sepulchral yew, 
 Forgetful that its branches grew 
 Where weep the heavenstheirholiestdew, 
 
 On Al|)ine's dwelling low ! 
 Deserter of his Chieftain's trust, 
 lie ne'er shall mingle with their dust. 
 But, from his sires and kindred thrust, 
 Each clansman's execration just 
 
 Shall doom him wrath and woe ! " 
 He paused; — the word the vassals took, 
 With forward step and fiery look. 
 On high their naked brands they shook, 
 Their clattering targets wildly strook; 
 
 And first in murmur low. 
 
"anto III. 
 
 THE GATHERrNG. 
 
 145 
 
 Tlien, like the billow in his course, 
 Tha* far to seaward finds his source, 
 And flings to shore his muster'd force, 
 Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse, 
 
 " Woe to the traitor, woe ! " 
 Ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew. 
 The joyous wolf from covert drew. 
 The exulting eagle scream'd afar, — 
 They knew the voice of Alpine's war. 
 
 The shout was hush'd on lake and fell. 
 The Monk resumed his mutter'd spell : 
 Dismal and low its accent came. 
 The while he scathed the Cross with 
 
 flame. 
 And the few words that reach'd the air, 
 Although the holiest name was there, 
 Had more of blasphemy than prayer. 
 But when he shook above the crowd 
 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, 
 
 And infamy and woe." 
 Then rose the cry of females, shrill 
 As goss-hawk's whistle on the hill, 
 Denouncing misery and ill. 
 Mingled with childhood's babbling trill 
 
 Of curses stammer'd 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. 
 
 We doom to want and woe ! " 
 A sharp and shrieking echo gave, 
 Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave ! 
 And the gray pass where birches wave. 
 
 On Beala-nam-bo. 
 
 Then deeper paused the priest anew, 
 And hard his laboring breath he drew. 
 While, with set teeth and clenched hand, 
 And eyes that glow'd like fiery brand, 
 He meditated curse more dread, 
 And deadlier, on the clansman's head, 
 
 Who, summon'd to his Chieftain's aid, 
 The signal saw and disobey'd. 
 The crosslet's points of sparkling wood. 
 He quench'd among the bubbling blood, 
 And, as again the sign he rear'd. 
 Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard : — 
 " When flits this Cross from man to man, 
 Vich-Alpine's summons to his clan, 
 liurst be the ear that fails to heed! 
 Palsied the foot that shuns to speed I 
 May ravens tear the careless ^yes, 
 Wolves make the coward heart their 
 
 prize ! 
 As sinks that blood-stream in the earth, 
 So may his heart's-blood drench his 
 
 hearth I 
 \s dies in hissing gore the spark, 
 Huench thou his light, destruction dark. 
 And be the grace to him denied, 
 liought by this sign to all beside ! " 
 lie ceased; no echo gave agen 
 The murmur of the deep " Amen." 
 
 Then Roderick, with impatient look, 
 Krom I Irian's hand the symbol took: 
 " Speed, Malise, speed ! " he said, and 
 
 gave 
 The crosslet to his henchman brave. 
 " The muster-place be Lanrick mead — 
 Instant the time — speed, Malise, speed !" 
 Like heath-bird when the hawks pursue, 
 A barge across Loch Katrine flew; 
 High, stood the henchman on the prow; 
 So rapidly the barge-men row. 
 The bubbles, where they launch'd the boat, 
 Were all unbroken and afloat. 
 Dancing in foam and ripple still. 
 When it had near'd the mainland hill; 
 And from the silver beach's siilc 
 Still was the prow three fatliom wide. 
 When lightly bounded to the land 
 The messenger of blood and brand. 
 
 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. 
 
146 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Across the brook like roebuck bound, 
 And thread the brake like questing hound; 
 The crag is high, the scaur is deep. 
 Yet shrink not from the desperate leap : 
 Parch'd are thy burning 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. 
 Are in thy course — speed, Malise, speed ! 
 
 Fast as the fatal symbol flies, 
 In arms the huts and hamlets rise, 
 From winding glen, from upland brown. 
 They pour'd each hardy tenant down. 
 Nor slack'd the messenger his pace; 
 He show'd the sign, he named the place. 
 And, pressing forward like the wind, 
 Left clamor and surprise behind. 
 The fisherman forsook the strand. 
 The swarthy smith took dirk and brand; 
 With changed cheer, the mower blithe 
 Left in the half-cut swathe the scythe; 
 The herds without a keeper stray' d, 
 The plough was in mid-furrow staid, 
 The falc'ner toss'd his hawk away. 
 The hunter left the stag at bay; 
 Prompt at the signal of alarms. 
 Each son of Alpine rush'd to arms; 
 So swept the tumult and affray 
 Along the margin of Achray. 
 Alas ! thou lovely lake ! that e'er 
 Thy banks should echo sounds of fear ! 
 The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep 
 So stilly on thy bosom deep, 
 The lark's blithe carol, from the cloud, 
 Seems for the scene too gayly loud. 
 
 Speed, Malise, speed ! the lake is past, 
 
 Duncraggan's huts appear at last. 
 
 And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half 
 
 seen. 
 Half hidden in the copse so green; 
 There may'st 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. 
 At Roderick's side shall fill his place ! — 
 Within the hall, where torches' 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.'-^ 
 
 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,t who, the bier beside. 
 His master's corpse with wonder eyed, 
 
 * Correi, the hollow side of the hill where 
 game usually lies. 
 
 t The name of a dog. The word is Celtic for 
 "faithful." 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE GATHERING. 
 
 147 
 
 Poor Stumnh ! whom his least halloo 
 Could send like lightning o'er the dew, 
 Bristles his crest, and points his ears, 
 As if some stranger step he hears. 
 Tis not a mourner's muffled tread. 
 Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead. 
 But headlong haste, 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; 
 HeldforththeCrossl>esmear'dwithbloo;l: 
 "The muster-place is Lanrick mead; 
 Speed forth the signal ! clansmen, speed !" 
 
 Angus, the heir of Duncan's line, 
 Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign. 
 In haste the stripling to his side 
 His father's dirk and broadsword tied; 
 But when he saw his mother's eye 
 Watch him in speechless agony. 
 Back to her open'd arms he flew, 
 r»ess'd on her lips a fond adieu — 
 "Alas !" shesoljb'd, — "and yet, begone, 
 And speed thee forth, like Duncan's son !" 
 One look he cast upon the bier, 
 Dash'd from his eye the gathering tear. 
 Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast. 
 And toss'd aloft his bonnet crest. 
 Then, like the high-bred colt, when, freed, 
 First he essays his fire and speed. 
 He vanish'd, and o'er 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 niark'd the henchman's eye 
 Wet with unwonted sympathy, 
 " Kinsman," she said, " his race is run, 
 That should have sped thine errand on; 
 The oak has fall'n, — the sapling bough 
 Is all Duncraggan's shelter now. 
 Yet trust I well, his duty done. 
 The orphan's God will guard my son. — 
 And you, in many a danger true, 
 At Duncan's hest your blades that drew. 
 To arms, and guard that orphan's head! 
 Let babes and women wail the dead." 
 Then weapon-clang, and martial call, 
 Resounded through the funeral hall. 
 While from the walls the attendant band 
 Snatch'd sword and targe, with hurried 
 hand; 
 
 And short and flitting energy 
 Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye, 
 As if the sounds to warrior dear. 
 Might rouse her Duncan from his bier. 
 But faded soon that borrow 'd force, 
 Grief claim'd his right, and tears their 
 
 course. 
 
 XIX. 
 Bcnledi saw the Cross of Fire; 
 It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire. 
 O'er dale and hill the summons flew. 
 Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew; 
 The tear that gather'd in his eye 
 He left the mountain breeze to dry; 
 Until, where Teith's young waters roll, 
 Betwixt him and a wooded knoll. 
 That graced the sable strath with green. 
 The chapel of St. Bride was seen. 
 Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge. 
 But Angus paused not on the edge; 
 Though the dark waves danced dizzily. 
 Though reel'd his sympathetic eye. 
 He dash'd amid the torrent's roar: 
 His right hand high the crosslet bore, 
 His left the pole-axe grasp'd, to guide 
 And stay his footing in the tide. 
 He stumbled twice — the foam splash'd 
 
 high. 
 With hoarser swell the stream raced by; 
 And had he fall'n, — forever there. 
 Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir ! 
 But still, as if in parting life, 
 Firmer he grasp'd the Cross of strife. 
 Until the opposing bank he gain'd. 
 And up the chapel pathway strain'd. 
 
 A blithesome rout, that morning tide. 
 Had sought the chapel of St. Bride. 
 Her troth Tombea's Mary gave 
 To Norman, heir of Armandave, 
 And, issuing from the Gothic arch. 
 The bridal now resumed their march. 
 In rude, but glad procession, came 
 Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame; 
 And plaided youth, with jest and jeer. 
 Which snooded maiden would not hear; 
 And children, that, unwitting why. 
 Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry; 
 And minstrels, that in measures vied 
 Before the young and bonny bride. 
 Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose 
 The tear and blush of morning rose 
 
148 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 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. 
 
 Who meets them at the churchyard gate? 
 'i'lie messenger of fear and fate ! 
 Haste in his hurried accent lies. 
 And grief is swimming in his eyes. 
 All dripping from the recent flood, 
 I'anting and travel-soil'd he stood, 
 The fatal sign of fire and sword 
 Held forth, and spoke the appointed 
 
 word: — 
 " The muster-place is I>anrick mead; 
 •Speed forth the signal ! Norman, speed ! " 
 And must he change so soon the hand. 
 Just link'd to his by holy band, 
 For the fell Cross of 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 I away ! 
 
 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 lx)som stirr'd? 
 The sickening pang of hope deferr'd, 
 .•\nd 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 and 
 
 brae, 
 Like fire from flint he glanced away, 
 While high resolve, antl feeling strong. 
 Burst into voluntary 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, 
 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, Mr.ry. 
 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. 
 
 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 return'd from conquer'd foes. 
 How blithely will the evening close. 
 How sweet the linnet sing repose, 
 
 To my young bride and me, Mary ! 
 
 Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, 
 Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze,** 
 Rushing, in conflagration strong. 
 Thy deep ravines and dells along. 
 Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow. 
 And reddening the dark lakes below; 
 Nor faster speeds it, nor so far, 
 As o'er thy heaths the voice of war. 
 The signal roused to martial coil 
 The suUen margin of Loch Voil, 
 Waked still Loch Doine, and to the 
 
 source 
 Alarm'd, Balvaig, thy swampy course; 
 Thence southward turn'd its rapid road 
 Adown Strath-Gartney's valley broad, 
 
 • Fem. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE GATHERING. 
 
 14$ 
 
 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. 
 Kach valley, each scquester'd glen, 
 Mustor'd its little horde of men, 
 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 tlie rendezvous they stood. 
 By inindrcds, prompt for blows and blood; 
 Kach trainM 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. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 That summer morn had Roderick Dhu 
 .Survcy'd the skirts of Kenvenue, 
 And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath. 
 To view the frontiers of MeiUeith. 
 All backward came with news of truce; 
 Still lay each martial Graeme 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; 
 All seem'd at peace. — Now, wot ye why 
 The chieftain, with such anxious eye. 
 Ere to the muster he repair. 
 This western frontier scann'd with 
 
 care ? — 
 In Bcnvenue's most darksome cleft, 
 A fair, though cruel, pledge was left; 
 For Douglas, to his jiromise true. 
 That morning from the isle withdrew, 
 And in a deep sequester'd dell 
 Had sought a low and lonely cell. 
 By many a bard, in Celtic tongue, 
 Has Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung; ^^ 
 A softer name the Saxons gave. 
 And call'd the grot the Goblin-cave. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 It was a wild and strange retreai, 
 As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. 
 The dell, upon the mountain's crest, 
 Yawn'd like a gash on warrior's breast; 
 Its trench had staid full many a rock, 
 Hurl'd by primeval earthquake shock 
 
 From Benvenue's gray summit wild, 
 And here, in random ruin piled. 
 They frown'd incumbent o'er the spot, 
 And form'd 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 propTiet's eye 
 Gains on thy depth. Futurity. 
 No murmur waked the solemn still. 
 Save tinkling of a fountain rill; 
 But when the wind chafed with the lake, 
 A sullen sound would upward break. 
 With dashing hollow voice, that spoke 
 The incessant war of wave and rock. 
 Suspended cliffs with hideous sway 
 Seem'd nodding o'er the cavern gray. 
 From such a den the wolf had sprung. 
 In such the wild-cat leaves her young; 
 Yet Douglas and his daughter fair 
 Sought for a space their safety there. 
 Gray Superstition's whisper dread 
 Debarr'd 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. 
 
 Now eve, with western shadows long, 
 Floated on Katrine l)right and strong. 
 When Roderick, with a chosen few, 
 Repass'd the heights of Benvenue. 
 Alx)ve 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 Toch Katrine lies his way 
 To view the passes of Achray, 
 And place his clansmen in array. 
 Yet lags the chief in musing mind, 
 Unwonted sight, his men behind. 
 A single page, to bear his sword. 
 Alone attended on his lord; 
 The rest their w.ay through thickets break, 
 And soon await him by the lake. 
 It was a fair and gallant sight. 
 To view them from the neighboring 
 height, 
 
 * The Highlanders h.id a mythological satyr 
 •ailed ID lit. 
 
ISO 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 By the low-levell'd sunbeam's light ! 
 For strength and stature, from the clan 
 Each warrior was a chosen man, 
 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 Iwat 
 A wild and war-like group they stand, 
 That well became such mountain-strand. 
 
 The Chief, with step reluctant, still 
 
 Was lingering on the craggy hill, 
 
 Hard by where turn'd apart the road 
 
 To Douglas's obscure abode. 
 
 It was but with that dawning morn. 
 
 That 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; 
 
 For though his haughty heart deny 
 
 A parting meeting to his eye. 
 
 Still fondly strains his anxious ear, 
 
 The accents of her voice to hear, 
 
 And inly did he curse the breeze 
 
 That waked to sound the rustling trees. 
 
 But hark ! what mingles in the strain ? 
 
 It is the harp of Allan-Bane, 
 
 That wakes its measure slow and high. 
 
 Attuned to sacred minstrelsy. 
 
 What melting voice attends the strings? 
 
 'Tis Ellen, or an angel, sings. 
 
 XXIX. 
 HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 
 
 Ave Maria ! maiden mild ! 
 
 Listen to a maiden's prayer ! 
 Thou canst hear though from the wild. 
 
 Thou canst save amid despair. 
 Safe may we sleep beneath thy care. 
 
 Though banish'd, outcast, and reviled, 
 Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer; 
 
 Mother, hear a suppliant child ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 
 Ave Maria ! undefiled ! 
 
 The flinty couch we now must share 
 Shall seem with down of eider piled. 
 
 If thy protection hover there. 
 
 The murky cavern's heavy air 
 
 Shall breathe of balm if thou hast 
 smiled; 
 Then, Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer; 
 
 Mother, list a suppliant child ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 
 Ave Maria ! stainless styled ! 
 
 Foul demons of the earth and air. 
 From this their wanton 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 ! 
 
 Died on the harp the closing hymn. — 
 Unmoved in attitude and limb. 
 As list'ning still, Clan-Alpine's lord 
 Stood leaning on his heavy sword, 
 Until the page, with humble sign. 
 Twice pointed to the sun's decline. 
 Then while his plaid he round him cast, 
 " It is the last time — 'tis the last," 
 He mutter'd thrice, — " the last time 
 
 e'er 
 That angel voice shall Roderick hear ! " 
 It was a goading thought — his stride 
 Hied hastier down the mountain-side; 
 Sullen he flung him in the boat, 
 And instant 'cross the lake it shot. 
 They landed in that silver)' bay. 
 And eastward held their hasty way, 
 Till with the latest beams of light. 
 The band arrived on Lanrick height, 
 Where muster'd, in the vale below, 
 Clan-Alpine's men in martial show 
 
 A various scene the clansmen made; 
 Some sate, some stood, some slowly 
 
 stray'd; 
 But most with mantles folded round. 
 Were couch'd to rest upon the ground. 
 Scarce to be known by curious eye, 
 From the deep heather where they lie. 
 So well was match'd the tartan screen 
 With heath-bell dark and brackens green; 
 Unless where, here and there, a blade. 
 Or lance's point, a glimmer made, 
 Like glow-worm twinkling through the 
 
 shade. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 IS» 
 
 But when, advancing through the gloom, 
 They saw the Chieftain's eagle-plume. 
 Their shout of welcome, shrill and wide. 
 Shook the steep mountain's steady side. 
 Thrice it arose, and lake and fell 
 Three times return'd the martial yell; 
 It died upon Bochastle's plain, 
 And Silence claim'd her evening reign. 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 I. 
 
 " The rose is fairest when 'tis budding 
 
 new, 
 And hope is brightest when it dawns 
 
 from fears; 
 The rose is sweetest wash'd with morn- 
 ing dew. 
 And love is loveliest when embalm'd 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 
 
 Armandave, 
 What time the sun arose on Vennachar's 
 
 broad wave. 
 
 II. 
 
 Such fond conceit, half said, half 5ung, 
 Love prompted to the bridegroom's 
 
 tongue. 
 All while he stripp'd the wild-rose spray. 
 His axe and bow beside him lay. 
 For on a pass 'twixt lake and 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 return'd from Braes of Doune. 
 By thy keen step and glance I know. 
 Thou bring'st us tidings of the foe," — 
 (For while the Fiery Cross hied on. 
 On distant scout had Malise gone.) 
 " Where sleeps the Chief?" the hench- 
 man said. — 
 " Apart, in yonder misty glade*. 
 
 To his lone couch I'll be your guide." — 
 Then call'd a slumberer by his side, 
 And stirr'd him with his slacken'd bow — 
 " Up, up, Glentarkin ! rouse thee, ho! 
 We seek the Chieftain; on the track. 
 Keep eagle watch till I come back." 
 
 Together up the pass they sped: 
 ' ' What of the f oemen ? " 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 
 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. 
 And every child and aged man 
 Unfit for arms; and given his charge. 
 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 secure ? " 
 
 " 'Tis 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. 
 
 Of that dread kind which must not be 
 
 Unless in dread extremity. 
 
 The Taghairm call'd; by which, afar, 
 
 Our sires foresaw the events of war.*^ 
 
 Duncraggan's milk-white bull theyslew.'' 
 
 " Ah ! well the gallant brute I knew ! 
 The choicest of the prey we had. 
 When swept our merry-men Gallangad. 
 
152 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 His hide was snow, his horns were dark, 
 His red eye glow'd Hke fiery spark; 
 So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet, 
 Sore did he cumber our retreat. 
 And kept our stoutest kernes in awe, 
 Even at the pass of Beal 'maha. 
 But steep and flinty was the road, 
 And sharp tiie hurrying pikemen's goad. 
 And when we came to Dennan's Row, 
 A chikLmijiht scatheless stroke his brow." 
 
 "That bull was slain: his recking hide 
 They stretch'd the cataract Ijeside, 
 Whose waters their wild tumult toss 
 Adown the black and craggy boss 
 Of that huge cliff, whose ample verge 
 Tradition calls the Hero's Targe. ^^ 
 Couch'd on a shelve beneath its l)rink. 
 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. 
 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 bauds. 
 Seems he not, Malise, like a ghost. 
 That hovers o'er a slaughter'd host? 
 Or raven on the V>lastcd oak, 
 That, watching while the deer is broke. 
 His morsel claims with sullen croak? " 
 
 " Peace ! peace ! to other than to me. 
 Thy words were evil augury; 
 But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade 
 Clan-Alpine's omen and her aid. 
 Not aught that, glean 'd from heaven or hell, 
 Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell. 
 The Chieftain joins him, see — and now, 
 Together they descend the brow." 
 
 And as they came, with Alpine's Lord 
 The Hermit Monk held solemn word : — 
 " Roderick ! it is a fearful strife. 
 For man endow'd with mortal life. 
 Whose shroud of sentient clay can still 
 Feel feverish pang and fainting chill. 
 
 Whose eye can stare in stony trance, 
 
 Whose hair can rouse like warrior's lance, 
 
 'Tis hard for such to view unfurl'd 
 
 The curtain of the future world. 
 
 Yet, witness every quaking limb, 
 
 My sunken pulse, my eyeballs dim. 
 
 My soul with harrowing anguish toruj — 
 
 This for my Chieftain have I liorne ! — 
 
 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 fatal answer came, 
 
 In characters of living flame ! 
 
 Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll, 
 
 But borne and branded on my soul; — 
 
 Which spills the forkmost i-oeman'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-offer'd to the auspicious blow; 
 A spy has sought my land this morn, — 
 No eve shall witness his return ! 
 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 liown. 
 — But see, who comes his news to show ! 
 Malise ! what tidings of the foe? " — 
 
 " At Doune, o'er many a spear and glaive 
 
 Two Barons proud their banners wave. 
 
 I saw the Moray's silver star, 
 
 And mark'd the sable pale of Mar." — 
 
 " By Alpine's soul, high tidings those ! 
 
 I love to hear of worthy foes. 
 
 When move they on? " — "To-morrow's 
 
 noon 
 Will see them here for battle boune." * — 
 
 * Ready. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 151 
 
 " Then shall it see a meeting stern ! — 
 But, for the place — say, coukist thou learn 
 Naught of the friendly clans of Earn? 
 Strengthen'd by them, we well might bide 
 The battle on Benledi's side. 
 Thou couldst not ? — Well ! Clan-Alpine's 
 
 men 
 Shall man the Trosachs' shaggy glen; 
 Within Loch Katrine's gorge we'll 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? 
 Or dost thou come, ill-omcn'd tear ! 
 A messenger of doubt or fear? 
 No ! sooner may the Saxon lance 
 Unfix Benledi from his stance. 
 Than doubt or terror can pierce through 
 The unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu ! 
 'Tis stubborn as his trusty targe. — 
 Eachtohispost ! — all know their charge." 
 The pibroch sounds, the bands advance, 
 The broadswords gleam, the banners 
 
 dance, 
 Ol^edient to the Chieftain's glance. 
 — I turn me from the martial roar. 
 And seek Coir-Uriskin once more. 
 
 Where is the Douglas? — he is gone; 
 And Ellen sits on the gray stone 
 Fast l)y the cave, and makes her moan; 
 While vainly Allan's words of cheer 
 Are pour'd on her unheeding ear. — 
 " He will return — Dear lady, trust ! — 
 With joy return; — he will — he must. 
 Well was it time to seek, afar. 
 Some refuge from impending war. 
 When e'en Clan-Alpine's rugged swarm 
 Are cow'd by the approaching storm. 
 I saw their boats with many a light, 
 Floating the livelong yesternight, 
 .Shifting like flashes darted forth 
 By the red streamers of the north; 
 I mark'd at morn how close they ride, 
 Thick moor'd by the lone islet's side. 
 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? " — 
 
 " No, Allan, no ! Pretext so kind 
 My wakeful terrors could not blind. 
 When in such tender tone, yet grave, 
 Douglas a parting blessing gave. 
 The tear that glisten'd in his eye 
 Drown'd not his purpose fix'd on high. 
 My soul, though feminine and weak, 
 Can image his; e'en as the lake, 
 Itself 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 
 Turn'd, Allan, on thine idle dream. 
 Of Malcolm Grieme, in fetters bound. 
 Which I, thou saidst, about him wound. 
 Think'st thou he trow'd thine omen 
 
 aught ? 
 Oh no ! 'twas apprehensive thought 
 For the kind youth, — for Roderick too — 
 (Let me be just) that friend so true; 
 In danger both, and in our cause ! 
 Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause. 
 Why else that solemn warning given, 
 ' If not on earth, we meet in heaven ! ' 
 Why else, to Cambuskenneth's fane. 
 If eve return him not again, 
 Am I to hie, and make me known? 
 Alas ! he goes to Scotland's throne. 
 Buys his friend's safety with his own; — 
 He goes to do — what I had done. 
 Had Douglas' daughter been his son ! " 
 
 "Nay, lovely Ellen ! — dearest, nay! 
 If aught should his return delay, 
 He only named yon holy fane 
 As fitting place to meet again. 
 Be sure he's safe; and for the Graeme,- 
 Heaven's blessing on his gallant name ! 
 My vision'd sight may yet prove true. 
 Nor bode of ill to him or you. 
 When did my gifted dream beguile? 
 Think of the stranger at the isle, 
 And think upon the harpings slow. 
 That presaged this approaching woe? 
 Sooth was my prophecy of fear; 
 Believe it when it augurs cheer. 
 Would we had left this dismal spot ! 
 Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot. 
 
154 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 Of such a wondrous tale I know — 
 Dear lady, change that look of woe, 
 My harp was wont thy grief tocheer. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 Alice Brand. 
 
 Merry it is in the good greenwood, 
 Where the mavis * and merle t are 
 singing. 
 When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds 
 are in cry, 
 And the hunter's horn is ringing. 
 
 " O Alice Brand, my native land 
 
 Is lost for love of you; 
 And we must hold by wood and wold. 
 
 As outlaws wont to do. 
 
 " O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright, 
 And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue, 
 
 Tliat 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 sheer from the slaughter'd 
 deer. 
 
 To keep the cold away." — 
 
 " O Richard ! if my brother died, 
 
 'Twas but a fatal chance. 
 For darkling was the battle tried, 
 
 And fortune sped the lance. 
 
 " If pall and vair no more I wear. 
 
 Nor thou the crimson sheen. 
 As warm, we'll say, is the russet gray. 
 
 As gay the forest green. 
 
 * Mavis y a thrush. 
 t Alerle, a blackbird. 
 
 " And, Richard, if our lot be hard, 
 
 And lost thy native land. 
 Still Alice has her own Richard, 
 
 And he his Alice Brand." 
 
 xin. 
 
 BALLAD CONTINUED. 
 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood. 
 
 So blithe Lady Alice is singing; 
 On thebeech's pride, and oak 'sbrownside. 
 
 Lord Richard's axe is ringing. 
 
 Up spoke the moody Elfin King, 
 Who wonn'd within the hill, — 
 
 Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church. 
 His voice was ghostly shrill. 
 
 ' 'Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak , 
 Our moonlit 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 christen'd man; ^' 
 
 For cross or sign thou wilt not fly. 
 For mutter'd word or ban. 
 
 " Lay on him the curse of the wither'd 
 heart. 
 The curse of the sleepless eye; 
 Till he wish and pray that his life would 
 part. 
 Nor yet find leave to die." 
 
 XIV. 
 BALLAD CONTINUED. 
 
 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood, 
 Though the birds have still 'd their sing- 
 
 The evening blaze doth Alice raise. 
 And Richard is fagots bringing. 
 
 Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf 
 
 Before Lord Richard stands, 
 And, as he cross'd and bless'd himself, 
 " I 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, — 
 " And if there's blood upon his hand, 
 
 'Tis but the blood of deer." — 
 
Tanto IV. 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 155 
 
 " Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood ! 
 
 It cleaves unto his hand, 
 The stain of thine own kindly blood, 
 
 The blood of Ethert Brand." 
 
 Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand, 
 
 And made the holy sign, — 
 " And if there's blood on Richard's hand, 
 
 A spotless hand is mine. 
 
 " And I conjure thee, thou Demon elf. 
 By Him whom Demons fear, 
 
 I'o show us whence thou art thyself, 
 And what thine errand here?" — 
 
 BALLAD CONTLNUED. 
 
 " 'Tis merry, 'tis merry in Fairy-land, 
 When fairy birds are singing. 
 
 When the court doth ride by their mon- 
 arch'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, 
 
 And now like dwarf and ape. 
 
 " It was between the night and day, 
 When the Fairy King has power. 
 That I sunk down in a sinful fray. 
 And 'twixt life and death, was snatch'd 
 away 
 To the joyless Elfin bower. . 
 
 " But wist I of a woman bold. 
 Who thrice my brow durst sign, 
 
 I might regain my mortal mould, 
 As fair a form as thine." 
 
 She cross'd him once — she cross'd him 
 twice — 
 
 That lady was so brave; 
 The fouler grew his goblin hue. 
 
 The darker grew the cave. 
 
 She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold; 
 
 He rose beneath her hand 
 The fairest knight on Scottish mould. 
 
 Her brother, Ethert Brand! 
 
 Merry it is in good greenwood, 
 
 when the mavis and merle are singing, 
 
 But merrier were they in Dunfermline 
 gray, 
 When all the bells were ringing. 
 
 Just as the minstrel sounds were staid, 
 A stranger climb'd the steepy glade: 
 His martial step, his stately mien, 
 His hunting suit of Lincoln green, 
 His eagle glance, remembrance claims — 
 Tis Snowdoun's Knight, 'tis James Fitz- 
 
 Jamcs. 
 Ellen beheld as in a dream, 
 Then, starting, scarce suppress'd a 
 
 scream : 
 " O stranger ! in such hour of fear, 
 What evil hap has brought thee here ? " — 
 " An evil hap how can it be. 
 That bids me look again on thee? 
 By promise bound, my former guide 
 Met me betimes this morning tide. 
 And marshall'd, over bank and bourne. 
 The happy path of my return." — 
 "The happy path ! — what ! said he naught 
 Of war, of battle to be fought. 
 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 ♦f'ee here." — 
 
 " Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, 
 Since it is worthy care from thee; 
 Yet life I hold but idle Vjreath, 
 When love or honor's weigh'd with death. 
 Then let me profit by my chance, 
 And speak my purpose bold at once. 
 I come to bear thee from a wild. 
 Where ne'er before such blossom smiled, 
 By this soft hand to lead thee far 
 From frantic scenes of feud and war. 
 Near Bochastle my horses wait; 
 They bear us soon to Stirling gate, 
 I'll place thee in a lovely bower, 
 I'll guard thee like a tender flower" — 
 
156 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto IV, 
 
 " O ! hush, Sir Knight ! 'twere 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; 
 And how, O how, can I atone 
 The wreck my vanity brought on ! 
 One way remains — - I'll tell him all — 
 Yes ! struggling bosom, forth it shall ! 
 Thou, whose light folly bears the blame. 
 Buy thine own pardon with thy shame ! 
 Hut first — my father is a man 
 Outlaw'd and exiled, under ban; 
 The price of blood is on his head, 
 With me 'twere infamy to wed. — 
 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. 
 To give her steadfast speech the lie; 
 In maiden confidence she stood. 
 Though mantled in her cheek the blood. 
 And told her love with such a sigh 
 Of deep and hopeless agony. 
 As death had seal'd her Malcolm's doom. 
 And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. 
 Hope vanish'd from Fitz- James's eye, 
 But not with hope fled sympathy. 
 He proffcr'd to attend her side. 
 As brother would a sister guide. — 
 " O ! little know'st thou Roiierick's heart. 
 Safer for both we go a])art. 
 O haste thee, and from Allan learn. 
 If thou may'st trust yon wily kern." 
 With hand upon his forehead laid, 
 The conflict of his mind to shade, 
 A parting step or two he made; 
 Then, assome thought had cross'dhis brain. 
 He paused, and turn'd, and came again : — 
 
 *' 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 l)ade when I had boon to crave. 
 To bring it back, and boldly claim 
 The recompense that I would name. 
 Ellen, I am no courtly lord. 
 But one who lives by lance and sword. 
 Whose castle is his helm and shield. 
 His lordship the embattled field. 
 What from a prince can I demand, 
 Who neither 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 goklen circlet on, 
 I'aused — ■ kiss'd her hand — and then 
 
 was gone. 
 The aged Minstrel stood aghast. 
 So hastily Fitz-James shot past. 
 He join'd his guide, and wending down 
 The ridges of the mountain brown. 
 Across the stream they look their way. 
 That joins Loch Katrine to Achray. 
 
 XX. 
 All in the Trosachs' glen was still. 
 Noontide was sleeping on the hill; 
 .Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and 
 
 high.— 
 " Murdoch ! was that a signal cry? " — 
 I le stammer 'd forth, — • " I shout to scare 
 Von raven from his dainty fare." 
 He look'd — he knew the raven's prey. 
 His own brave steed: — "Ah! gallant 
 
 gray ! 
 For thee — for me, perchance — 'twer^' 
 
 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. 
 Each silent, each upon his guard. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Now wound the path its dizzy ledge 
 Around a precipice's edge. 
 When lo ! a wasted female form. 
 Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, 
 In tatter'd weeds and wild array, 
 Stood on a cliff beside the way, 
 
Canto IV 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 157 
 
 And glancing round her restless eye, 
 Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, 
 Seem'd naught to mark, yet all to spy. 
 Her brow was wreath'd with gaudy 
 
 broom ; 
 With gesture wild she waved a plume 
 Of feathers, which the eagles 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 shriek'd till all the rocks replied; 
 As loud she laugh'd when near they drew, 
 For then the Lowland garb she knew; 
 And then her hands she 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, tho' strain'd and roughen'd, 
 
 still 
 Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill : — 
 
 " They bid me sleep, they bid me pray. 
 They say my brain is warp'd and 
 wrung — 
 I cannot sleep on Highland brae, 
 
 I cannot pray in Highland tongue. 
 But were I now where Allan * glides, 
 O^ heard my native Devan's tides, 
 Si) sweetly would I rest, and pray 
 That Heaven would close my wintry day ! 
 
 " 'Twas 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. 
 
 That drown'd in blood the morning smile ! 
 
 And woe betide the fairy dream ! 
 
 I only waked to sob and scream." 
 
 " 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. " — 
 
 * AUati and Devan, two rivers running through 
 Stirling Plain. 
 
 " 'Tis Blanche of Devan," Murdoch said, 
 " A crazed and captive Lowland maid, 
 Ta'en on the morn she was a bride, 
 When Roderick foray'd Devan-side. 
 The gay bridegroom resistance made, 
 And felt our Chief's unconquer'd blade. 
 I marvel she is now at large. 
 But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's 
 
 charge. — 
 Hence, brain-sick fool!" — He raised 
 
 his bow : — 
 " Now, if thou strikest her but one blow, 
 I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far 
 As ever peasant pitch'd a bar ! " — 
 "Thanks, champion, thanks! " the Ma- 
 niac cried. 
 And press'd 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 staid. 
 Wave forth a banner fair and free. 
 Meet signal for their revelry." — 
 
 " Hush thee, poor maiden, and l)e 
 
 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 ! 
 His coat it was all of the greenwood 
 hue, 
 And so blithely he trill'd the Low 
 land lay ! 
 
 " It was not that I meant to tell, 
 But thou art wise and gucssest well." 
 Then, in a low and broken tone. 
 And hurried note, the song went on. 
 Still on the Clansman, fearfully, 
 She fix'd her apprehensive eye; 
 Then turn'd it on the Knight, and then 
 Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen : -^ 
 
158 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 " The toils are pitch'd, and the stakes 
 are set, 
 Ever sing merrily, merrily; 
 The bows they bend, and the knives 
 they whet. 
 Hunters live so 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 warn'd him of the toils lielow, 
 
 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." 
 
 Fitz-James's mind was passion-toss'd. 
 When Ellen's hints and fears were lost; 
 But Murdoch's shout suspicion wrought. 
 And Blanche's song conviction brought. 
 Not like a stag that spies the snare, 
 But lion of the hunt aware. 
 He waved at once his blade on high, 
 " Disclose thy treachery, or die ! " 
 Forth at full speed the Clansman flew. 
 But in his race his lx)w he drew. 
 The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest, 
 And thrill'd 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, 
 The fierce avenger is behind ! 
 Fate judges of the rapid strife — 
 The forfeit death — the prize is life ! 
 Thy kindred ambush lies before. 
 Close couch'd upon the heathery moor; 
 Them couldst thou reach ! — It may not be, 
 Thine ambush'd kin thou ne'er shalt see, 
 The fiery Saxon gains on thee ! 
 — Resistless speeds the deadly thrust. 
 As lightning strikes the pine to dust; 
 
 • Of ten branches to his antlers : a royal or 
 ooble deer. 
 
 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. 
 
 She sate beneath the birchen tree. 
 Her elbow resting on her knee; 
 She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, 
 And gazed on it, and feebly laugh'd; 
 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. 
 That thou wert mine avengef 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 dimm'd its shine. 
 I will not tell thee when 'twas shred, 
 Nor from what guiltless victim's head — 
 My brain would turn ! — but it shall wave 
 Like plumage on thy helmet brave, 
 Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain, 
 .A.nd thou wilt bring it me again. 
 I waver still. — O God! more bright 
 Let reason beam her parting light ! — 
 O ! by thy knighthood's honor'd sign. 
 And for thy life preserved by mine. 
 When thou shalt see a darksome man, 
 Who boasts him Chief of Alpine's Clan, 
 With tartans broad and shadowy plume, 
 And hand of blood, and brow of gloom. 
 Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, 
 And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's 
 
 wrong ! — 
 They watch for thee by pass and fell . . . 
 Avoid the path . . . O God ! . . . fare- 
 well." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James; 
 Fast pour'd his eyes at pity's claims, 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 IS9 
 
 And now with mingled grief and ire, 
 He saw the murder'd maid expire. 
 " God, in my need, be my relief, 
 As I wreak this on yonder Chief ! " 
 A lock from Blanche's tresses fair 
 He blended with her bridegroom's hair; 
 The mingled braid in blood he dyed, 
 And placed it on his bonnet-side : 
 " By Him whose word is truth ! I swear, 
 No other favor will I wear. 
 Till this sad token I imbrue 
 In the best blood of Roderick Dhu ! 
 — But hark ! what means yon faint hal- 
 loo? 
 The chase is up, — but they shall know. 
 The stag at bay's a dangerous foe." 
 Barr'd from the known Imt guarded way, 
 Through copse and cliffs Fitz-James must 
 
 stray, 
 And oft must change his desperate track. 
 By stream and precipice turn'd back. 
 Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length. 
 From lack of food and loss of strength. 
 He couch'd him in a thicket hoar, 
 And thought his toils and perils o'er: — 
 " Of all my rash adventures past. 
 This frantic feat must prove the last ! 
 Who e'er so mad but might haveguess'd, 
 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 meout. 
 Hark to the whistle and the shout ! — 
 If farther through the wilds I go, 
 I only fall upon the foe: 
 I'll couch me here till evening gray, 
 Then darkling try my dangerous way." 
 
 The shades of eve come slov.'ly 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. 
 He climbs the crag and threads the brake; 
 And not the summer solstice, there, 
 Temper'd the midnight mountain air, 
 But every breeze, that swept the wold, 
 Benumb'd his drenched limbs with cold. 
 
 In dread, in danger, and alone, 
 Famish'd and chill'd, through ways un- 
 known. 
 Tangled and steep, he journey 'd on; 
 Till, as a rock's huge point he turn'd, 
 A watch-fire close before him burn'd. 
 
 Beside its embers red and clear, 
 Bask'd, in his plaid, a mountaineer; 
 And up he sprung with sword in hand, — 
 "Thy name and purpose! Saxon, 
 
 stand ! " — 
 " A stranger." — " What dost thou re- 
 quire ? " 
 " Rest and a guide, and food and fire. 
 My life's beset, my path is lost, 
 The gale has chill'd my limbs with frost. " 
 "Art thou a friend to Roderick?" — 
 
 "No." — 
 " Thou darest not call thyself a foe? " — 
 " 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 reck'd, where, how, or when. 
 The prowling fox was trapp'd or slain? ^* 
 Thus treacherous scouts, — yet sure they lie. 
 Who say thou camest a secret spy ! ' ' 
 ' * They do, by Heaven ! — Come 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 mayest thou know 
 Each proud oppressor's mortal foe." — 
 " Enough, enough; sit down and share 
 A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare." 
 
 He gave him of his Highland cheer, 
 The harden'd 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 address'd : — 
 
i6o 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 " Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu 
 A clansman born, a kinsman true; 
 Each word against his honor spoke, 
 Demands of me avenging stroke; 
 Yet more, — upon thy fate, 'tis said, 
 A mighty augury is laid. 
 It rests with me to wind my horn, — 
 Thou art with numbers overborne; 
 It rests with me, here, brand to l^rand, 
 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; 
 Guidance, and rest, and food, and fire. 
 In vain he never must require. 
 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 'tis nobly given ! " 
 "Well, rest thee; for the bittern's cry 
 Sings us the lake's wild lullaby." 
 With that he shook the gather 'd heath. 
 And spread his plaid upon the wreath; 
 And the brave foemen, side by side, 
 Lay peaceful down like lirothcrs tried. 
 And slept until the dawning beam 
 Purpled the mountain and the stream. 
 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 
 THE COMBAT. 
 I. 
 
 Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light, 
 When first, by the bewilder'd 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 wrcckful 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, 
 Look'd out upon the dappled sky, 
 Mutter'd their soldier matins by. 
 And then awaked their fire, to steal. 
 As short and rude, their soldier meal. 
 That o'er, the Gael* around him threw 
 His graceful plaid of varied hue. 
 And, true to promise, led the way. 
 By thicket green and mountain 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 Ixineath that lie. 
 Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky; 
 Then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance 
 Gain'd not the length of horseman'slance. 
 'Twas oft so steep, the foot was fain 
 Assistance from the hand to gain; 
 So tangled oft, that, bursting through, 
 Each hawthorn shed her showers of dew, 
 That diamond dew, so pure and clear. 
 It rivals all but Beauty's tear ! 
 
 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 ro.se; 
 Ever the hollow path twined on, 
 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 liare, 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. 
 Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill; 
 And oft lx>th path and hill were torn. 
 Where wintry torrents down had lx)rne, 
 
 * The Scottish HiRlilander calls himself Gael 
 or Gaul, and terms tjie I»wlanders Sassenach, 
 or Saxons. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE COMBAT. 
 
 i6i 
 
 And heap'd upon the cumlter'd land 
 Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand 
 So toilsome was the road to trace. 
 The guide, abating of his pace. 
 Led slowly through the pass's jaws. 
 And ask'd Fitz-James, by what strange 
 
 cause 
 Me sought these wilds? traversed by few. 
 Without a pass from Roderick Dhu. 
 
 " Brave Gael, my pass in danger tried. 
 Hangs in my belt and by my side; 
 ^'et, sooth to tell," the Saxon said, 
 •* I dreamt not now to claim its aid. 
 When here, but three days since, I came, 
 Bewilder'd in pursuit of game. 
 All seem'd as peaceful and as still 
 As the mist slumlx-ring on yon hill; 
 Thy dangerous Chief was then afar. 
 Nor soon expected back from war. 
 Thus said, at least, my mountain-guide. 
 Though deep, perchance, the villain lied." 
 " Vet why a second venture try? " 
 " A warrior thou, and ask me why ! — 
 Moves our free course by such fix'd cause. 
 As gives the poor mechanic laws? 
 Enough, I sought to drive away 
 The lazy hours of peaceful day: 
 Slight cause will then suffice to guide 
 A Knight's free footsteps far and wide — 
 A falcon flown, a greyhound stray'd, 
 The merry glance of mountain maid; 
 Or, if a path be dangerous known. 
 The danger's self is lure alone." 
 
 " Thy secret keep, I urge thee not: — 
 Vet, ere again ye sought this sjx)t. 
 Say, heard ye naught of Lowland war, 
 .Against Clan-.Mpine, raised by Mar?" 
 — " No, by my word; — of Ixinds prepared 
 To guard King James's sjwrts I heard; 
 Nor doubt I aught, but, when they hear 
 This muster of the mountaineer, 
 Their pennons will abroad be flung. 
 Which else in Doune had peaceful 
 
 hung." — 
 " Free be they flung ! — for we were loth 
 Their silken folds should feast the moth. 
 Free be they flung ! — as free shall wave 
 Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave. 
 
 But, Stranger, peaceful since you came, 
 Bewilder'd in the mountain game, 
 Wlience the bold boast by which you show 
 Vich-Alpine's vow'd and mortal foe? " — 
 " Warrior, but yester-morn, I knew 
 Naught of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, 
 Save as an outlaw 'd desperate man, 
 The chief of a rebellious clan. 
 Who, in the Regent's court and sight. 
 With ruflian dagger stabb'd a knight: 
 Vet this alone might from his part 
 Sever each true and loyal heart." 
 
 Wrathful at such arraignment foul, 
 Dark lower'd the clansman's sable scowl, 
 A space he paused, then sternly said: — 
 "And heard'st thou why he drew his 
 
 blade? 
 Heard'st thou that shameful word and 
 
 blow 
 Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe? 
 What reck'd the Chieftain if he stood 
 On Highland heath, or Holy-Rood? 
 He rights such wrong where it is given. 
 If it were in the court of heaven." — 
 "Still was it outrage; — yet, 'tis true. 
 Not then claim'd sovereignty his due; 
 While Albany, with feeble hand, 
 Held Iwrrow'd truncheon of command,*' 
 The young King, mew'd in Stirling tower. 
 Was stranger to respect and power. 
 But then, thy Chieftain's robber life ! — 
 Winning mean prey by causeless strife. 
 Wrenching from ruin'd Lowland swain 
 His herds and harvest rear'd in vain. — 
 Methinks a soul, like thine, shouhl scorn 
 The spoils from such foul foray borne." 
 
 The Gael lieheld him grim the while. 
 And answer'd with disdainful smile: — 
 "Saxon, from yonder mountain high, 
 I mark'd thee send delighted eye. 
 Far to the south and east, where lay, 
 Extended in succession gay. 
 Deep waving fields and pastures green. 
 With gentle slopes and groves between, — 
 These fertile plains, that soften'd vale, 
 Were once the birthright of the Gael; 
 The stranger came with iron hand. 
 And from our fathers reft the land. 
 
l62 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 Where dwell we now ? See rudely swell 
 "^rag over crag, and fell o'er fell, 
 '^sk we this savage hill we tread, 
 For fatten'd steer or household bread: 
 Ask we for flocks these shingles dry. 
 And well the mountain might reply : — 
 ' To you, as to your sires of yore, 
 Belong the target and claymore ! 
 I give you shelter in my breast, 
 Your own good blades must win the 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 
 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." 
 
 Answer'd Fitz- James: — "And, if I 
 
 sought, 
 Think'st thou no other could be brought? 
 What deem ye of my path waylaid ? 
 My life given o'er to ambuscade?" — 
 " As of a meed to rashness due: 
 Hadst thou sent warning fair and true, — 
 ' I seek my hound, or falcon stray'd, 
 I seek, good faith, a Highland maid,' — 
 Free hadst thou been to come and go; 
 But secret path marks secret foe. 
 Nor yet, for this, even as a spy, 
 Hadst thou, unheard, been doom'd to die. 
 Save to fulfil an augury." — 
 " Well, let it pass; nor will I now 
 Fresh cause of enmity 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 agen, 
 I come with banner, brand, and bow, 
 As leader seeks his mortal foe. 
 For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower. 
 Ne'er panted for the appointed hour. 
 As I, until before me stand 
 This rebel Chieftain and his band ! " — 
 
 " Have, then, thy wish ! " — He whistled 
 
 shrill. 
 And he was answer'd from the hill; 
 Wild as the scream of the curlew. 
 From crag to crag the signal flew. 
 Instant, through copse and hepU». 
 
 arose 
 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 arm'd for strife. 
 That whistle garrison'd the glen 
 At once with full five hundred men, 
 As if the yawning hill to heaven 
 A subterranean host had given. 
 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. 
 Upon the mountain-side they hung. 
 The Mountaineer cast glance of pride 
 Along Benledi's living side. 
 Then fix'd his eye and sable brow 
 Full on Fitz-James : — " How say'st thou 
 
 now? 
 These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true; 
 And, Saxon, — I am Roderick Dhu ! " 
 
 Fitz-James was brave: — Though to his 
 
 heart 
 The life-blood thrill'd with sudden start, 
 He mann'd himself with dauntless air, 
 Return'd the chief his haughty stare, 
 His back against a rock he bore. 
 And firmly placed his foot before : — 
 " Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly 
 From its firm base as soon as I." 
 Sir Roderick mark'd, — and in his eyes 
 Respect was mingled with surprise. 
 And the stern joy which warriors feel 
 In foemen worthy of their steel. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE COMBAT. 
 
 163 
 
 Short space he stood ; — then waved his 
 
 hand: 
 Down sunk the disappearing band; 
 Each warrior vanish'd where he stood, 
 In broom or bracken, heath or wood; 
 Sunk brand, and spear, and bended bow, 
 In osiers pale and copses low; 
 It seem'd as if their mother Earth 
 Had swallow'd up her warlike birth. 
 The wind's last breath had toss'd in air, 
 Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair, — 
 The next but swept a lone hill-side, 
 Where heath and fern were waving wide. 
 The sun's last glance was glinted back 
 From spear and glaive, from targe and 
 
 jack, — 
 The next, all unreflected shone 
 On bracken green and cold gray stone. 
 
 Fitz- James look'd 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. 
 And to his look the Chief replied: — 
 "Fear naught — 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 
 To show the reed on which you leant. 
 Deeming this path you might pursue 
 Without a pass from Roderick Dhu."'*i 
 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 temper'd flood. 
 As, following Roderick's stride, he drew 
 That seeming lonesome pathway through. 
 Which yet, by fearful proof, was rife 
 With lances, that, to take his life, 
 Waited but signal from a guide. 
 So late dishonor'd and defied. 
 Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round 
 The vanish'd 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 
 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. 
 
 The Chief in silence strode before, 
 And reach'd that torrent's sounding shore. 
 Which, daughter of three mighty lakes. 
 From Vennachar in silver breaks, 
 Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless 
 
 mines 
 On Bochastle the mouldering lines. 
 Where Rome, the Empress of the world. 
 Of yore her eagle wings unfurl'd.*^ 
 And here his course the Chieftain staid. 
 Threw down his target and his plaid. 
 And to the Lowland warrior said : — 
 " Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, 
 Vich- Alpine has discharged his trust. 
 This murderous Chief, this ruthless man, 
 This head of a rebellious clan. 
 Hath led thee safe through watch and 
 
 ward 
 Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. 
 Now, man to man, and steel to steel, 
 A chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. 
 See here, all vantageless I stand, 
 Arm'd, like thyself, with single brand :*^ 
 For this is Coilantogle ford. 
 And thou must keep thee with thy sword." 
 
 The Saxon paused: — "I ne'er delay'd. 
 When foeman bade me draw my blade; 
 Nay, more, brave Chief, I vow'd thy 
 
 death ; 
 Yet sure thy fair and generous faith. 
 And my deep debt for life preserved, 
 A better meed have well deserved : 
 Can naught 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: 
 
164 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto V 
 
 ' Who spills the foremost foeman's life, 
 His party conquers in the strife.' " — 
 " Then, by my word," the Saxon said, 
 " The riddle is al eady read. 
 Seek yonder brak beneath the cliff, — 
 There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. 
 Thus Fate has solv d her prophecy, 
 Then yield to Fate, and not to me. 
 To James, at Stirling, let us go. 
 When, if thou wilt he still his foe. 
 Or if the King shall not agree 
 To grant thee grace and favor free, 
 I pliglit mine honor, oath, and word, 
 That, to thy native strengths restored. 
 With each advantage shalt thou stand, 
 Tliat aids thee now to guard thy land." 
 
 Dark lightning flash'd from Roderick's 
 
 eye: — 
 " Soars thy presumption, then, so high. 
 Because a wretched kern ye slew, 
 Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? 
 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 ? — Ry 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 ! 
 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, be 
 
 gone ! — 
 Yet think not that by thee alone, 
 Proud Chief ! can courtesy be shown ! 
 Though not from copse, or heath, or 
 
 cairn, 
 Start at my whistle clansmen stern, 
 Of this small horn one feeble blast 
 Would fearful odds against thee cast. 
 But fear not — doubt not' — which thou 
 
 wilt — 
 We try this quarrel hilt to hilt." — 
 Then each at once his falchion drew, 
 Each on the ground his scabbard tiirew, 
 Each look'd to sun, and stream, and 
 
 jilain. 
 As wliat they ne'er might sec again; 
 
 Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, 
 In dubious strife they darkly closed. 
 
 I'll fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 
 That on the field his targe he threw,*^ 
 Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide 
 Had death so often dash'd aside; 
 For, train'd abroad his arms to wield, 
 I*"itz- 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 maintain'd unequal war. 
 Three times in closing strife they stood, 
 And thrice the Saxon's blade drank blood; 
 No stinted draught, no scanty tide, 
 The gushing flood the tartans dyed. 
 Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, 
 And shower'd his blows like wintry rain; 
 And, as firm rock, or castle-roof. 
 Against the winter shower is proof. 
 The foe, invulnerable still, 
 Foil'd his wild rage by steady skill: 
 Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 
 Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, 
 And backward borne upon the lea, 
 Brought the proud chieftain to his knee. 
 
 " 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 Fit7.-James's throat he sprung; 
 Received, but reck'd not of a wound, 
 And lock'd his arms his foeman round. — 
 Now, gallant .Saxon, hcild thine own ! 
 No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! 
 That desperate grasp thy frame might feel, 
 'I'hrough bars of brass and triple steel ! — 
 They tug, they strain ! down, down they 
 
 go. 
 The (iael above, Fitz-James below: 
 The Chieftain's gripe his throat com- 
 
 press'd. 
 His knee was planted on his breast; 
 His clotted locks he backward threw, 
 Across his brow his hand he drew, 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE COMBAT. 
 
 165 
 
 From blood and mist to clear his sight, 
 Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright ! — 
 — But hate and fury ill supplied 
 The stream of life's exhausted tide, 
 And all too late the advantage came, 
 To turn the odds of deadly game; 
 For, while the dagger gleam'd on high, 
 Reel'd soul andsense,reerdbrain andeye, 
 Down came the blow ! but in the heath 
 The erring blade found bloodless sheath. 
 Tile struggling foe may now unclasp 
 1 he fainting Chief's relaxing grasp; 
 Unwounded from the dreadful close, 
 ]>ut breathless all, Fitz-James arose. 
 
 He falter'd thanks to Heaven for life, 
 Redeem'd, unhoped, from desperate 
 
 strife; 
 Next on his foe his look he cast, 
 Whose every gasp appear'd his last; 
 In Roderick's gore he dipp'd 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 
 Sate down his brow and hands to lave. 
 Then faint afar are heard the feet 
 Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet; 
 The sounds increase, and now are seen 
 Four mounted squires in Lincoln green : 
 Two who bear lance, and two who lead. 
 By loosen'd rein, a saddled steed; 
 Each onward held his headlong course. 
 And by Fitz-James rein'd up his horse, — 
 With wonder view'd the bloody spot. — 
 — " Exclaim not, gallants! question not. 
 You, Herbert and Luffness, alight. 
 And bind the wounds of yonder knight; 
 Let the 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. 
 
 * Boune, prepared. 
 
 "Stand, Bayard, stand!" — The steed 
 
 obey'd, 
 With arching neck and bending head. 
 And glancing eye and quivering ear. 
 As if he loved his lord to hear. 
 No foot Fitz-James in stirrup staid. 
 No grasp upon the saddle laid. 
 But wreath'd his left hand in the mane. 
 And lightly bounded from the plain, 
 Turn'd on the horse his armed heel. 
 And stirr'd his courage with the steel. 
 Bounded the fiery steed in air. 
 The rider sate erect and fair, 
 Then like a bolt from steel crossbow 
 Forth launch'd, along the plain they go. 
 They dash'd that rapid torrent through. 
 And up Carhonie's hill they flew; 
 Still at the gallop prick'd the Knight, 
 His merry-men follow'd as they might. 
 Along thy banks, swift Teith ! they ride, 
 And in the race they mock thy tide; 
 Torry and Lendrick now are past. 
 And Deanstown lies behind them cast : 
 They rise, the banner'd towers of Doune, 
 They sink in distant woodland soon; 
 Blair-Drummond sees the hoof strike fire. 
 They sweep like breeze through Ochter- 
 
 tyre; 
 They mark just glance and disapf)ear 
 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, 
 With plash, with scramble, and with 
 
 bound. 
 Right-hand they leave thy cliffs, Craig- 
 
 Forth ! 
 And soon the bulwark a»f the North, 
 Gray Stirling, with her towers and town, 
 Upon their fleet career look'd down. 
 
 As up the flinty path they strain'd 
 Sudden his steed the leader rein'd; 
 A signal to his squire he flung. 
 Who instant to his stirrup sprung: — 
 " Seest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman 
 
 gray. 
 Who town-ward holds the rocky way. 
 Of stature tall and poor array? 
 
t66 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 Mark'st thou the firm, yet active Ktride, 
 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." — 
 " Out, out, De Vaux ! can fear supply, 
 And jealousy, no sharper eye? 
 Afar, ere to the hill he drew. 
 That stately form and step I knew; 
 Like form in Scotland is not seen. 
 Treads not such step on Scottish green. 
 'Tis James of Douglas, by Saint Serle ! 
 The uncle of the banish'd Earl. 
 Away, away, to court, to show 
 The near approach of dreaded foe: 
 The King must stand upon his guard : 
 Douglas and he must meet prepared." 
 Then right-hand wheel'd their steeds, 
 
 and straight, 
 They won the castle's postern gate. 
 
 The Douglas, who had bent his way 
 From Cambuskenneth's abbey gray. 
 Now, as he climb'd the rocky shelf, 
 Held sad communion with himself: — 
 "Yes, all is true my fears could frame: 
 A prisoner lies the noble Gr?eme, 
 And fiery Roderick soon will feel 
 The vengeance of the royal steel. 
 I, only I, can ward their fate,— 
 God grant the ransom come not late ! 
 The Abbess hath her promise given. 
 My child shall be the bride of Heaven; — 
 
 — Be pardon'd one repining tear! 
 
 For He, who gave her, knows how 
 
 dear, 
 How excellent ! but that is by. 
 And now my business is — to die. 
 
 — Ye towers ! within whose circuit dread 
 A Douglas by his sovereign bled; 
 
 And thou, 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? 
 
 * A mound on the north-east of Stiriing Castle 
 where State criminals were executed. 
 
 And see ! upon the crowded street. 
 
 In motley groups what masquers meet ! 
 
 Banner and pageant, pipe and drum. 
 
 And merry morrice-dancers come. 
 
 I guess, by all this quaint array. 
 
 The burghers hold their sports to-day.*^ 
 
 James will be there; he loves such show, 
 
 Where the good yeoman bends his bow. 
 
 And the tough wrestler foils his foe, 
 
 As well as where, in proud career. 
 
 The high-borne tilter shivers spear. 
 
 I'll follow to the Castle-park, 
 
 And play my prize; — King James shall 
 
 mark. 
 If age has tamed these sinews stark. 
 Whose force so oft, in happier days. 
 His boyish wonder loved to praise." 
 
 The castle gates were open flung, 
 
 The quivering drawbridge rock'd and 
 
 rung. 
 And echo'd loud the flinty street 
 Beneath the coursers' clattering feet. 
 As slowly down the steep descent 
 Fair Scotland's King and nobles went. 
 While all along the crowded way 
 Was 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 blush'd 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. 
 Gives to the dancers thanks aloud. 
 And smiles and nods upon the crowd. 
 Who rend the heavens with their acclaims, 
 "Long live the Commons' King, King 
 
 James ! " 
 BehindtheKingthrong'd peer and knight. 
 And noble dame and damsel bright. 
 Whose fiery steeds ill brook'd the stay 
 Of the steep street and crowded way. 
 — But in the train you might discern 
 Dark lowering brow and visage stern; 
 There nobles mourn'd their pride re- 
 
 strain'd. 
 And the mean burgher's joys disdain 'd; 
 And chiefs, who, hostage for their clan. 
 Were each from home a banish'd man. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE COMBAT. 
 
 167 
 
 There thought upon their own gray tower, 
 Their waving woods, their feudal power. 
 And deem'd themselves a shameful part 
 Of pageant which they cursed in heart. 
 
 Now, in the Castle-park, drew out 
 Their checker'd bands the joyous rout. 
 There morricers, with bell at heel. 
 And blade in hand, their mazes wheel; 
 15ut 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 Marion, fair as ivory bone, 
 Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John; 
 Their bugles challenge all that will. 
 In archery to prove their skill. 
 The Douglas bent a bow of might, — 
 His first shaft 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 watch'd, with watery eye, 
 Some answering glance of sympathy, — 
 No kind emotion made reply ! 
 Indifferent as to archer wight, 
 The monarch gave the arrow bright. 
 
 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 bear. 
 Prize of the wrestling match, the King 
 To Douglas gave a golden ring," 
 While coldly glanced his eye of blue, 
 As frozen drop of wintry dew. 
 Douglas would speak, but in his breast 
 His struggling soul his words suppress'd; 
 Indignant then he turn'd him where 
 Their arms the brawny yeomen bare. 
 To hurl the massive bar in air. 
 When each his utmost strength had 
 
 shown. 
 The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone 
 F>om its deep bed, then heaved it high. 
 And sent the fragment through the skir. 
 
 A rood beyond the farthest mark; — 
 
 And still in Stirling's royal park. 
 
 The gray-hair'd sires, who know the past. 
 
 To strangers point the Douglas-cast, 
 
 And moralize on the decay 
 
 Of Scottish strength in modern day. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The vale with loud applauses rang, 
 The Ladies' Rock sent back the clang. 
 The King, with look unmoved, bestow'd 
 A purse well fill'd with pieces broad. 
 Indignant smiled the Douglas proud. 
 And threw the gold among the crowd. 
 Who now, with anxious wonder, scan. 
 And sharper glance, the dark gray man; 
 Till whispers rose among the throng. 
 That heart so free, and hand so strong, 
 Must to the Douglas blood belong; 
 The old men mark'd, and shook the head. 
 To see his hair with silver spread. 
 And wink'd aside, and told each son, 
 Of feats upon the English done, 
 Ere Douglas of the stalwart hand 
 Was exiled from his native land. 
 The women praised his stately form. 
 Though wreck'd by many a winter's 
 
 storm ! 
 The youth with awe and wonder saw 
 His strength surpassing Nature's law. 
 Thus judged, as is their wont, the crowd, 
 Till murmur 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 call'd the banish'd man to mind; 
 No, not from those who, at the chase. 
 Once held his side the honor'd place, 
 Begirt his Ixtard, and, in the field. 
 Found safety underneath his shield; 
 For he, whom royal eyes disown. 
 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 Bordeaux wine. 
 Might serve the archery to dine. 
 But Lufra, — whom from Douglas' side 
 Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide, 
 
1 68 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto V« 
 
 The fleetest hound in all the North, — 
 Brave Lufra saw, and darted forth. 
 She left the royal hounds mid-way, 
 And dashing on the antler'd prey. 
 Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank, 
 And deep the flowing life-blood drank. 
 The King's stout huntsman saw the sport 
 By strange intruder broken short. 
 Came up, and with his leash unbound. 
 In anger struck the noble hound. 
 — The Douglas had endured, that morn, 
 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, 
 In darken'd brow and flashing eye: 
 As waves before the bark divide, 
 The crowd gave way before his stride; 
 Needs but a buffet and no more. 
 The groom lies senseless in his gore. 
 Such blow no other hand could deal. 
 Though gauntleted in glove of steel. 
 
 Then clamor'd loud the royal train. 
 And brandish'd swords and staves amain. 
 Butstern the Baron's warning: — "Back ! 
 Back, on your lives, ye menial pack ! 
 Beware the Douglas. — Yes! behold, 
 King James! the Douglas, doom'd of old. 
 And vainly sought for near and far, 
 A victim to atone the war, 
 A willing victim, now attends. 
 Nor craves thy grace but for his 
 
 friends." — 
 " Thus is my clemency repaid? 
 Presumptuous Lord ! " the monarch said; 
 " Of thy misproud ambitious clan, 
 Thou, James of Bothwell, wert the man. 
 The only man, in whom a foe 
 My woman-mercy would not know : 
 But shall a Monarch's presence brook 
 Injurious blow, and haughty look? — 
 What ho ! the Captain of our Guard ! 
 Give the offender fitting ward, — 
 Break off the sports ! " — for tumult rose. 
 And yeomen 'gan to bend their bows, — 
 
 "Break off the sports!" he said, and 
 
 frown'd, 
 " And bid our horsemen clear the 
 
 ground," 
 
 Then uproar wild and misarray 
 Marr'd the fair form of festal day. 
 The horsemen prick'd among the crowd, 
 Kepell'd 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 
 The royal spears in circle deep, 
 And slowly scale the pathway steep; 
 While on the rear in thunder pour 
 The rabble with disorder'd roar. 
 With grief the noble Douglas saw 
 The Commons rise against the law. 
 And to the leading soldier said : — 
 "Sir John of Hyndford ! 'twas my blade 
 That knighthood on thy shoulder laid; 
 For that good deed, permit me then 
 A word with these misguided men : — 
 
 " 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, 
 
 That, for mean vengeance on a foe. 
 
 Those chords of love I should unbind. 
 
 Which knit my country and my kind ? 
 
 Oh no ! Believe, in yonder tower 
 
 It will not sooth 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; 
 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 ! " 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE COMBAT. 
 
 169 
 
 XXIX. 
 The crowd's wild fury sunk again 
 In tears, as tempests melt in rain. 
 With lifted hands and eyes, they pray'd 
 For blessings on his generous head, 
 Who for his country felt alone. 
 And prized her blood beyond his own. 
 Old men, upon the verge of life, 
 Bless'd him who staid the civil strife; 
 And mothers held their babes on high, 
 The self-devoted Chief to spy. 
 Triumphant over wrongs and ire. 
 To whom the prattlers owed a sire : 
 Even the rough soldier's heart was 
 
 moved ; 
 As if behind some bier beloved, 
 With trailing arms and drooping head. 
 The Douglas up the hill he led. 
 And at the Castle's battled verge 
 With sighs resign 'd his honor 'd 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 Lennox, who would wish to rule 
 This changeling crowd, this common fool ? 
 Hear'st thou," he said, "the loud ac- 
 claim, 
 With which they shout the Douglas' name ? 
 With like acclaim, the vulgar throat 
 Strain'd for King James their morning 
 
 note; 
 With like acclaim they hail'd the day 
 When first I broke the Douglas' sway; 
 And like acclaim would Douglas greet, 
 If he could hurl me from my seat. 
 Who o'er the herd would wish to reign, 
 Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain ! 
 Vain as the leaf upon the stream. 
 And fickle as a changeful dream; 
 Fantastic as a woman's mood. 
 And fierce as Frenzy's fever'd blood. 
 Thou many-headed monster-thing, 
 
 who would wish to be thy king ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 "But soft ! what messenger of speed 
 Spurs hitherward his panting steed ? 
 
 1 guess his cognizance afar — 
 
 What from our cousin, John of Mar? '' 
 
 " He prays, my liege, your sports keep 
 
 bound 
 Within the safe and guarded ground: 
 For some foul purpose yet unknown, — 
 Most sure for evil to the throne, — 
 The outlaw'd Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, 
 Has summon 'd his rebellious crew; 
 'Tis said, in James of Bothwell's aid 
 These loose banditti stand array'd. 
 The Earl of Mar, this morn, from Doune, 
 To break their muster march 'd, and 
 
 soon 
 Your grace will hear of battle fought; 
 But earnestly the Earl besought. 
 Till for such danger he provide, 
 With scanty train you will not ride." — 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 "Thou warn'st me I have done amiss, — 
 I should have earlier look'd to this: 
 I lost it in this bustling day. 
 — Retrace with speed thy former way; 
 Spare not for spoiling of thy steed. 
 The best of mine shall be thy meed. 
 Say to our faithful Lord of Mar, 
 We do forbid the intended war : 
 Roderick, this morn, in single fight, 
 VVas made our prisoner by a knight; 
 And Douglas hath himself and cause 
 Submitted to our kingdom's laws. 
 The tidings of their leaders lost 
 Will soon dissolve the mountain host. 
 Nor would we that the vulgar feel. 
 For their Chief's crimes, avenging steel. 
 Bear Mar our message, Braco: fly ! " 
 He turn'd his steed, — "My liege, I 
 
 hie. — 
 Yet, ere I cross this lily lawn, 
 I fear the broadswords will be drawn." 
 The turf the flying courser spurn'd. 
 And to his towers the King return'd. 
 
 Ill with King James's mood that day 
 Suited gay feast and minstrel lay; 
 Soon were dismiss'd the courtly throng, 
 And soon cut short the festal song. 
 Nor less upon the sadden'd town 
 The evening sunk in sorrow down. 
 The burghers spoke of civil jar. 
 Of rumor'd feuds and mountain war, 
 Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu, 
 All up in arms: — the Douglas too. 
 
I70 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 They moiirn'd him pent within the hold, 
 " Where stout Earl William was of 
 
 old," — * 
 And there his word the speaker staid, 
 And finger on his lip he laid, 
 Or pointed to his dagger blade. 
 But jaded horsemen, from the west, 
 At evening to the Castle press'd; 
 And busy talkers said they bore 
 Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore; 
 At noon the deadly fray begun, 
 And lasted till the set of sun. 
 Thus giddy rumor shook the town, 
 Till closed the Night her pennons brown. 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 
 THE GUARD-ROOM. 
 I. 
 
 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, 
 Are witness'd by that red and struggling 
 beam '. 
 The fever*d patient from his pallet low. 
 Through crowded hospital beholds it 
 stream; 
 The ruin'd maiden trembles at its gleam. 
 The debtor wakes to thought of gyve 
 and jail, 
 The love-lorn wretch starts from torment- 
 ing dream; 
 The wakeful mother, by the glimmer- 
 ing pale. 
 Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes 
 his feeble wail. 
 
 • He had been stabbed by Jaines II. iu Stir- 
 ling Castle. 
 
 At dawn the towers of Stirling rang 
 
 With soldier-step and weapon-clang, 
 
 While drums, with rolling note, foretell 
 
 Relief to weary sentinel. 
 
 Through narrow loop and casement barr'd, 
 
 The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard, 
 
 And, struggling with the smoky air. 
 
 Deaden 'd the torches' yellow glare. 
 
 In comfortless alliance shone 
 
 The lights through arch of blacken 'd 
 
 stone, 
 And show'd wild shapes in gaib of war. 
 Faces deform'd with beard and scar, 
 All haggard from the midnight watch, 
 And fever'd with the stern debauch; 
 For the oak table's massive board. 
 Flooded with wine, with fragments stored, 
 And beakers drain'd, and cups o'erthrown, 
 Show'd in what sport the night had 
 
 flown. 
 Some, weary, snored on floor and bench; 
 .Some lalxjr'd still their thirst to quench; 
 Some, chill 'd with watching, spread their 
 
 hands 
 O'er the huge chimney's dying brands. 
 While round them, or beside them flung. 
 At every step their harness rung. 
 
 These drew not for their fields the sword. 
 Like tenants of a feudal lord, 
 Nor own'd the patriarchal claim 
 Of chieftain in their leader's name; 
 Adventurers they, from far wh(3 roved. 
 To live by battle which they loved. *•* 
 There the Italian's clouded face; 
 The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace; 
 The mountain-loving Switzer ther>; 
 More freely breathed in mountain air; 
 The Fleming there despised the soil. 
 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 tlie scanty gain. 
 All brave in arms, well train'd to wield 
 The heavy lialberd, brand, and shield; 
 In camps licentious, wild, and bold; 
 In pillage fierce and unconfroH'd; 
 And now, by holylide and feast, 
 From rules of discipline released. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE GUARD-ROOM. 
 
 171 
 
 They held debate of bloody fray. 
 Fought 'Iwixt 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. 
 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. 
 In host a hardy mutineer. 
 But still the boldest of the crew. 
 When deed of danger was to do. 
 He grieved, that day, their games cut 
 
 short. 
 And marr'd the dicer's brawling sport, 
 And shouted loud: — " Renew the bowl ! 
 And, while a merry catch I troll, 
 I>ct each the buxom chorus bear. 
 Like brethren of the brand and spear." 
 
 V. 
 
 soldier's song. 
 
 Our vicar still preaches that Peter and 
 
 Poule 
 Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny 
 
 brown bowl, 
 That there's wrath and despair in the 
 
 Ixjnny black-jack. 
 And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of 
 
 sack; 
 Vet 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. 
 
 • A Dutdi health, or drinking word. 
 
 Vet 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 'tis 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 ! 
 
 The warder's challenge, heard without, 
 Staid in mid-roar the merry shout. 
 A soldier to the portal went, — 
 " Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent, 
 And, — beat for jubilee the drum ! 
 A maid and minstrel with him come." 
 Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarr'd. 
 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 roar'd: — "I only 
 
 know. 
 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. 
 The leader of a juggler band."** 
 
 VII. 
 
 "No, comrade; — no such fortune mine. 
 After the fight these sought our line. 
 That aged harper and the girl. 
 And, having audience of the Earl, 
 Mar bade I should purvey them steed. 
 And bring them hitherward with speed. 
 
172 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 Forbear your mirth and rude alarm, 
 For none shall do them shame or harm." 
 " Hear ye his boast ? " cried John of 
 
 Brent, 
 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'll have my share, howe'er it be. 
 Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee." 
 Bertram his forward step withstood; 
 And, burning with his vengeful mood. 
 Old Allan, though unfit for strife. 
 Laid hand upon his dagger-knife; 
 But Ellen boldly stcpp'd between, 
 And dropp'd 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, abash'd and tamed, 
 Stood half admiring, half ashamed. 
 
 Boldly she spoke : — " Soldiers, attend ! 
 
 My father was the soldier's friend; 
 
 Cheer'd him in camps, in marches led. 
 
 And with him in the battle bled. 
 
 Not from the valiant, or the strong, 
 
 Should exile's daughter suffer wrong." — 
 
 Answer'd De Brent, most forward still 
 
 In every feat or good or ill : — 
 
 " I shame me of the part I play'd; 
 
 And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid ! 
 
 An outlaw I by forest laws, 
 
 And merry Needwood knows the cause. 
 
 Poor Rose, — if Rose be living now," — 
 
 He wiped his iron eye and brow, — 
 
 " Must l)ear 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 : — 
 
 Ye all know John de Brent. Enough." 
 
 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 l)y courtesy controll'd. 
 Forward his speech, his bearing bold. 
 The high-born maiden ill could brook 
 The scanning of his curious look 
 And dauntless eye; — and yet, in sooth, 
 Young Lewis was a generous youth; 
 But Ellen's lovely face and mien, 
 111 suited to the garb and scene, 
 Might lightly bear construction strange, 
 And give loose fancy scope to range. 
 " Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid! 
 Come ye to seek a champion's aid, 
 On palfrey white, with harper hoar. 
 Like errant damosel of yore ? 
 Does thy high quest a knight require, 
 Or may the venture suit a squire? " 
 Her dark eye flash'd; — she paused and 
 
 sigh'd: — 
 " O what have I to do with pride ! 
 Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and 
 
 strife, 
 A suppliant for a father's life, 
 I crave an audience of the King. 
 Behold, to back my suit, a ring. 
 The royal pledge of grateful claims. 
 Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James." 
 
 The signet-ring young Lewis took. 
 
 With deep respect and alter'd look; 
 
 And said : — " This ring our duties own; 
 
 And pardon, if to worth unknown. 
 
 In semblance mean obscurely veil'd. 
 
 Lady, in aught my folly fail'd. 
 
 Soon as the day flings wide his gates, 
 
 The King shall know what suitor waits. 
 
 Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bo'ver 
 
 Repose you till his waking hour; 
 
 Female attendance shall obey 
 
 Your hest, for service or array. 
 
 Permit I marshal you the way." 
 
 But, ere she follow'd, with the grace 
 
 And open lx>unty 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 
 
 Forced bluntly back the proffer'd gold : — 
 
 " Forgive a haughty English heart. 
 
 And O forget its ruder part ! 
 
 The vacant purse shall be my share, 
 
 Which in my barret-cap I'll bear. 
 
CANTO VI. 
 
 THE GUARD-ROOM. 
 
 ^11 
 
 Perchance, in jeopardy of war, 
 Where gayer crests may keep afar." 
 With thanks — 'twas all she could — the 
 
 maid 
 His rugged courtesy repaid. 
 
 When Ellen forth with Lewis went, 
 Allan made suit to John of Brent: — 
 " My lady safe, O let your grace 
 Ciive 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 alx)ve their own. 
 With the Chief's birth begins our care; 
 Our harp must soothe the infant heir. 
 Teach the youth tales of fight, and 
 
 grace 
 His earliest feat of field or chase; 
 In peace, in war, ouv rank we keep, 
 We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep. 
 Nor leave him till we pour our verse — 
 A doleful tribute ! — o'er his hearse. 
 Then let me share his captive lot; 
 It is my right — deny it not ! " — 
 " Little we reck," said John of Brent, 
 " We Southern men, of long descent; 
 Nor wot we how a name — a word — 
 Makes clansmen vassals to a lord: 
 Vet 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 shall thou see." 
 
 Then, from a rusted iron hook, 
 A bunch of ponderous keys he took, 
 Lighted a torch, and Allan led 
 Through grated arch and passage dread. 
 Portals theypass'd, 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 an hideous engine grim. 
 For wrenching joint, and crushing limb, I 
 
 By artist form'd, who deem'd it shame 
 And sin to give their work a name. 
 They halted at a low-brow'd porch, 
 And Brent to Allan gave the torch, 
 While bolt and chain he backward roll'd. 
 And made the bar unhasp its hold. 
 They enter'd: — 'twas a prison-room 
 Of stern security and gloom. 
 Vet not a dungeon; for the day 
 Through lofty gratings found its way. 
 And rude and antique garniture 
 Deck'd the sad walls and oaken floor; 
 Such as the rugged days of old 
 Deem'd fit for captive noble's hold. 
 "Here," said De Brent, "thou mayst 
 
 remain 
 Till the Leech visit him again. 
 Strict is his charge, the warders tell, 
 To tend the noble prisoner well." 
 Retiring then, the bolt he drew. 
 And the lock's murmurs growl'd anew. 
 Roused at the sound, from lowly bed 
 A captive feebly raised his head; 
 The wondering Minstrel look'd, and 
 
 knew — 
 Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu! 
 For, come from where Clan-Alpine 
 
 fought, 
 They, erring, deem'd the Chief he sought. 
 
 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 ! 
 And oft his fever'd 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? — 
 My mother ? — Douglas ? — tell me all I 
 Have they been ruin'd in my fall? 
 Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here? 
 Vet speak, — speak boldly, — do not 
 
 fear." — 
 (For Allan, who his mood well knew, 
 Was choked with grief and terror too.) — 
 
174 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto V^L 
 
 "Who fought — who fled? — Old man, 
 
 be brief; — 
 Some miglit — for they had lost their 
 
 Chief. 
 Who basely live ? — who bravely died ?" — 
 '■O calm thee, Chief!" the Minstrel 
 
 cried, 
 "Ellei is safe!" — "For that, thank 
 
 Heaven ! " — 
 " And liopes are for the Douglas given; — 
 The f^ady Margaret, too, is well; 
 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 unl>ent, 
 rhough many a goodly bough is rent." 
 
 The Chieftain rear'd his form on high. 
 And fever's fire was in his eye; 
 But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks 
 Checker'd his swarthy brow and cheeks. 
 — •" 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, 
 When met my clan the Saxon miglit. 
 I'll listen, till my fancy hears 
 The clang of swords, the crash of spears ! 
 These grates, these walls, shall vanish 
 
 then. 
 For the fair field of fighting men. 
 And my free spirit burst away. 
 As if it soar'd from battle fray." 
 The trembling Bard with awe obey'd, — 
 Slow on the harp his hand he laid; 
 But soon remembrance of the sight 
 He witness'd from the mountain's height. 
 With what old Bertram told at night, 
 Awaken'd the full power of song. 
 And bore him in career along; — 
 As shallop launch'd on river's tide, 
 That slow and fearful leaves the side, 
 But, when it feels the middle stream, 
 Drives downward swift as lightning's 
 
 beam. 
 
 BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE.*! 
 
 "The Minstrel came once more to vfew 
 The eastern ridge of Benvenue, 
 For, ere he parted, he would say 
 Farewell to lovely Loch Achray — 
 Where shall he find, in foreign land. 
 So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ! 
 There is no breeze upon the fern. 
 
 Nor ripple on the lake. 
 Upon her eyry nods the erne. 
 
 The tleer has sought the brake; 
 'l"he small birds will not sing aloud. 
 
 The springing trout lies still, 
 So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud, 
 That swathes, as with a purple shroud, 
 
 Benledi's distant hill. 
 Is it the thunder's solemn sound 
 That mutters deep and dread. 
 Or echoes from the groaning ground 
 
 The warrior's measured tread? 
 Is it the lightning's quivering glance 
 
 That on the thicket streams. 
 Or do they flash on spear and lance 
 The sun's retiring beams? 
 — I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
 I see the Moray's silver star, 
 Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war. 
 That up the lake comes winding far ! 
 To hero boune for battle-strife. 
 
 Or bard of martial lay, 
 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, 
 One glance at their array ! 
 
 "Their light-aim'd archers far and 
 near 
 
 .Survey'd the tangled ground. 
 Their centre ranks, with pike and 
 spear, 
 
 A twilight forest frown'd, 
 Their barded horsemen, in the rear. 
 
 The stern battalia crown'd. 
 No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang. 
 
 Still were the pipe and drum; 
 Save heavy tread, and armor's clang. 
 
 The sullen march was dumb. 
 There breathed no wind their crests to 
 shake, 
 
 Or wave their flags abroad; 
 Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake, 
 
 That shadow 'd o'er their road. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE GUARD-ROOM. 
 
 175 
 
 Their vaward scouts no tidings bring. 
 
 Can rouse no lurking foe, 
 Nor spy a trace of living thing, 
 
 Save when they stirr'd the roe; 
 The host moves like a deep-sea wave, 
 Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, 
 High-swelling, dark, and slow. 
 The lake is pass'd, and now they gain 
 A narrow and a broken plain 
 Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws; 
 And here the horse and spearmen pause. 
 While to explore the dangerous glen, 
 1 )ive through the pass the archer-men. 
 
 " At once there rose so wild a yell 
 Within that dark and narrow dell, 
 As all the fiends, from heaven that fell. 
 Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell ! 
 Forth from the pass in tumult driven. 
 Like chaff lx;fore the wind of heaven, 
 
 The archery appear; 
 For life ! for life ! their flight they ply — 
 And shriek, and shout, and V)attle-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; 
 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 l>ack both friend and foe ! ' — 
 Like reeds Ijefore the tempest's frown. 
 That serried grove of lances brown 
 
 At once lay levell'd low; 
 And closely shouldering side to side. 
 The bristling ranks the onset bide. — 
 ' We'll quell the savage mountaineer. 
 As their Tinchel * cows the game ! 
 They come as fleet as forest deer, 
 We'll drive them back as tame.' — 
 
 " Bearing before them, in their course. 
 The relics of the archer force, 
 
 * A circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding 
 a great space, and gradually narrowing, brouglit 
 immense quantities of deer together, which 
 usually made desperate efforts to lireak through 
 the Thutiel. 
 
 Like wave with crest of sparkling foam. 
 Right onward did Qan-Alpine come. 
 Above the tide, each broadsword bright 
 Was brandishing like beam of light, 
 
 Each targe was dark below; 
 And with the ocean's mighty swing. 
 When heaving to the tempest's wing. 
 They hurl'd them on the foe. 
 I heard the lance's shivering crash, 
 As when the whirlwind rends the ash, 
 I heard the broadsword's deadly clang, 
 As if a hundred anvils rang ! 
 
 But Moray wheel 'd his rearward rank 
 Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank, 
 — ' My banner-man, advance ! 
 I see,' he cried, 'their column shake. — 
 Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake 
 
 Upon them with the lance ! ' — 
 The horsemen dash'd among the rout. 
 
 As deer break through the broom; 
 
 Their steeds are stout, their swords are 
 
 out. 
 
 They soon make lightsome room. 
 
 Clan-Alpine's best are backward Iwrne: 
 
 Where, where was Roderick then ! 
 One blast upon his bugle-horn 
 
 Were worth a thousand men ! 
 And refluent through the pass of fear 
 
 The battle's tide was pour'd; 
 Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling spear, 
 
 Vanish'd the mountain-sword. 
 AsBracklinn'schasm,soblack and steep 
 
 Receives her roaring linn, 
 As the dark caverns of the deep 
 Suck the wild whirlpool in, 
 So did the deep and darksome pass 
 l^evour the ])attle's mingled mass: 
 None linger now upon the plain, 
 Save those who ne'er shall fight again. 
 
 " Now westward rolls the battle's din, 
 That deep and doubling pass within. 
 — Minstrel, away, th" work of fate 
 Is bearing on: its issue wait. 
 Where the rude Trosachs' dread defile 
 Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. — 
 Gray Benvenue I soon repass'd, 
 Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast. 
 The sun is set; — the clouds are met, 
 
 The lowering scowl of heaven 
 An inky hue of vivid blue 
 
 To the deep lake has given; 
 
176 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 Strange gusts of wind from mountain-glen 
 Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen. 
 I heeded not the eddying surge, 
 Mine eye but saw the Trosachs' gorge, 
 Mine ear but heard the sullen sound, 
 Which like an earthquake shook the 
 
 ground. 
 And spoke the stern and desperate strife 
 That parts not but with parting life, 
 Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll 
 The dirge of many a passing soul. 
 Nearer it comes — the dim-wood glen 
 The martial flood disgorged agen, 
 
 But not in mingled tide; 
 The pi aided warriors of the North 
 High on the mountain thunder forth 
 
 And overhang its side; 
 While by the lake below appears 
 The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears. 
 At weary bay each shatter'd band. 
 Eyeing their foemen, sternly stand; 
 Their banners stream like tatter'd sail. 
 That flings its fragments to the gale, 
 And broken arms and disarray 
 Mark'd the fell havoc of the day. 
 
 "Viewing the mountain's ridge askance. 
 The Saxon stood in sullen trance, 
 Till Moray pointed with his lance, 
 
 And cried : — ' Behold yon isle ! — 
 See ! none are left to guard its strand. 
 But women weak, that wring the hand: 
 'Tis there of yore the robber band 
 
 Their booty wont to pile; 
 My purse, with bonnet pieces store. 
 To him will swim a bow-shot o'er. 
 And loose a shallop from the shore. 
 Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then. 
 Lords of his mate, and brood and den." 
 Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung. 
 On earth his casque and corslet rung. 
 
 He plunged him in the wave : — 
 All saw the deed — the purpose knew, 
 And to their clamors Benvenue 
 
 A mingled echo gave; 
 The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer. 
 The helpless females scream for fear, 
 And yells for rage the mountaineer. 
 'Twas then, as by the outcry riven, 
 Pour'd down at once the loweringheaven ; 
 A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast. 
 Her billows rear'd their snowy crest. 
 
 Well for the swimmer swell'd they high. 
 To mar the Highland marksman's eye; 
 For round him shower'd, mid rain and 
 
 hail. 
 The vengeful arrows of the Gael. — 
 In vain. — He nears the isle — and lo ! 
 His hand is on a shallop's bow. 
 — Just then a flash of lightning came. 
 It tinged the waves and strand with flame ! 
 I mark'd Duncraggan's widow'd dame. 
 Behind an oak I saw her stand, 
 A naked dirk gleam'd in her hand: 
 It darken'd, — but amid the moan 
 Of waves, I heard a dying groan; 
 Another flash ! — the spearman floats 
 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. 
 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 Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold, 
 Were both, he said, in captive hold." 
 — But here the lay made sudden stand ! — 
 The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand ! — 
 Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy 
 How Roderick brook'd his minstrels)': 
 At first, the Chieftain, to the chime, 
 With lifted hand kept feeble time; 
 That motion ceased, — yet feeling strong. 
 Varied his look as changed the song; 
 At length, no more his deafen'd ear 
 The minstrel melody can hear; 
 His face grows sharp, — his hands are 
 
 clench'd, 
 As if some pJing his heart-strings 
 
 wrench'd; 
 Set are his teeth, his fading eye 
 Is sternly fix'd on vacancy; 
 Thus motionless, and moanless, drew 
 His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu ! 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE GUARD-ROOM. 
 
 177 
 
 Old Allan-Bane look'd on aghast. 
 While grim and still his spirit pass'd: 
 But when he saw that life was fled, 
 He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 LAMENT. 
 " And art thou cold and lowly laid, 
 Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, 
 Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade ! 
 for thee shall none a requiem say? 
 — Forthee, — who loved the minstrel'slay. 
 For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay. 
 The shelter of her exiled line. 
 E'en in this prison-house of thine, 
 I'll wail for Alpine's honor'd Pine! 
 
 " What groans shall yonder valleys fill ! 
 W'hat 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. 
 The 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 honor'd Pine ! — 
 
 " Sad was thy lot on mortal stage ! — 
 The captive thrush may brook the cage. 
 The prison'd eagle dies for rage. 
 Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain ! 
 And, when its notes awake again. 
 Even she, so long beloved in vain, 
 Shall with my harp her voice combine. 
 And mix her woe and tears with mine, 
 To wail Clan-Alpine's honor'd Pine." 
 
 Ellen, the while, with bursting heart, 
 
 Remain'd in lordly bower apart, 
 
 Where play'd with many-color'd gleams. 
 
 Through storied pane the rising beams. 
 
 In vain on gilded roof they fall. 
 
 And lighten'd up a tapestried wall, 
 
 And for her use a menial train 
 
 A rich collation spread in vain. 
 
 The banquet proud, the chamber gay. 
 
 Scarce drew one curious glance astray; 
 
 Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say, 
 
 With better omen dawn'd the day 
 
 In that lone isle, where waved on high 
 
 The dun-deer's hide for canopy; 
 
 Where oft her uoble father shared 
 
 The simple meal her care prepared. 
 While Lufra, crouching by her side. 
 Her station claim'd 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 thought betray 'd. — 
 Those who such simple joys have known, 
 Are taught to prize them when they're 
 
 gone. 
 But sudden, see, she lifts hei head ! 
 The window seeks with cautious tread. 
 What distant music has the power 
 To win her in this woeful hour ! 
 'Twas 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. 
 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. 
 
 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! " 
 
 The heart-sick lay was hardly said. 
 The list'ner had not turn'd her head. 
 It trickled still, the starting tear. 
 When light a footstep struck her ear. 
 And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was 
 near. 
 
178 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 She turn'd 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, 
 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 ! 'tis 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, 
 And gently whisper'd hope and cheer; 
 Her faltering steps half led half staid. 
 Through gallery fair, and high arcade. 
 Till, at his touch, its wings of pride 
 A portal arch unfolded wide. 
 
 Within 'twas brilliant all and light, 
 A thronging scene of figures bright; 
 It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight. 
 As when the setting sun has given 
 Ten thousand hues to summer even, 
 And from their tissue, fancy frames 
 Aerial 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 
 For him she sought, who own'd this state. 
 The dreaded prince whose will was fate. 
 She gazed on many a princely port. 
 Might well have ruled a royal court; 
 On many a splendid garb she gazed, 
 Then turn'd bewilder'd and amazed. 
 For all stood bare; and, in the room, 
 Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. 
 To him each lady's look was lent; 
 On him each courtier's eye was bent; 
 Midst 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.S"'^ 
 
 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 Monarch's feet she lay; 
 No word her choking voice commands, — 
 Sheshow'dthering,she clasp'd her hands. 
 O ! not a moment could he brook. 
 The generous prince, that suppliant look ! 
 Gently he raised her; and, the while, 
 Check'd with a glance the circle's smile; 
 Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd, 
 And bade her terrors be dismiss'd : — 
 "Yes, Fair: the wandering poor Fitz- 
 
 Jamos 
 The fealty of Scotland claims. 
 To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring; 
 He will redeem his signet-ring. 
 Ask naught for Douglas; yestcr even. 
 His prince and he have much forgiven. 
 Wrong hath he had from slanderous 
 
 tongue, 
 I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. 
 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 stanch'd thy father's death-feud stern 
 With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn ; 
 And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own 
 The friend and bulwark of our Throne. 
 But, lovely infidel, how now? 
 What clouds thy misbelieving brow? 
 Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid; 
 Thou must confirm this doubting maid." 
 
 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. 
 He stepp'd between: — "Nay, Douglas, 
 
 nay, 
 Steal not my proselyte away ! 
 The riddle 'tis 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, 
 'Tis under name which veils my power, 
 Nor falsely veils — for Stirling's tower 
 Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,^ 
 And Normans call me James Fitz-James. 
 
Canto VI, 
 
 THE GUARD-ROOM. 
 
 179 
 
 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, 
 Join'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew 
 My spell-bound steps to Bcnvenue, 
 In dangerous hour, and all but gave 
 Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive ! " 
 Aloud he spoke : — " Thou still dost hold 
 Tliat little talisman of gold, 
 riedge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring — 
 What seeks fair Ellen of the King? " 
 
 Full well the conscious maiden guess'd 
 He probed the weakness of her breast; 
 But, with that consciousness, there came 
 A lightening of her fears for Graeme, 
 And more she deem'd the Monarch's ire 
 Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire, 
 Rebellious broadsword lx)ldly 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? 
 No other captive friend to save? " 
 Blushing, she turn'd her from the King, 
 And to the Douglas gave the ring. 
 As if she wish'd her sire to speak 
 The suit that stain'd her glowing cheek. — 
 " Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force. 
 And stubborn justice holds her course. 
 Malcolm, come forth !" — And, atthe word, 
 Down kneel'd the Graeme to Scotland's 
 
 Lord. 
 " 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 outlaw'd man. 
 Dishonoring thus thy loyal name. — 
 Fetters and warder for the Grreme ! " 
 His chain of gold the King unstrung, 
 The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flunfj, 
 
 Then gently drew the glittering band. 
 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, 
 Tlie deer, haU-s*en, 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. 
 
 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 dawn'd wearier 
 day, 
 And bitterer was the grief devour'd 
 alone. 
 That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress I 
 is thine own. 
 
 Hark ! as my lingering footsteps slow 
 retire, 
 Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy 
 string ! 
 'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 
 'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. 
 Receding now, the dying numbers ring 
 Fainter and fainter down the rugged 
 dell, 
 And now the mountain breezes scarcely 
 bring 
 A wandering witch-note of the distant 
 spell — 
 And now, 'tis silent all ! — Enchantress, 
 fare thee well ! 
 
THE 
 
 VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN WHITMORE, ESQ. 
 
 AND TO THE COMMITTEE OF SUBSCRIBERS FOR RELIEF OF THE PORTUGUESE 
 SUFFERERS IN WHICH HE PRESIDES, 
 
 THIS POEM 
 
 (THE VISION OF DON RODERICK), 
 
 COMPOSED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE FUND UNDER THEIR MANAGEMENT, 
 IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY 
 
 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following Poem is founded upon a Spanish Tradition, particularly detailed in the 
 Notes ; but bearing, in general, that Don Roderick, 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 denounced as fatal to the Spanish Monarchy. 
 The legend adds, that his rash curiosity was morticed 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 evetttful crisis of the Peninsula ; and to divide it, by a supposed change of 
 scene, into Three Periods. The First of these represents the Invasion of the Moors, the 
 Defeat and Death of Roderick, and closes with the peaceful occupation of the country by the 
 Victors. 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 unparalleled treachery of Buonaparte ; gives 
 a sketch of the usttrpation attempted upon that unsuspicious and friendly kingdom, and 
 terminates with the arrival of the British succors. It may be farther proper to mention, 
 that the object of the Poem is less to commemorate or detail particular incidents, than t>> 
 exhibit a general and impressive picture of the several periods brought upon the stage. 
 
 Edinburgh, /mm^ 24, 1811. 
 
 180 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK, 
 
 Quid dignum memorare tuis, Hispania, terns. 
 Vox humana valet ! — Claudian. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I 
 
 Lives there a strain, whose sounds of 
 mounting fire 
 May rise distinguish'd o'er the din of 
 war; 
 Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre, 
 Who sung beleaguer'd Ilion's evil 
 star? 
 Such, Wellington, might reach thee 
 from afar, 
 Wafting itsdescant wide o'er Ocean's 
 range; 
 Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood 
 could mar, 
 All as it swell'd 'twixt each loud 
 trumpet-change. 
 That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal 
 revenge ! 
 
 Yes ! such a strain, with all o'er-pouring 
 measure. 
 Might melodize with each tumultuous 
 sound. 
 Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or 
 pleasure. 
 That rings Mondego's ravaged shores 
 around; 
 The thund'ring cry of hosts with con- 
 quest crown'd. 
 The female shriek, the ruin'd peas- 
 ant's moan. 
 The shout of captives from their chains 
 unbound, 
 The foil'd oppressor's deep and 
 sullen groan, 
 A nation's choral hymn for tyranny o'er- 
 thrown. 
 
 But we, weak minstrels of a laggard 
 day, 
 Skill'd 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 degen- 
 erate 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. 
 Returning from the field of van- 
 quish'd 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 harp'd, «nd gray- 
 hair'd Llywarch sung! ^ 
 
1 82 
 
 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 O ! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain, 
 As sure your changeful gales seem 
 oft to say, 
 When sweeping wild and sinking soft 
 again, 
 Like trumpet-jubilee, or harp's wild 
 sway; 
 If ye can echo such triumphant lay, 
 Then lend the note to him has loved 
 you long ! 
 Who pious gathered each tradition 
 
 That floats your solitary wastes along. 
 And with affection vain gave them new 
 voice in song. 
 
 For not till now, how oft soe'er the task 
 Of truant verse hath lighten'd graver 
 care. 
 From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to 
 ask. 
 In phrase poetic, inspiration fair; 
 Careless he gave his numbers to the air. 
 They came unsought for, if 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. 
 
 Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer 
 tost: 
 " Minstrel ! the fame of whose ro- 
 mantic lyre, 
 Capricious-swelling now, may soon be 
 lost, 
 Like the light flickering of a cottage 
 fire; 
 If to such task jjresumptuous thou 
 aspire, 
 Seek not from us the meed to warrior 
 due: 
 Age after age has gathcr'd son to 
 sire. 
 Since our gray cliffs the din of conflict 
 knew, 
 Or, pealing through our vales, victorious 
 bugles blew. 
 
 "Decay'd our old traditionary lore. 
 Save where the lingering fays renew 
 their ring, 
 By milk-maid seen beneath the haw- 
 thorn hoar, 
 Or round the marge of Minchmore's 
 haunted spring : '^ 
 Save where their legends gray-hair'd 
 shepherds sing, 
 That now scarce win a listening ear 
 but thine, 
 Of feuds obscure, and Border ravaging. 
 And rugged deeds recount in rugged 
 line. 
 Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, 
 Tweed, or Tyne. 
 
 " No ! search romantic lands, where 
 
 the near Sun 
 Gives with unstinted boon ethereal 
 
 flame. 
 Where the rude villager, his labor 
 
 done. 
 In verse spontaneous ^ chants some 
 
 favor'd 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,* 
 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 ruin'd 
 breast 
 Barbaric monuments of pomp repose ; 
 Or where the banners of more ruthless 
 foes 
 Than the fierce Moor, float o'er To- 
 ledo's fane. 
 From whose tall towers even now the 
 patriot throws 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 183 
 
 An anxious glance, to spy upon the 
 plain 
 The blended ranks of England, Portugal, 
 and Spain. 
 
 " There, of Numantian fire a swarthy 
 spark 
 Still lightens in the sun-burnt 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' dear- 
 est pride, 
 Iberia ! oft thy crcstless peasantry 
 Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit 
 their side. 
 Have seen, yet dauntless stood — 'gainst 
 fortune fought and died. 
 
 " And cherish'd still by that unchan- 
 ging race, 
 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 
 Mountain Spirit said: 
 With filial awe I heard — I heard, and I 
 obey'd. 
 
 Rearing their crests amid the cloudless 
 skies. 
 And darkly clustering in the pale 
 moonlight, 
 Toledo's holy towers and spires arise. 
 As from a trembling lake of silver 
 white. 
 
 Their mingled shadows intercept the 
 sight 
 Of the broad burial-ground out- 
 stretch'd below. 
 And naught disturbs the silence of the 
 night; 
 All sleeps in sullen shade, or silver 
 glow. 
 All save the heavy swell of Teio's cease- 
 less flow. 
 
 All save the rushing swell of Teio's tide, 
 Or, distant heard, a courser's neigh 
 or tramp; 
 Their changing rounds as watchful 
 horsemen ride, 
 To guard the limits of King Rod- 
 erick's camp. 
 For, through the river's night-fog roll- 
 ing damp, 
 Was many a proud pavilion dimly 
 seen. 
 Which glimmer'd back against the 
 moon's fair lamp. 
 Tissues of silk and silver twisted 
 sheen. 
 And standards proudly pitch'd, and war- 
 ders arm'd between. 
 
 in. 
 But of their Monarch's person keeping 
 ward, 
 Since last the deep-mouth'd bell of 
 vespers toll'd. 
 The chosen soldiers of the royal guard 
 The post beneath the proud Cathe- 
 dral hold; 
 A band unlike their Gothic sires of old. 
 Who, for the cap of steel and iron 
 mace. 
 Bear slender darts, and casques be- 
 deck'd with gold. 
 While silver-studded belts their 
 shoulders grace. 
 Where ivory quivers ring in the bread 
 falchion's place. 
 
 In the light language of an idle court. 
 They murmur'd at their master's 
 long delay. 
 
1 84 
 
 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 And held his lengthen'd orisons in 
 
 sport: — 
 "What! will Don Roderick here till 
 
 morning stay, 
 To wear in shrift and prayer the night 
 away? 
 And are his hours in such dull pen- 
 ance past, 
 For fair Florinda's plunder'd charms 
 to pay ? " *" — 
 Then to the east their weary eyes 
 they cast, 
 And wish'd the lingering dawn would 
 glimmer forth at last. 
 
 But, far within, Toledo's Prelate 
 lent 
 An ear of fearful wonder to the King; 
 The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent, 
 So long that sad confession witness- 
 ing: 
 For Roderick told of many a hidden 
 thing, 
 Such as are lothly utter'd to the 
 air, 
 When Fear, Remorse, and Shame the 
 bosom wring. 
 And Guilt his secret burden cannot 
 bear, 
 \nd Conscience seeks in speech a respite 
 from Despair. 
 
 Full on the Prelate's face, and silver 
 hair. 
 The stream of failing light was feebly 
 roU'd: 
 But Roderick's visage, though his head 
 was bare, 
 Was shadow 'd by his hand and man- 
 tle's fold. 
 While of his hidden soul the sins he 
 told, 
 Proud Alaric's descendant could not 
 brook. 
 That mortal man his bearing should 
 behold. 
 Or boast that he had seen, when 
 Conscience shook. 
 Fear tame a monarch's brow. Remorse 
 a warrior's look. 
 
 The old man's faded check wax'd yet 
 more pale. 
 As many a secret sad the King be- 
 wray 'd; 
 As sign and glance eked out the unfin- 
 ish'd tale. 
 When in the midst his faltering 
 whisper staid. — 
 "Thus royal Witiza * was slain," — 
 he said; 
 " Yet, holy Father, deem not it was 
 I." 
 Thus still Ambition strives her crimes 
 to shade. — 
 " Oh ! rather deem 'twas stern ne- 
 cessity ! 
 Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or 
 die. 
 
 vni. 
 
 " And if Florinda's shrieks alarm'd the 
 air, 
 If she invoked her absent sire in vain, 
 And on her knees implored that I would 
 spare. 
 Yet, reverend priest, thy sentence 
 rash refrain \ — 
 All is not as it seems — the female train 
 Know by their bearing to disguise 
 their mood: " — 
 But Conscience here, as if in high 
 disdain, 
 Sent to the Monarch's cheek the 
 burning blood — 
 He stay'd his speech abrupt — and up 
 the Prelate stood. 
 
 " O harden'd 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 ? 
 
 • Witiza was Roderick's predecessor on the 
 Spanish throae. He was slain by Roderick's 
 connivance. 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 185 
 
 How hope Almighty vengeance shall 
 delay, 
 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 ! 
 Yet will I know whence come they, or 
 by whom. 
 Show, for thou canst — give forth 
 the fated key. 
 And guide me. Priest, to that mysteri- 
 ous room. 
 Where, if aught true in old tradition 
 be, 
 His nation's future fates a Spanish King 
 shall see." — 
 
 " 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." — 
 
 " Prelate ! a Monarch's fate brooks no 
 delay; 
 Lead on ! " — The ponderous key 
 the old man took, 
 And held the winking lamp, and led 
 the way, 
 By winding stair, dark aisle, and 
 secret nook, 
 
 Then on an ancient gateway bent his 
 look; 
 And, as the key the desperate King 
 essay'd, 
 Low mutter'd thunders the Cathedral 
 shook, 
 And twice he stopp'd, and twice new 
 effort made. 
 Till the huge bolts roll'd back, and the 
 loud hinges bray'd. 
 
 Long, large, and lofty was that vaulted 
 hall; 
 Roof, walls, and floor were all of 
 marble stone. 
 Of polished marble , black as funeral pall. 
 Carved o'er with signs and charac- 
 ters 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. 
 
 Grim sentinels, against the upper wall. 
 Of molten bronze, two Statues held 
 their place; 
 Massive their naked limbs, their stature 
 tall. 
 Their frowning foreheads golden cir- 
 cles grace. 
 Moulded they seem'd for kings of giant 
 race, 
 That liv'd and sinn'd before the 
 avenging flood; 
 This grasp'd a scythe, that rested on a 
 mace; 
 This spread his wings for flight, that 
 pondering stood. 
 Each stubborn seem'd and stern, immu- 
 table of mood. 
 
 Fix'd was the right-hand Giant's brazen 
 look 
 Upon his brother's glass of shifting 
 sand. 
 
1 86 
 
 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 As if its ebb he measured by a book, 
 Whose iron volume loaded his huge 
 hand ; 
 In which was wrote of many a fallen 
 land, 
 Of empires lost, and kings to exile 
 driven : 
 And o'er that pair their names in scroll 
 expand : — 
 " Lo, Destiny and Time ! to whom 
 by Heaven 
 The guidance of the earth is for a season 
 given." — 
 
 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 
 sleep. 
 Full on the upper wall the mace's sweep 
 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 vision'd pros- 
 pect laid, 
 Castles and towers, in due proportion 
 each, 
 As by some skilful artist's hand por- 
 tray'd; 
 Here, crossed by many a wild Sierra's 
 shade. 
 And boundless plains that tire the 
 traveller's eye; 
 There, rich with vineyard and with 
 olive glade. 
 Or deep-embrown'd by forests huge 
 and high, 
 Or wash'd by mighty streams, that slowly 
 murmur'd by. 
 
 And here, as erst upon the antique 
 stage, 
 Pass'd 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 fiU'd that mystic 
 scene. 
 Showing the fate of battles ere they 
 bled, 
 And issue of events that had not 
 been; 
 And, ever and anon, strange sounds were 
 heard between. 
 
 First shrill 'd an unrepcated female 
 shriek ! — 
 It seem'd as if Don Roderick knew 
 the call. 
 For the bold blood was blanching in 
 . his check. — 
 Then answer'd kettle-drum and ata- 
 bal. 
 Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear 
 appal. 
 The Tecbir war-cry, and the Lelie's 
 yell,6 
 Ring wildly dissonant along the hall. 
 Needs not to Roderick their dread 
 import tell — 
 " 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 
 roar'd. 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 187 
 
 The shadowy hosts are closing on the 
 plain — 
 Now, God and Saint lago strike, for the 
 good cause of Spain ! 
 
 " 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 'tis 
 mine ! "^ 
 But never was she turn'd from battle- 
 line : 
 Lo ! where the recreant spurs o'er 
 stock and stone ! 
 Curses pursue the slave, and wrath 
 divine ! 
 Rivers ingulf him!" — "Hush," 
 in shuddering tone, 
 The Prelate said; — "rash Prince, yon 
 vision'd form's thine own." 
 
 Just then, a torrent cross'd the flier's 
 course; 
 The dangerous ford the Kingly Like- 
 ness tried; 
 But the deep eddies whelm'd both man 
 and horse, 
 Swept like benighted peasant down 
 the tide; 
 And the proud Moslemah spread far 
 and wide. 
 As numerous as their native locust 
 band; 
 Berber and Ismael's sons the spoils 
 divide, 
 With naked cimeters mete out the 
 land, 
 And for the bondsmen base the freeborn 
 natives brand. 
 
 Then rose the grated Harem, to enclose 
 The loveliest maidens of the Chris- 
 tian line; 
 Then, menials, totheirmisbelievingfoes, 
 Castile's young nobles held forbid- 
 den wine; 
 
 Then, too, the holy Cross, salvation's 
 sign. 
 By impious hands was from the altar 
 thrown, 
 And the deep aisles of tbe polluted 
 shrine 
 Echo'd, for holy hymn and organ- 
 tone, 
 The Santon's frantic dance, the Fakir's 
 gibbering moan. 
 
 How fares Don Roderick? — E'en as 
 one who spies 
 Flames dart their glare o'er mid- 
 night's sable woof. 
 And hears around his children's pier- 
 cing cries, 
 And sees the pale assistants stand 
 aloof; 
 While cruel Conscience brings him bit- 
 ter proof, 
 His folly or his crime have caused 
 his grief; 
 And while above him nods the crum- 
 bling roof. 
 He curses earth and Heaven — him- 
 self in chief — 
 Desperate of earthly aid, despairing 
 Heaven's relief ! 
 
 That scythe-arm'd Giant turn'd his fatal 
 glass. 
 And twilight on the landscape closed 
 her wings; 
 Far to Asturian hills the war-sounds 
 pass, 
 And in their stead rebeck or timbrel 
 rings; 
 And to the sound the bell-deck'd dan- 
 cer springs. 
 Bazaars resound as when their marts 
 are met. 
 In tourney light the Moor his jerrid* 
 flings. 
 And on the land as evening seem'd 
 to set, 
 The Imaum's chant was heard from 
 mosque or minaret. 
 
 * Jerrid, javelin. 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 So pass'd that pageant. Ere another 
 came, 
 The visionary scene was wrapp'd in 
 smoke, 
 Whose sulph'rous wreaths were cross'd 
 by sheets of flame; 
 With every flash a bolt explosive 
 broke, 
 Till Roderick deem'd the fiends had 
 - burst their yoke, 
 And waved 'gainst heaven the infer- 
 nal gonf alone ? * 
 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 Christians have regain 'd their 
 heritage; 
 Before the Cross has waned the Cres- 
 cent's ray 
 And many a monastery decks the 
 stage. 
 And lofty church, and low-brow'd her- 
 mitage. 
 The land obeys a Hermit and a 
 Knight, — 
 The Genii those of Spain for many an 
 age; 
 This clad in sackcloth, that in armor 
 bright. 
 And that was Valor named, this Big- 
 otry was hight. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Valor washarness'dlike aChief of old, 
 Arm'd at all points, and prompt for 
 knightly gest; 
 His sword was temper'd in the Ebro 
 cold, 
 Morena's eagle plume adorn'd his 
 crest. 
 The spoils of Afric's lion bound his 
 breast. 
 
 * Gonfalone, banner. 
 
 Fierce he stepp'd forward and flung 
 down his gage; 
 As if of mortal kind to brave the 
 best. 
 Him follow'd his Companion, dark 
 and sage. 
 As he, my Master, sung the dangerous 
 Archimage. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Haughty of heart and brow the War- 
 rior came. 
 In look and language proud as proud 
 might be. 
 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 
 renown'd. 
 Honoring his scourge and hair-cloth, 
 meekly kiss'd the ground. 
 
 And thus it chanced that Valor, peer- 
 less knight. 
 Who ne'er to King or Kaiser vail'd 
 his crest, 
 Victorious still in bull-feast or in fight. 
 Since first his limbs with mail he did 
 invest, 
 Stoop'd ever to that Anchoret's be- 
 hest: 
 Nor reason'd of the right, nor of the 
 wrong, 
 But at his bidding laid the lance in 
 rest. 
 And wrought fell deeds the troubled 
 world along, 
 For he was fierce as brave, and pitiless 
 as strong. 
 
 Oft his proud galleys sought some new- 
 found world. 
 That latest sees the sun, or first the 
 morn; 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 189 
 
 Still at that Wizard's feet their spoils 
 he hurl'd, — 
 Ingots of ore from rich Potosi 
 borne, 
 Crowns by Caciques,* aigrettes by 
 Omrahs worn, 
 Wrought of rare gems, but broken, 
 rent, and foul; 
 Idols of gold from heathen temples 
 torn, 
 Bedabbled all with blood. — With 
 grisly scowl 
 The Hermit mark'd the stains, and smiled 
 beneath his cowl. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Then did he bless the offering, and 
 bade make 
 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 cen- 
 sers raise. 
 Mix steams from corpses smoulder- 
 ing in the fire; 
 The groans of prison'd victims mar 
 the lays. 
 And shrieks of agony confound the 
 quire; 
 While mid the mingled sounds, the dark- 
 en'd scenes expire. 
 
 Preluding light, were strains of music 
 heard, 
 As once again revolved that meas- 
 ured sand; 
 Such sounds as when, for sylvan dance 
 prepared. 
 Gay Xeres summons forth her vin- 
 tage band; 
 When for the light bolero ready 
 stand 
 The mozo blithe, with gay muchacha 
 met,* 
 He conscious of his broider'd cap and 
 band. 
 
 * Caciques and Omrahs, Peruvian and Mexi- 
 can chiefs or nobles. 
 
 She of her netted locks and light 
 corsette, 
 Each tiptoe perch'd to spring, and shake 
 the Castanet. 
 
 And well such strains the opening scene 
 became; 
 For Valor had relax'd his ardent 
 look, 
 And at a lady's feet like lion tame, 
 Lay stretch'd, full loth the weight 
 of arms to brook; 
 And soften'd Bigotry, upon his book, 
 Patter'd a task of little good or ill: 
 But the blithe peasant plied his prun- 
 ing hook, 
 Whistled the muleteer o'er vale and 
 hill, 
 And rung from village-green the merry 
 seguidille. 
 
 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. 
 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, 
 Andto the tinkling of the light guitar. 
 Sweet stoop'd the western sun, sweet 
 rose the evening star. 
 
 As that sea-cloud, in size like human 
 hand, 
 When first from Carmel by the Tish- 
 bite t seen, 
 Came slowly overshadowing Israel's 
 land, 
 A while, perchance, bedeck'd with 
 colors sheen, 
 
 t Elijah the Prophet. See i Kings, chap, 
 xviii., vs. 41-45. 
 
I90 
 
 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 While yet the sunbeams on its skirts 
 had been, 
 Limning with purple and with gold 
 its shroud, 
 Till darker folds obscured the blue serene , 
 And blotted heaven with one broad 
 sable cloud. 
 Then sheeted rain burst down, and whirl- 
 winds howl'd aloud: — 
 
 Even so, upon that peaceful scene was 
 pour'd. 
 Like gathering clouds, full many a 
 foreign band, 
 And Hk, their Leader, wore in sheath 
 his sword, 
 And offer'd peaceful front and open 
 hand, 
 Veiling the perjured treachery he 
 plann'd, 
 By friendship's zeal and honor's 
 specious guise, 
 Until he won the passes of the land; 
 Then burst were honor's oath and 
 friendship's ties ! 
 He clutch'd his vulture-grasp, and call'd 
 fair Spain his prize. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 AnIronCrownhisanxiousforeheadbore; 
 And well such diadem his heart be- 
 came, 
 Who ne'er his purpose for remorse 
 gave o'er. 
 Or check'd his course for piety or 
 shame; 
 Who, train'd a soldier, deem'd a sol- 
 dier's fame 
 Might flourish in the wreath of bat- 
 tles won, 
 Though neither truth nor honor deck'd 
 his name; 
 Who, placed by fortune on a Mon- 
 arch's throne, 
 Reck'd not of Monarch's faith, or Mercy's 
 kingly tone. 
 
 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, 
 Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, 
 and impure.* 
 
 Before that Leader strode a shadowy 
 Form; 
 Her limbs like mist, her torch like 
 meteor show'd. 
 With which she beckon 'd him through 
 fight and storm, 
 And all he crush 'd that cross'd his 
 desperate road. 
 Nor thought, nor fear'd, nor look'd on 
 what he trode. 
 Realms could not glut his pride, 
 blood could not slake. 
 So oft as e'er she shook her torch 
 abroad — 
 It was Ambition bade her terrors 
 wake. 
 Nor deign'd she, as of yore, a milder 
 form to take. 
 
 No longer now she spurn 'd at mean 
 revenge. 
 Or staid her hand for conquer 'd foe- 
 man's moan; 
 As when, the fates of aged Rome to 
 change. 
 By Caesar's side she cross'd the Ru- 
 bicon. 
 Nor joy'd she to bestow the spoils she 
 won. 
 As when the banded powers of 
 Greece were task'd 
 To war beneath the Youth of Mace- 
 don: 
 
 * In historical truth, Napoleon I. 's family was 
 not plebeian. 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 191 
 
 No seemly veil her modern minion 
 ask'd, 
 He saw her hideous face, and loved the 
 fiend unmask'd. 
 
 That Prelate mark'd his march — On 
 banners blazed 
 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 temper'd it with 
 slaughter's flood; 
 And know, fell scourge in the Al- 
 mighty's hand, 
 Gore-moisten'd trees shall perish in 
 the bud. 
 And by a bloody death shall die the Man 
 of Blood!" 
 
 XLIII. 
 The ruthless Leader beckon 'd from 
 his train 
 A wan fraternal Shade, and bade 
 him kneel. 
 And paled his temples with the crown 
 of Spain, 
 While trumpets rang, and heralds 
 cried, " Castile! " ^ 
 Not that he loved him — No ! — In no 
 man's weal. 
 Scarce in his own, e'er joy'd that 
 sullen heart; 
 Yet round that throne he bade his war- 
 riors wheel. 
 That the poor puppet might perform 
 his part. 
 And be a sceptred slave, at his stern beck 
 to start. 
 
 But on the Natives of that Land,misused, 
 Not long the silence of amazement 
 hung. 
 Nor brook 'd they long their friendly 
 faith abused; 
 For, with a common shriek, the gen- 
 eral tongue 
 
 Exclaim'd, "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 th' awakening Nazarite his 
 band. 
 When 'gainst his treacherous foes he 
 clench'd his dreadful hand.* 
 
 XLV. 
 That Mimic Monarch now cast anxious 
 eye 
 Upon the Satraps that begirt hira 
 round. 
 Now doff'd his royal robe in act to fly. 
 And from his brow the diadem un- 
 bound. 
 So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle 
 wound. 
 From Tarik's walls to Bilboa's moun- 
 tains blown. 
 These martial satelliteshard labor found 
 To guard a while his substituted 
 throne — 
 Light recking of his cause, but battling 
 for their own. 
 
 From Alpuhara's peak that bugle rung. 
 And it was echo'd from Corunna's 
 wall; 
 Stately Seville responsive war-shot 
 flung, 
 Grenada caught it in her Moorish 
 hall; 
 Galicia bade her children fight or fall. 
 Wild Biscay shook his mountain 
 coronet, 
 Valencia roused her at the battle-call. 
 And, foremost still where Valor's 
 sons are met, 
 First started to his gun each fiery 
 Miquelet. 
 
 xLvn. 
 But unappall'd and burning for the 
 fight, 
 The Invaders march, of victory se- 
 cure; 
 
 * Samson. See Judges, chap. xv. 9-16. 
 
192 
 
 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 Skilful their force to sever or unite, 
 And train 'd alike to vanquish or en- 
 dure. 
 Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to 
 ensure, 
 Discord to breathe, and jealousy to 
 sow, 
 To quell by boasting, and by bribes to 
 lure; 
 While naught 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 
 campaign, 
 As when their Eagles, sweeping 
 through the North, 
 Destroy 'd 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, 
 High blazed the war, and long, and 
 far, and wide,^'* 
 And oft the God of Battles blest the 
 righteous side. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Nor unatoned, where Freedom's foes 
 prevail, 
 Remain'd their savage waste. With 
 lilade and brand, 
 By day the Invaders ravaged hill and 
 dale. 
 But, with the darkness, the Guerilla 
 band 
 Came like night's tempest, and avenged 
 the land, 
 And claim'd for blood the retril>ution 
 due. 
 Probed the hard heart, and lopped the 
 mur'drous hand; 
 And Dawn, when o'er the scene her 
 beams she threw, 
 Midst ruins they had made, the spoilers' 
 corpses knew. 
 
 What minstrel verse may sing, or 
 
 tongue may tell, 
 — Amid the vision'd strife from sea to 
 
 sea. 
 How oft the Patriot banners rose or 
 fell, 
 Still honor'd in defeat as victory ! 
 For that sad pageant of events to be, 
 Show'd every form of fight by field 
 and flood; 
 Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth 
 their glee, 
 Beheld, while riding on the tempest 
 scud. 
 The waters choked with slain, the earth 
 bedrench'd with blood ! 
 
 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 ! 
 Mine, sap, and bomb, thy shatter'd 
 ruins knew. 
 Each art of war's extremity had 
 room, 
 Twice from thy half-sack'd streets the 
 foe withdrew. 
 And when at length stern fate de- 
 creed thy doom, 
 They won not Zaragoza, but her chil- 
 dren's bloody tomb.ii 
 
 Yet raise thy head, sad city ! Though 
 in chains, 
 Enthrall'd thou canst not be ! Arise, 
 and claim 
 Reverence from every heart where 
 Freedom reigns, 
 For what thou worshippest ! — thy 
 sainted dame. 
 She of the Column, honor'd be her 
 name. 
 By all, whate'er their creed, who 
 honor love ! 
 And like the sacred relics of the flame, 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 193 
 
 That gave some martyr to the bless 'd 
 above, 
 To every loyal heart may thy sad embers 
 prove ! 
 
 Nor thine alone such wreck. Gerona 
 fair! 
 Faithful to death thy heroes shall be 
 sung, 
 Manning the towers while o'er their 
 heads the air 
 Swart as the smoke from raging fur- 
 nace hung; 
 Now thicker dark'ning where the mine 
 was sprung, 
 Now briefly lighten'd by the can- 
 non's flare, 
 Now arch'd with fire-sparks as the 
 bomb was flung, 
 And redd'ning now with conflagra- 
 tion's glare, 
 While by the fatal light the foes for storm 
 prepare. 
 
 While all around was danger, strife, 
 and fear. 
 While the earth shook, and darken'd 
 was the sky, 
 And wide Destruction stunn'd the lis- 
 tening ear, 
 Appall'd 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 the 
 feht. 
 And bid each arm be strong, or bid each 
 heart be light. 
 
 Don Roderick turn'd him as the shout 
 grew loud — 
 A varied scene the changeful vision 
 show'd. 
 For, where the ocean mingled with the 
 cloud, 
 A gallant navy stctnm'd the billows 
 I broad. 
 
 From mast and stern St. George's sym- 
 bol flow'd. 
 Blent with the silver cross to Scot- 
 land dear; 
 Mottling the sea their landward barges 
 row'd. 
 And flash'd the sun on bayonet, 
 brand, and spear. 
 And the wild beach return'd the seaman's 
 jovial cheer. 
 
 It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight ! 
 The billows foam'd beneath a thou- 
 sand oars. 
 Fast as they land the red-cross ranks 
 unite. 
 Legions on legions bright'ning all 
 the shores. 
 Then banners rise, and cannon-signal 
 roars. 
 Then peals the warlike thunder of 
 the drum, 
 Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet- 
 flourish pours. 
 And patriot hopes awake, and doubts 
 are dumb, 
 For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands 
 of Ocean come ! 
 
 A various host they come — whose 
 ranks display 
 Each mode in which the warrior 
 meets the fight. 
 The deep battalion locks its firm array, 
 And meditates his aim the marks- 
 man light; 
 Far glance the light of sabres flashing 
 bright. 
 Where mounted squadrons shake the 
 echoing mead, 
 Lacks not artillery breathing flame and 
 night, 
 Nor the fleet ordnance whirl'd by 
 rapid steed, 
 That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and 
 in speed. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 A various host — from kindred realms 
 they came. 
 
194 
 
 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 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 
 freedom's cause. 
 Their eyes of azure, and their locks of 
 brown, 
 And the blunt speech that bursts 
 without a pause, 
 And freeborn thoughts, which league the 
 Soldier with the Laws. 
 
 And, O ! loved warriors of the Min- 
 strel'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 throbb'd heart 
 so brave, 
 As that which beats beneath the 
 Scottish plaid; 
 And when the pibroch bids the battle 
 rave. 
 And level for the charge your arms 
 are laid, 
 Where lives the despejate 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 ! 
 Hero is thine own. 
 
 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 light- 
 ning 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! 
 
 LXII. 
 
 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 panting Europe rousing at the 
 tale 
 Of Spain's invaders from her con- 
 fines hurl'd, 
 While kindling nations buckle on their 
 mail. 
 And Fame, with clarion-blast and 
 wings unfurl'd. 
 To Freedom and Revenge awakes an in- 
 jured World? 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 O vain, though anxious, is the glance 
 I cast. 
 Since Fate has mark'd futurity her 
 own: 
 
 * The battle of Vimeira was fought Auj^st 21, 
 iSoS ; Corunna, January 16, iSoy : Talavera, 
 July 28, 1809; Busaco, September 27, 1810. 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 195 
 
 Yet fate resigns to worth the glorious 
 past, 
 The deeds recorded, and the laurels 
 won. 
 Then, though the Vault of Destiny ^- 
 be gone, 
 King, Prelate, all the phantasms of 
 my brain. 
 Melted away like mist-wreaths in the 
 sun. 
 Yet grant for faith, for valor, and 
 for Spain, 
 One note of pride and fire, a patriot's 
 parting strain ! 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Who shall command Estrella's moun- 
 tain-tide 
 Back to the source, when tempest- 
 chafed, to hie? 
 Who, when Gascogne's vex'd gulf is 
 raging wide, 
 Shall hush it as a nurse her infant's 
 cry? 
 His magic power let such vain boaster 
 try. 
 And when the torrent shall his voice 
 obey. 
 And Biscay's whirlwinds list his lullaby, 
 I^t him stand forth and bar mine 
 eagles' way. 
 And they shall heed his voice, and at his 
 bidding stay. 
 
 " Else ne'er to stoop, till high on Lis- 
 bon's towers. 
 They close their wings, the symbol 
 of our yoke. 
 And their own sea hath whelm'd yon 
 red-cross Powers! " 
 Thus, on the summit of Alverca's 
 rock, 
 To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul's 
 Leader spoke. 
 While downward on the land his 
 legions press. 
 Before them it was rich with vine and 
 flock, 
 
 And smiled like Eden in her summer 
 dress; 
 Behind their wasteful march, a reeking 
 wilderness.^^ 
 
 And shall the boastful Chief maintain 
 his word. 
 Though Heaven hath heard the 
 wailings of the land, . 
 Though Lusitania whet her vengeful 
 sword. 
 Though Britons arm, and Welling- 
 ton command ! 
 No ! grim Busaco's iron ridge shall 
 stand 
 An adamantine barrier to his force; 
 And from its base shall wheel his 
 shatter'd band. 
 As from the unshaken rock the tor- 
 rent hoarse 
 Bears off its broken waves, and seeks a 
 devious course. 
 
 Yet not because Alcoba's mountain- 
 hawk 
 Hath on his best and bravest made 
 her food. 
 In numl^rs confident, yon Chief shall 
 balk 
 His Lord's imperial thirst for spoil 
 and blood: 
 For full in view the promised conquest 
 stood, 
 And Lisbon's matrons from their 
 walls might sum 
 The myriads that had half the world 
 subdued. 
 And hear the distant thunders of the 
 drum. 
 That bids the bands of France to storm 
 and havoc come. 
 
 V. 
 
 Four moons have heard these thunders 
 idly roll'd. 
 Have seen these wistful myriads eye 
 their prey. 
 As famish'd wolves survey a guarded 
 fold — 
 But in the middle path a Lion lay ! 
 
196 
 
 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 At length they move — but not to 
 battle-fray, 
 Nor blaze yon fires where meets the 
 manly fight; 
 Beacons of infamy, they light the way 
 Where cowardice and cruelty unite 
 To damn with double shame their igno- 
 minious flight ! 
 
 O triumph for the Fiends of Lust and 
 Wrath ! 
 Ne'ertobetold,yet ne'erto beforgot, 
 What wanton horrors mark'd their 
 wreckful path ! 
 The peasant butcher'd in his ruin'd 
 cot, 
 The hoary priest even at the altar shot. 
 Childhood and age given o'er to 
 sword and flame, 
 Woman to infamy; — no crime forgot. 
 By which inventive demons might 
 proclaim 
 Immortal hate to man, and scorn of 
 God's great name ! 
 
 The rudest sentinel, in Britain born. 
 With horror paused to view the 
 havoc done, 
 Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch 
 forlorn, 1* 
 Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer 
 grasp'd his gun. 
 Nor with less zeal shall Britain's peace- 
 ful son 
 Exult the debt of sympathy to pay; 
 Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun. 
 Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy 
 nor the gay. 
 Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor bard's 
 more worthless lay. 
 
 But thou — unfoughten wilt thou yield 
 to Fate, 
 Minion of Fortune, now miscall'd 
 in vain ! 
 Can vantage-ground no confidence 
 create, 
 Marcella's pass, nor Guarda's moun- 
 tain-chain? 
 
 Vainglorious fugitive ! ^^ yet turn 
 again ! 
 Behold, where, named by some pro- 
 phetic Seer, 
 
 Flows Honor's Fountain,* and fore- 
 doom'd the stain 
 
 From thy dishonor'd name and arms 
 to clear — 
 Fallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem 
 her favor here ! 
 
 Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each dis- 
 tant aid; 
 Those chief that never heard the 
 lion roar ! 
 Within whose souls lives not a trace 
 portray 'd 
 Of Talavera, or Mondego's shore ! 
 Marshal each band thou hast, and 
 summon more; 
 Of war's fell stratagems exhaust the 
 whole; 
 Rank upon rank, squadron on squadron 
 pour, 
 Legion on Legion on thy foemen 
 roll. 
 And weary out his arm — thou canst not 
 quell his soul. 
 
 O vainly gleams with steel Agueda's 
 shore. 
 Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava's 
 plain. 
 And front the flying thunders as they 
 roar. 
 With frantic charge and tenfold odds, 
 in vain ! *^ 
 And what avails thee that, for Cameron 
 slain, *^ 
 Wild from his plaided ranks the 
 yell was given — 
 Vengeance and grief gave mountain- 
 rage the reign. 
 And, at the bloody spear-point head- 
 long driven. 
 Thy Despot's giant guards fled like the 
 rack of heaven. 
 
 * The literal translation of Fuenies de Ho- 
 noro. 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 197 
 
 Go, baffled boaster ! teach thy haughty 
 mood 
 To plead at thine imperious master's 
 throne. 
 Say, thou hast left his legions in their 
 blood, 
 Deceived his hopes, and frustrated 
 thine own; 
 Say, that thine utmost skill and valor 
 shown, . 
 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'll abide. 
 
 But you, ye heroes of that well-fought 
 
 day. 
 How shall a bard, unknowing and 
 
 unknown, 
 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 For- 
 tune 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 : 
 Hark ! Albuera thunders Beresford, 
 And Red Barosa shouts for dauntless 
 Gr.«me ! 
 O for a verse of tumult and of flame. 
 Bold as the bursting of their cannon 
 sound. 
 To bid the world re-echo to their fame ! 
 
 For never, upon gory battle-ground. 
 With conquest's well-bought wreath were 
 braver victors crown'd ! 
 
 O who shall grudge him Albuera's 
 bays. 
 Who brought a race regenerate to 
 the field. 
 Roused them to emulate their father's 
 praise. 
 Temper' d their headlong rage, their 
 courage steel'd.^^ 
 And raised fair Lusitania's fallen 
 shield, 
 And gave new edge to Lusitania's 
 sword, 
 And taught her sons forgotten arms to 
 wield — 
 Shiver 'd my harp, and burst its every 
 chord. 
 If it forget thy worth, victorious Beres- 
 ford ! 
 
 Not on that bloody field of battle 
 won. 
 Though Gaul's proud legions roll'd 
 like mist away, 
 Was half his self-devoted valor 
 shown, — 
 He gaged but life on that illustrious 
 day; 
 But when he toil'd 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 hide 
 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. 
 
io8 
 
 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 From clime to clime, where'er war's 
 trumpets ^ound, 
 The wanderer went; yet, Caledonia ! 
 still 
 Thine was his thought in march and 
 tented ground; 
 He dream 'd mid Alpine cliffs of 
 Athole's hill, 
 And heard in Ebro's roar his Lyndoch's 
 lovely rill. 
 
 O hero of a race renown'd of old. 
 Whose war-cry oft has waked the 
 battle-swell, 
 Sincefirstdistinguish'd inthe onset bold. 
 Wild sounding when the Roman 
 rampart fell ! 
 By Wallace' side it rung the Southron's 
 knell, 
 Alderne, Kilsy the, and Tibber own'd 
 its fame, 
 Tummell's rude pass can of its terrors 
 tell. 
 
 But ne'er from prouder field arose the 
 name. 
 Than when wild Ronda learn'd the con- 
 quering shout of Gr^me ! 1^ 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But all too long, through seas unknown 
 and dark, 
 (With Spenser's parable I close my 
 tale,) 
 By shoal and rock hath steer'd 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, 
 And as the prow light touches on 
 the strand, 
 I strike my red-cross flag and bind m^ 
 skiff to land. 
 
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. 
 
 WALTER SCOTT. 
 [dec. 13, 1812.] 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 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 Actiojt 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 ts immediately subsequent to the great Battle of Marston 
 Moor, T^d 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 presented to the Public. 
 
 199 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 
 
 Between the publication of " The Lady of the Lake," which was so eminently success- 
 ful, and that of " Rokeby," in 1813, three years had intervened. I shall not. I believe, be 
 accused of ever having attempted to usurp a superiority over many men of genius, my con- 
 temporaries : 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 considered 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 peculiarly 
 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, 
 indisf)ensable to the comfort of a family residing in a solitary country-house ; but although 
 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 nevertheless 
 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 enabled 
 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 
 tnore difference. Abbotsford, to which we removed, 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-gardener, considerable capabilities. Above all, the 
 land was my own, like Uncle Toby's Bowling-green, to do what I would with. It had been, 
 though the gratification was long postponed, an early wish of mine to connect myself with 
 my mother-earth, and prosecute those experiments by which a species of creative power is 
 exercised over the face of nature. I can trace, even to childhood, a pleasure derived from 
 Dodsley's account of Shenstone's Leasowes, and I envied the poet much more for the 
 pleasure of accomplishing the objects detailed in his friend's sketch of his grounds, than 
 for the possession of pipe, crook, flock, and Phillis to boot. My memory, also, tenacious 
 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 exercise 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 delightful in their progress as those of the child 
 who first makes a dress for a new doll. The nakedness of the land was in time hidden by 
 woodlands of considerable extent — the smallest of possible cottages was progressively 
 expanded into a sort of dream of a mansion-house, whimsical in the exterior, but conven- 
 ient 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 before they could be attained, I was of a disposition to comfort myselif with the 
 Spanish proverb, " Time and I against any two." 
 
 The difficult and indisjjensable point, of finding a permanent subject of occupation, was 
 now at length attained ; but there was annexed to it the necessity of becoming again a can- 
 didate 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 accessible to 
 my labors, should not remain uncultivated. 
 
INTRODUCTION. ^i 
 
 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 '• Rokeby." 
 
 If subject and scenery could have influenced the fate of a poem, that of " Rokeby " 
 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, consid- 
 ering that the general mind sympathizes readily and at once with the stamp which nature 
 herself has affixed upon the manners of a people hvingin a simple and patriarchal state ; 
 whereas it has more difficulty in understanding or interesting itself in manners founded 
 upon those peculiar habits of thinking or acting, which are produced by the progress of 
 society. 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 
 History," where the embarrassments turn upon difficulties arising out of unintelligible 
 delicacies 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 unusual 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 suflSce, 
 The gambol has been shown." 
 
 The licentious combination of rhymes, in a manner not perhaps very congenial to our 
 language, 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 Actaeon fell 
 under the fury of his own dogs. The present author, like Bobadil, had taught his trick of 
 lence to a hundred gentlemen (and ladies), i 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 features, 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 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 
 number, owing to an appearance of facility to which some of those who used the measure 
 unquestionably 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 advantages, for a mighty and unexpected rival was advancing on the stage — a 
 rival not in poetical powers only, but in that art of attracting popularity, in which the 
 present writer had hitherto preceded tetter men than himself. The reader will easily see 
 that Byron is here meant, who, after a little velitation of no great promise, now appeared 
 
 ' " Scott found peculiar favor and imitation among the fair sex. There was Miss Halford and 
 Miss Mitford and Miss Francis; but, with the greatest resiiect be it six>ken, none of his imitators 
 did much honor to the original, except Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, until the .ippearance of " The 
 Dridal nf Triermain " and '• Harold the Daimtless," which, in the opinion of some, equalled if not 
 surpassed him ; and lo ! after three or four years, they turn out to be the Master's own composi- 
 tion . " — Byron. 
 
202 ROKEBY. 
 
 35 a serious candidate, in the " First two Cantos of Childe Harold." i I was astonished at 
 the power evinced by that work, which neither the •' Hours of Idleness," nor the " Eng- 
 lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers," had prepared nie to expect from its author. There was 
 a depth in his thought, an eager abundance in his diction, which argued full confidence in 
 the inexhaustible resources of which he felt himself possessed ; and there was some appear- 
 ance of that labor of the file, which indicates that tlie 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, tiie places whose very names are recorded in our bosoms as the shrines of ancient 
 poetry. For his own misfortune, jierhaps, but certainly to the high increase on 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 l^right 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. 1 was growing insensible 
 to those subjects of excitation by which youth is agitated. I had around me the most pleas- 
 ant 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 poetical composition : — 
 
 " 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 1 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 sjaecics 
 of labor which I had practised, and to which J 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, — 
 
 Non jtm, prima peto Mnestheus, neque vincere certo ; 
 Quanquam O! — sed superent, quibus hoc, Neptune, dedisti; 
 Extremes pudeat rediisse : hoc vincite, cives, 
 Et prohibete nefas."* — vEn. lib. v. 194. 
 
 I had, indeed, some private reasons for my " Quanquam O ! " 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 desisting 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," except- 
 ing as compared with that of " The Lady of the Lake," was in the highest degree respect- 
 able; and as it included fifteen hundred quartos' in those quarto-reading days, the trade 
 had no reason to be dissatisfied. 
 
 Abbotsford, April, 1830. 
 
 ^ Published in London, March, 1812. 
 
 ' " 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. 
 
 liut to be last, the lags of all the race ! — 
 
 Redeem yourselves and me from that disgrace." — Dryden. 
 » The quarto edition was published in January, 1813. 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 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. 
 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 Baliol's tower looks forth. 
 Sees the clouds mustering in the north, 
 Hears, upon turret-roof and wall. 
 By fits the plashing rain-drop fall. 
 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, 
 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 ; 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 While the perturbed sleeper's hand 
 Seem'd grasping dagger-knife, or brand. 
 Relax'd that grasp, the heavy sigh. 
 The tear in the half-opening eye, 
 The pallid cheek and brow, confess'd 
 That grief was busy in his breast; 
 Nor paused that mood — a sudden start 
 Impell'd the life-blood from the heart: 
 Features convulsed and mutterings dread 
 Show terror reigns in sorrow's stead. 
 That pang the painful slumber broke. 
 And Oswald with a start awoke. 
 
 He woke, and fear'd again to close 
 
 His eyelids in such dire repose; 
 
 He woke, — to watch the lamp, and 
 
 tell 
 From hour to hour the castle-bell. 
 
 203 
 
204 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 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, 
 And envying think, how, when the sun 
 Bids the poor soldier's watch be done, 
 Couch'd 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,^ 
 Unsharpen'd by revenge and fear. 
 Could e'er distinguish horse's clank, 
 Until it reach'd the castle bank. 
 Now nigh and plain the sound 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." 
 Stifling the tumult of his breast, 
 His answer Oswald thus express'd: — 
 " Bring food and wine, and trim the fire. 
 Admit the stranger, and retire." 
 
 The stranger came with heavy stride, 
 The morion's plumes his visage hide, 
 And the buff-coat, an ample fold. 
 Mantles his form's gigantic mould. ^ 
 Full slender answer deigned he 
 To Oswald's anxious courtesy, 
 But mark'd, by a disdainful smile, 
 He saw and scorn 'd the 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 low aside 
 The ponderous cloak of tough bull's hide. 
 And to the torch glanced broad and clear 
 The corslet of a cuirassier; 
 Then from his brows the casque he drewi 
 And from the dank plume dash'd the dew, 
 From gloves of mail relieved his hands, 
 And spread them to the kindling brands; 
 
 And, turning to the genial board. 
 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 famish'd wolf that tears his prey. 
 
 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. 
 Yet, viewing with alarm, at last. 
 The end of that uncouth repast. 
 Almost he seem'd their haste to rue. 
 As, at his sign, his train withdrew. 
 And left him with the stranger, free 
 To question of his mystery. 
 Then did his silence long proclaim 
 A struggle between fear and shame. 
 
 Much in the stranger's mien appears, 
 To justify suspicious fears. 
 On his dark face a scorching clime,* 
 And toil, had done the work of time, 
 Roughen'd the brow, the temples bared, 
 And sable hairs with silver shared. 
 Yet left — what age alone could tame — 
 The lip of pride, the eye of flame; 
 The full-drawn lip that upward curl'd, 
 The eye that seem'd to scorn the world. 
 That lip had terror never blench'd; 
 Ne'er in that eye had tear-drop quench'd 
 The flash severe of swarthy glow, 
 That mock'd at pain, and knew not woe. 
 Inured to danger's direst form, 
 Tornade and earthquake, flood and storm. 
 Death had he seen by sudden blow. 
 By wasting plague, by tortures slow, 
 By mine or breach, by steel or ball. 
 Knew all her shapes, and scorn'd them all. 
 
 But yet, though Bertram's harden'd look 
 Unmoved, could blood and danger brook, 
 
Canto I. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 205 
 
 Still worse than apathy had place 
 On his swart brow and callous face; 
 For evil passions, cherish'd long, 
 Had plough'd them with impressions 
 
 strong. 
 All that gives gloss to sin, all gay 
 Light folly, past with youth away, 
 Hut rooted stood in manhood's hour, 
 The weeds of vice without their flower. 
 And yet the soil in which they grew, 
 Had it been tamed when life was new, 
 Had depth and 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 chasten'd mind. 
 And lust of gold, that waste to feed, 
 Heen lost in love of glory's meed. 
 And, frantic then no more, his pride 
 Had ta'en fair virtue for its guide. 
 
 Even now, by conscience unrestrain'd, 
 t^'ogg'f^ ^'y gross vice, by slaughter 
 
 stain'd. 
 Still knew his daring soul to soar, 
 And mastery o'er the mind he bore; 
 For meaner guilt, or heart less hard, 
 Quaird Ijeneath Bertram's Ixild regard. 
 And this felt Oswald, while in vain 
 He strove, by many a winding train. 
 To lure his sullen guest to show, 
 Unask'd, the news he long'd to know. 
 While on far other subject hung 
 His heart, than falter'd from his tongue. 
 Yet naught for that his guest did deign 
 To note or spare his secret pain, 
 But still, in stern and stubborn sort, 
 Return'd him answer dark and short. 
 Or startetl from the theme, to range 
 In loose digression wild and strange. 
 And forced the embarrass "d host to buy. 
 By query close, direct reply. 
 
 A while he glozed upon the cause 
 Of Commons. Covenant, and Laws, 
 And Church Reform'd — but felt rebuke 
 Beneath grim Bertram's sneering look, 
 Then stammer'd — "Has a field been 
 
 fought ? 
 Has Bertram news of battle brought? 
 
 For sure a soldier, famed so far 
 In foreign fields for feats of war, 
 On eve of fight ne'er left the host, 
 Until the field were won and lost." 
 " Here, in your towers by circling Tees, 
 You, Oswald 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, 
 Encamp'd before beleaguer'd York; 
 Thy horse with valiant Fairfax lay. 
 And must have fought — how went the 
 
 day? " 
 
 " Wouldst hear the tale? — On Marston 
 
 heath ^ 
 Met, front to front, the ranks of death; 
 Flourish'd the trumpets fierce, and now 
 Fired was each eye, and flush'd each 
 
 brow; 
 On either side loud clamors ring, 
 ' God and the Cause ! ' — ' God and the 
 
 King!' 
 Right English all, they rush'd to blows, 
 With naught to win, and all to lose. 
 I could have laugh'd — but lack'd the 
 
 time — 
 To see, in phrenesy sublime, 
 How the fierce zealots fought and bled, 
 For king or state, as 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. — 
 Led Bertram Risingham the hearts. 
 That counter'd there on adverse parts, 
 No superstitious fool had I 
 Sought El Dorados in the sky ! 
 Chili had heard me through her states, 
 And Lima oped her silver gates, 
 Rich Mexico I had march'd through. 
 And sack'd the 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? 
 
2o6 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 "Good am I deem'd at trumpet-sound, 
 
 And good where goblets dance the round, 
 
 Though gentle ne'er was join'd, till now. 
 
 With rugged Bertram's breast and brow. 
 
 But I resume. The battle's rage 
 
 Was like the strife which currents wage 
 
 Where Orinoco, in his pride, 
 
 Rolls to the main no tribute tide. 
 
 But 'gainst broad ocean urges far 
 
 A rival sea of roaring war; 
 
 While, in ten thousand eddies driven. 
 
 The billows fling their foam to 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 wheel'd 
 
 Ambiguous, till that heart of flame. 
 
 Hot Rupert, on our squadrons came. 
 
 Hurling against our spears a line 
 
 Of gallants, fiery as their wine; 
 
 Then ours, though stublxjrn in their zeal, 
 
 In zeal's despite began to reel. 
 
 What would'st thou more ? — in tumult tost, 
 
 Our leaders fell, our ranks were lost. 
 
 A thousand men, who drew the sword 
 
 For both the Houses and the Word, 
 
 Preach'd forth from hamlet, grange, and 
 
 down. 
 To curb the crosier and the crown. 
 Now, stark and stiff, lie stretch'd in gore. 
 And ne'er shall rail at mitre more. — 
 Thus fared it, when I left the fight. 
 With the good Cause and Commons' right." 
 
 " Disastrous news ! " dark Wycliffe said; 
 Assumed despondence bent his head. 
 While troubled joy was in his eye, 
 The well-feign'd sorrow to belie. — 
 ■' Disastrous news — when needed most. 
 Told ye not that your chiefs were lost ? 
 Complete the woeful tale and say. 
 Who fell upon that fatal day; 
 What leaders of repute and name 
 Bought by their death a deathless fame. 
 If such my direst foeman's doom, 
 My tears shall dew his honor'd tomb. — 
 No answer? — Friend, of all our host. 
 Thou know'st whom I should hate the 
 
 most, 
 Whom thou, too, once wert wont to hate, 
 Yet leavest me doubtful of his fate." 
 
 With look unmoved, — " Of friend or foe, 
 Aught," answer'd Bertram, "would'st 
 
 thou know, 
 Demand in simple terms and plain, 
 A soldier's answer shall thou gain; — 
 For question dark, or riddle high, 
 I have nor judgment nor reply.'' 
 
 The wrath his art and fear suppress'd 
 Now blazed at once in Wycliffe's breast; 
 And brave, from man so meanly born, 
 Roused his hereditary scorn. 
 "Wretch ! hast thou paidthy bloody debt? 
 Philip of Mortham, lives he yet? 
 False to thy patron or thine oath, 
 Trait'rous or perjured, one or both. 
 Slave ! hast thou kept thy promise plight. 
 To slay thy leader in the fight?" 
 Then from his 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 quaff 'd. 
 Flung from him Wycliffe's hand, and 
 
 laugh'd: 
 — "Now, Oswald Wycliffe, speaks thy 
 
 heart ! 
 Now play'st thou well thy genuine part ! 
 Worthy, but for thy craven fear. 
 Like me to roam a buccaneer. 
 What reck'st thou of the Cause divine, 
 If Mortham's wealth and lands be thine? 
 What carest thou for beleaguer'd York, 
 If this good hand have done its work? 
 Or what, though Fairfax and his best 
 Are reddening Marston's swarthy breast, 
 If Philip Mortham with them lie. 
 Lending his life-blood to the dye? — 
 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. 
 From point to point I frankly tell 
 The deed of death as it befell. 
 
 "When purposed vengeance I forego, 
 Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe; 
 And when an insult I forgive. 
 Then brand me as a slave, and live ! — 
 Philip of Mortham is with those 
 Whom Bertram Risingham calls foes; 
 
Canto I. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 207 
 
 Or whom more sure revenge attends. 
 If number'd with ungrateful friends. 
 As was his wont, ere battle glow'd, 
 Along the marshall'd ranks he rode, 
 And wore his visor up the while. 
 I saw his melancholy smile. 
 When, full opposed in front, he knew 
 Where Rokeby's kindred banner flew. 
 ' And thus,' he said, ' will friends divide !' 
 I heard, and thought how, side by side, 
 We two had turn'd the battle's tide. 
 In many a well-debated field. 
 Where Bertram's breast was Philip's 
 
 shield. 
 I thought on Darien's deserts pale, 
 Where death liestrides the evening gale. 
 How o'er my friend my cloak I threw. 
 And fenceless faced the deadly dew; 
 I thought on Quariana's cliff. 
 Where, rescued from our foundering skiff. 
 Through the white breaker's .wrath I bore 
 Exhausted Mortham to the shore; 
 And when his side an arrow found, 
 I suck'd the Indian's venom'd wound. 
 These thoughts like torrents rush'd along, 
 To sweep away my purpose strong. 
 
 " Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent; 
 Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent. 
 When Mortham bade me, as of yore. 
 Be near him in the battle's roar, 
 I scarcely saw the spears laid low, 
 I scarcely heard the trumpets blow; 
 Lost was the war in inward strife. 
 Debating Mortham's death or life. 
 'Twas then I thought, how, lured to come, 
 As partner of his wealth and home. 
 Years of piratic wandering o'er, 
 With him I sought our native shore. 
 Rut Mortham's lord grew far estranged 
 From the bold heart withwhom he ranged ; 
 Doubts, horrors, superstitious fears, 
 Sadden'd and dimm'd descending years; 
 The wily priests their victim sought. 
 And damn'd each free-born deed and 
 
 thought. 
 Then must I seek another home. 
 My license shook his sober dome; 
 If gold he gave, in one wild day 
 I revell'd thrice the sum away. 
 An idle outcast then I stray'd, 
 Unfit for tillage or for trade, 
 
 Deem'd, like the steel of rusted lance. 
 Useless and dangerous at once. 
 The women fear'd my hardy look, 
 At my approach the peaceful shook; 
 The merchant saw my glance of flame, 
 And lock'd hishoardswhen Bertram came ! 
 Each child of coward peace kept far 
 From the neglected son of war. 
 
 " 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 obtain'd. 
 And I, dishonor'd and disdain 'd, 
 Gain'd but the high and happy lot, 
 In these poor arms to front the shot ! — 
 All this thou know'st, thy gestures tell; 
 Yet hear it o'er and mark it well. 
 'Tis honor bids me now relate 
 Each circumstance of Mortham's fate. 
 
 "Thoughts, from the tongue that slowly 
 
 part. 
 Glance quick as lightning through the 
 
 heart. 
 As my spur press'd my courser's side, 
 Philip of Mortham's cause was tried. 
 And, ere the charging squadrons mix'd. 
 His plea was cast, his doom was fix'd. 
 I watch 'd him through the doubtful fray, 
 That chang'd as March's moody day, 
 Till, like a stream that bursts its bank. 
 Fierce Rupert thunder'd on our flank. 
 'Twasthen, midst tumult, smoke, andstrife, 
 W^here each man fought for death or life, 
 'Twas then I fired my petronel. 
 And Mortham, steed and rider, fell. 
 One dying look he upward cast. 
 Of wralh and anguish — 'twas his last. 
 Think not that there I stopp'd to view 
 What of the battle should ensue; 
 But ere I clear' d 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. 
 
2o8 
 
 HOKE BY. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Cursing the day when zeal or meed 
 First lured their Lesley o'er the Tweed.* 
 Yet when I reach'd the banks of Swale, 
 Had rumor learn'd another tale; 
 With his barb'd horse, fresh tidings say, 
 Stout Cromwell has redeem'd 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. 
 Asserted guilt's equality. 
 In smoothest terms his speech he wove. 
 Of endless friendship, faith, and love; 
 Promised and vow'd in courteous sort. 
 But Bertram broke professions short: — 
 " Wycliffe, he sure not here I stay. 
 No, scarcely till the rising day; 
 Warn'd by the legends of my youth, 
 I trust not an associate's truth. 
 Do not my native dales prolong 
 Of Percy Rede the tragic song. 
 Train'd forward to his bloody fall, 
 By Girsonfield, 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 Woodburnc's cottages and trees. 
 Some ancient sculptor's art has shown 
 An outlaw's image on the stone; ^ 
 Unmatch'd in strength, a giant he. 
 With quiver'd 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 warn'd by legends of my youth, 
 I trust to no associate's truth. 
 
 " When last we reason'd of this deed, 
 Naught, 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. 
 Tiiou, 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 
 The statutes of the Buccaneer. i" 
 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 portion'd spoil; 
 When dies in fight a daring foe, 
 He claims his wealth who struck the 
 
 blow; 
 And either rule to me assigns 
 Those spoils of Indian seas and mines, 
 Hoarded in Mortham's caverns dark; 
 Ingot of gold and diamond spark. 
 Chalice and plate from churches borne, 
 And gems from shrieking beauty torn. 
 Each 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 cloy'd each wish, these wars afford 
 Fresh work for Bertram's restless sword." 
 
 An undecided answer hung 
 On Oswald's hesitating tongue. 
 Despite his craft, he heard with awe 
 This ruffian stabber fix the law; 
 While his own troubled passions veer 
 Through hatred, joy, regret, and fear: — 
 Joy'd at the soul that Bertram flies, 
 He grudged the murderer's mighty prize, 
 Hated his pride's presumptuous tone, 
 And fear'd to wend with him alone. 
 At length, that middle course to steer, 
 To cowardice and craft so dear, 
 " His charge," he said; " would ill alhjw 
 His absence from the fortress now; 
 Wilfrid on Bertram should attend, 
 His son should journey with his friend." 
 
 Contempt kept Bertram's anger down, 
 And wreathed to sav.age smile his frown. 
 " Wilfrid, or thou — 'tis one to me. 
 Whichever bears the golden key. 
 Yet think not but I mark, and smile 
 To mark, thy poor and selfish wile ! 
 
Canto I. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 10^ 
 
 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 not I stab thee, ere one yell 
 Could rouse the distant sentinel? 
 Start not — it is not my design. 
 But, if it were, weak fence were thine: 
 And, trust me, that, in time of need. 
 This hand hath done more desperate deed. 
 Go, haste and rouse thy slum'oering son; 
 Time calls, and I must needs be gone." 
 
 Naught of his sire's ungenerous part 
 Polluted Wilfrid's gentle heart; 
 A heart too soft from early life 
 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 
 Show'd the elastic spring of blood; 
 Hour after hour he loved to pore 
 On Shakspeare's rich and varied lore. 
 But turn'd from martial scenes and light, 
 From Falstaff's feast and Percy's fight. 
 To ponder Jaques' moral strain. 
 And muse with Hamlet, wise in vain; 
 And weep himself to soft repose 
 O'er gentle Desdemona's woes. 
 
 In youth he sought not pleasures found 
 By youth in horse and hawk and hound, 
 But loved the quiet joys that wake 
 By lonely stream and silent lake; 
 In Deepdale's solitude to lie. 
 Where all is cliff and copse and sky; 
 To climb Catcastle's dizzy peak. 
 Or lone Pendragon's mound to seek. 
 Such was his wont; and there his dream 
 Soar'd on some wild fantastic theme. 
 Of faithful love, or ceaseless spring. 
 Till Contemplation's wearied wing 
 The enthusiast could no more sustain, 
 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 
 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, 
 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, loth to nurse the fatal flame 
 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. 
 
 So did the suit of Wilfrid stand. 
 When war's loudsummons waked theland 
 Three banners, floating o'er the Tees, 
 The woe-foreboding peasant sees; 
 In concert oft they braved of old 
 The bordering Scot's incursion bold; 
 Frowning defiance in their pride. 
 Their vassals now and lords divide. 
 From his fair hall on Greta banks. 
 The Knight of 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, 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Though long before the civil fray, 
 In peaceful grave the lady lay, — 
 Philip of Mortham raised his band. 
 And march'd at Fairfax's command; 
 While Wycliffe, bound by many a train 
 Of kindred art with wily Vane, 
 Less prompt to brave the bloody field, 
 Made Barnard's battlements his shield, 
 Secured them with his Lunedale powers, 
 And for the Commons held the towers. 
 
 The lovely heir of Rokeby's Knight 
 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 
 For careless step and vacant eye; 
 Calming each anxious look and glance, 
 To give the meeting all to chance. 
 Or framing, as a fair excuse, 
 The book, the pencil, or the muse; 
 Something to give, to sing, to say. 
 Some modern tale, some ancient lay. 
 Then, while the long'd-for minutes last, — 
 Ah ! minutes quickly over-past ! 
 Recording each expression free. 
 Of kind or careless courtesy. 
 Each friendly look, each softer tone. 
 As food for fancy when alone. 
 All this is o'er — but still unseen, 
 Wilfrid may lurk in Eastwood green. 
 To watch Matilda's wonted round. 
 While springs his heart at every sound. 
 She comes! 'tis but a passing sight, 
 Yet serves to cheat his weary night ; 
 She comes not — He will wait the 
 
 hour. 
 When her lamp lightens in the tower; 
 'Tis something yet, if, as she past. 
 Her shade is o'er the lattice cast. 
 " What is my life, my hope? " he said; 
 " Alas ! a transitory shade." 
 
 Thus wore his life, though reason strove 
 For mastery in vain with love. 
 
 Forcing upon his thoughts the sum 
 Of present woe and ills to come. 
 While still he turn'd impatient ear 
 From Truth's intrusive voice severe. 
 Gentle, indifferent, and subdued. 
 In all but this, unmoved he view'd 
 Each outward change of ill and good : 
 But Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild. 
 Was Fancy's spoil'd 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, 
 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. 
 
 Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains. 
 Winning from Reason's hand the reins, 
 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 glow'd with promised 
 
 good; 
 Remind him of each wish enjoy'd, 
 How soon his hopes possession cloy'd ! 
 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. 
 While one augments its gaudy show. 
 More to enhance the loser's woe. 
 The victor sees his fairy gold, 
 Transform'd, when won, to drossy mold, 
 But still the vanquish'd mourns his 
 
 loss. 
 And rues, as gold, th»t glittering dross. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 KOKEBY. 
 
 More wouldst thou know — yon tower 
 
 survey, 
 Yon couch unpress'd since parting day, 
 Yon untrimm'd lamp, whose yellow gleam 
 Is mingling with the cold moonbeam, 
 And yon thin form ! — the hectic red 
 On his pale cheek unequal spread; 
 The head reclin'd, the loosen'd hair, 
 The limbs relaxed, the mournful air. — 
 See, he looks up; a woeful smile 
 Lightens his woe-worn cheek a while, — 
 'Tis Fancy wakes some idle thought, 
 To gild the ruin she has wrought; 
 For, like the bat of Indian brakes. 
 Her pinions fan the wound she makes. 
 And soothing thus the dreamer's pain. 
 She drinks his life-blood from the vein. 
 Now to the lattice turn his eyes, 
 \'ain hope ! to see the sun arise. 
 The moon with clouds is still o'ercast. 
 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: — 
 
 SONG. 
 To the Moon. 
 Hail to thy cold and clouded beam. 
 
 Pale pilgrim of the troubled sky ! 
 Hail, though the miststhat o'ertheestream 
 
 Lend to thy brow their sullen dye ! 
 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 
 Each little cloud that dimm'd thy brow 
 
 Did then an angel's beauty hide. 
 And of the shades I then coultl chide. 
 
 Still are the thoughts to memory dear, 
 For, while a softer strain I tried, 
 
 They hid my blush, and calm'd my fear. 
 
 Then did I swear thy ray serene 
 
 Was form'd to light some lonely dell. 
 
 By two fond lovers only seen. 
 Reflected from the crystal well. 
 
 Or sleeping on the mossy cell, 
 
 Or quivering on the lattice bright, 
 
 Or glancing on their couch, to tell 
 How swiftly wanes the summer night ! 
 
 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 address'd? 
 Thou hast no cares to chase thy rest. 
 Mortham has fall'n on Marston-moor; 
 Bertram brings warrant to secure 
 His treasures, bought by spoil and blood. 
 For the State's use and public good. 
 The 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 ! " 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Far in the chamlieis of the west. 
 The gale has sigh'd itself to rest; 
 The moon was cloudless now and clear, 
 But pale and soon to disappear. 
 The thin gray clouds wax 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. 
 But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless 
 
 swell. 
 And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell, 
 And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar, 
 And Arkingarth, lay dark afar, 
 While as a livelier twilight falls. 
 Emerge proud Barnard's banner'd walls, 
 High crown'd he sits, in dawning pale, 
 The sovereign of the lovely vale. 
 
 What prospects, from his watch-tower 
 
 high, 
 Gleam gradual on the warder's eye ! — 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Far sweeping to the east, he sees 
 Down his deep woods the course of 
 
 Tees/i 
 And tracks his wanderings by the steam 
 Of summer vapors from the stream; 
 And ere he paced his destined hour 
 By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower, 
 These silver mists shall melt away, 
 And dew the woods with glittering spray. 
 Then in broad lustre shall be shown 
 That mighty trench of living stone, 
 And each huge trunk that, from the side, 
 Reclines him o'er the darksome tide, 
 Where Tees, full many a fathom low. 
 Wears with his rage no common foe; 
 For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here. 
 Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career, 
 Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way, 
 O'er solid sheets of marble gray. 
 
 Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright, 
 
 Shall rush upon the ravish'd sight; 
 
 But many a tributary stream 
 
 Each from his own dark dell shall gleam; 
 
 Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers. 
 
 Salutes proud Raby'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. 
 
 And last and least, but loveliest still, 
 
 Romantic Deepdale's slender rill. 
 
 Who in that dim-wood glen hath stray'd. 
 
 Yet long'd for Roslin's magic glade? 
 
 Who, wandering there, hath sought to 
 
 change. 
 Even for that vale so stern and strange, 
 Where Cartland's Crags,* fantastic rent, 
 Through her green copse like spires are 
 
 sent? 
 Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine, 
 Thy scenes and story to combine ! 
 Thou bid'st him, who by Roslin strays. 
 List to the deeds of other days; 
 Mid Cartland's Crags thou show'st the 
 
 cave, 
 The refuge of thy champion brave; 
 
 * Near Lanark : celebrated as among the favor- 
 ite retreats of Sir William Wallace. 
 
 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. 
 
 Bertram awaited not the sight 
 
 Which sun-rise shows from Barnard's 
 
 height. 
 But from the towers, preventing day. 
 With Wilfrid took his early way. 
 While misty dawn, and moonbeam pale, 
 Still mingled in the silent dale. 
 By Barnard's bridge of stately stone. 
 The southern bank of Tees they won; 
 Their winding path then eastward cast. 
 And Egliston's gray ruins pass'd;^' 
 Each on his own deep visions bent. 
 Silent and sad they onward went. 
 Well may you think that Bertram's mood, 
 To Wilfrid savage seem'd and rude; 
 Well may you think bold Risingham 
 Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame; 
 And small the intercourse, I ween. 
 Such uncongenial souls between. 
 
 Stern Bertram shunn'd the nearer way, 
 Through Rokeby's park and chase that lay. 
 And, skirting high the valley's ridge. 
 They cross'd by Greta's ancient l^ridge. 
 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 renown'd. 
 Whose votive shrine asserts their claim. 
 Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, 
 " Stern sons of war !" sad Wilfrid sigh'd, 
 " Behold the boast of Roman pride ! 
 What now of all your toils .arc known? 
 A grassy trench, a broken stone ! " — 
 This to himself; for moral strain 
 To Bertram were address'd in vain. 
 
 Of different mood, a deeper sigh 
 Awoke, when Rokeby's turrets high'* 
 
Canto II. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 «?3 
 
 Were northward in the dawning seen 
 To rear them o'er the thicket green. 
 O then, the' Spenser's self had stray'd 
 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 scatter 'd ranks. 
 Save where, advanced before the rest, 
 On knoll or hillock rears his crest, 
 Lonely and huge, the giant Oak, 
 As champions, when their band is broke. 
 Stand forth to guard the rearward post, 
 The bulwark of the scatter'd host-^ 
 All this, and more, might Spenser say, 
 Yet waste in vain his magic lay. 
 While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower. 
 Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower. 
 
 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 seem'd some mountain, rent and riven, 
 A channel for the stream had given. 
 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. 
 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; 
 And there, all splinter'd and uneven, 
 The shiver'd rocks ascend to heaven; 
 Oft, too, the ivy swath'd their breast. 
 And wreathed its garland round their 
 
 crest. 
 Or from the spires bade loosely flare 
 Its tendrils in the middle air. 
 As pennons wont to wave of old 
 O'er the high feast of Baron bold. 
 When revell'd loud the feudal rout. 
 And the arch'd halls return'd their shout; 
 Such and more wild is Greta's roar. 
 And such the echoes from her shore. 
 And so the ivied banner's gleam. 
 Waved wildly o'er the brawling streain. 
 
 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. 
 
 Where hermit wandering from his cell. 
 
 His rosary might love to tell. 
 
 But here, 'twixt rock and river, grew 
 
 A dismal grove of sable yew. 
 
 With whose sad tints were mingled seen 
 
 The blighted fir's sepulchral green. 
 
 Seem'd that the trees their shadows cast. 
 
 The earth that nourish'd them to blast; 
 
 For never knew that swarthy grove 
 
 The verdant hue that fairies love; 
 
 Nor wilding green, nor woodland flower. 
 
 Arose within its baleful bower : 
 
 The dank and sable earth receives 
 
 Its only carpet from the leaves. 
 
 That, from the withering branches cast, 
 
 Bcstrew'd the ground with every blast. 
 
 Though now the sun was o'er the hill. 
 
 In this dark spot 'twas twilight still. 
 
 Save that on Greta's farther side 
 
 Some straggling beams through copse - 
 
 wood glide; 
 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. 
 
214 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 The lated peasant shunn'd the dell; 
 For Superstition wont to tell 
 Of many a grisly sound and sight, 
 Scaring its path at dead of night. 
 When Christmas logs blaze high and 
 
 wide, 
 Such wonders speed the festal tide; 
 While Curiosity and Fear, 
 Pleasure and Pain, sit crouching near, 
 Till childhood's cheek no longer glows. 
 And village maidens lose the rose. 
 The thrilling interest rises higher. 
 The circle closes nigh and nigher, 
 And shuddering glance is cast behind. 
 As louder moans the wintry wind. 
 Believe, that fitting scene was laid 
 For such wild tales in Mortham glade; 
 For who had seen, on Greta's side. 
 By that dim light fierce Bertram stride. 
 In such a spot, at such an hour, — 
 If touch'd by Superstition's power. 
 Might well have deem'd that Hell had 
 
 given 
 A murderer's ghost to upper heaven, 
 While Wilfrid's form had seem'd to glide 
 Like his pale victim by his side. 
 
 Nor think to village swains alone 
 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 barr'd. 
 Have quaked, like aspen leaves in May, 
 Beneath its universal sway. 
 Bertram had listed many a tale 
 Of wonder in his native dale. 
 That in his secret soul retain'd 
 The credence they in childhood gain'd: 
 Nor less his wild adventurous youth 
 Believed in every legend's truth; 
 Learn'd when, beneath the tropic gale, 
 Full swell'd the vessel's steady sail. 
 And the broad Indian moon her light 
 Pour'd on the watch of middle night. 
 When seamen love to hear and tell 
 Of portent, prodigy, and spell : 
 What gales are sold on Lapland's shore. 
 How 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 lower'd is every topsail-yard. 
 And canvas, wove in earthly looms. 
 No more to brave the storm presumes ! 
 Then mid the war of sea and sky, 
 Top and top-gallant hoisted high, 
 Full spread and crowded every sail. 
 The Demon Frigate braves the gale;i* 
 And well the doom'd 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 
 Repaid it home in deeds of blood. 
 Strange nightly sounds of woe and fear 
 Appall'd the listening Buccaneer, 
 Whose Ijght-arm'd shallop anchor'd 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 road-stead, and with gale 
 Of early morning lifts the sail. 
 To give, in thirst of blood and prey, 
 A legend for another bay. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Thus, as a man, a youth, a child, 
 Train'd in the mystic and the wild, 
 With this on Bertram's soul at times 
 Rush'd a dark feeling of his crimes; 
 Such to his trouliled soul their form. 
 As the pale Death-ship to the storm. 
 And such their omen dim and dread. 
 As shrieks and voices of the dead. — 
 That pang, whose transitory force 
 Hover'd 'twixt horror and remorse; 
 That pang, perchance, his bosom press'd. 
 As Wilfrid sudden he address'd : — 
 "Wilfrid, this glen is never trod 
 Until the sun rides high abroad; 
 Yet twice have I beheld to-day 
 A Form, that seem'd to dog our way; 
 Twice from my glance it seem'd to flee, 
 And shroud itself by cliff or tree. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 215 
 
 How think 'st thou? — Is our path waylaid? 
 Or hath thy sire my trust betrayed? 
 If so " — Ere, starting from his dream, 
 That turn'd 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. 
 
 As bursts the levin, in his wrath 
 
 He shot him down the sounding path; 
 
 Rock, wood, and stream, rang wildly out, 
 
 To his loud step and savage shout. 
 
 Seems that the object of his race 
 
 Hath scaled the cliffs; his frantic chase 
 
 Sidelong he turns, and now 'tis bent 
 
 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. 
 
 Views from beneath his dreadful way : 
 
 Now to the oak's warp'd roots he clings. 
 
 Now trusts his weight to ivy strings; 
 
 Now, like the wild-goat, must he dare 
 
 An unsupported leap in air; 
 
 Hid in the shrubby rain-course now. 
 
 You mark him by tlie crashing bough, 
 
 And by his corslet's sullen clank. 
 
 And by the stones spurn'd from the bank. 
 
 And by the hawk scared from her nest. 
 
 And ravens croaking o'er their guest. 
 
 Who deem his for.feit limbs shall pay 
 
 The tribute of his bold essay. 
 
 See ! he emerges — desperate now 
 All farther course — Yon beetling brow 
 In cragged nakedness sublime, 
 What heart or foot shall dare to climb? 
 It bears no tendril for his clasp. 
 Presents no angle for his grasp : 
 Sole stay his foot may rest upon, 
 Is yon earth-bedded jetting stone. 
 Balanced on such precarious prop. 
 He strains his grasp to reach the top. 
 Just as the dangerous stretch he makes. 
 By Heaven, his faithless footstool shakes ! 
 Beneath his tottering bulk it bends. 
 It sways ... it loosens ... it descends ! 
 And downward holds its headlong way. 
 Crashing o'er rock and copsewood spray. 
 
 Loud thunders shake the echoing dell ! — 
 
 Fell it alone ? — alone it fell. 
 
 Just on the very verge of fate. 
 
 The hardy Bertram's falling weight 
 
 He trusted to his sinewy hands. 
 
 And on the top unharm'd he stands ! — ' 
 
 Wilfrid a safer path pursued; 
 At intervals where, roughly hew'd. 
 Rude steps ascending from the dell 
 Render'd the cliffs accessible. 
 By circuit slow he thus attain'd 
 The height that Risingham had gain'd 
 And when he issued from the wood. 
 Before the gate of Mortham stood.^o 
 'Twas 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 
 RolI'd her bright waves in rosy glow. 
 All blushing to her bridal bed. 
 Like some shy maid in convent bred; 
 While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay. 
 Sing forth her nuptial roundelay. 
 
 'Twas sweetly sung that roundelay; 
 That summer morn shone bright and 
 
 gay; 
 But morning beam, and wild-bird's call, 
 Awaked not Mortham's silent hall. 
 No porter, by the low-brow'd gate. 
 Took in the wonted niche his seat; 
 To the paved court no peasant drew; 
 Waked to their toil no menial crew; 
 The maiden's carol was not heard, 
 As to her morning task she fared : 
 In the void offices around. 
 Rung not a hoof, nor bay'd a hound; 
 Nor eager steed, with shrilling neigh, 
 Accused the lagging groom's delay; 
 Untrimm'd, undress'd, neglected now, 
 Was alley 'd walk and orchard bough; 
 All spoke the master's absent care, 
 All spoke neglect and disrepair. 
 South of the gate an arrow flight. 
 Two mighty elms their limljs unite, 
 As if a canopy to spread 
 O'er the lone dwelling of the dead; 
 
2l6 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 For their huge boughs in arches bent 
 Above a massive monument, 
 Carv'd o'er in ancient Gothic wise, 
 With many a scutcheon and device; 
 There, spent with toil and sunk in gloom, 
 Bertram stood pondering by the tomb. 
 
 " It vanisli'd, like a flitting ghost! 
 Behind tliistomb," he said, " 'twas lost — 
 This tomb, where oft I deem'd lies 
 
 stored 
 Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard. 
 'Tis true, the aged servants said 
 Here his lamented wife is laid; 
 But weightier reasons may be guess'd 
 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 sail'd with Morgan's crew. 
 Who oft, mid our carousals, spake 
 Of Raleigh, Frobisher, and Drake; 
 Adventurous hearts ! who barter'd bold. 
 Their English steel for Spanish gold. 
 Trust not, would his experience say. 
 Captain or comrade with your prey; 
 But seek some charnel, when, at full. 
 The moon gilds skeleton and skull : 
 There dig, and tomb your precious heap. 
 And bid the dead your treasure keep; "" 
 Sure stewards they, if fitting spell 
 Their service to the task compel. 
 Lacks there such charnel ? — kill a slave, 
 Or prisoner, on the treasure-grave; 
 And bid his discontented ghost 
 Stalk nightly on his lonely post. — 
 Such was his tale. Its truth, I ween, 
 Is in my morning vision seen." 
 
 Wilfrid, who scorn'd the legend wild. 
 In mingled mirth and pity smiled. 
 Much marvelling that a breast so bold 
 In such fond tale l)elie{ should hold; 
 But yet of Bertram sought to know 
 The apparition's form and show. — 
 The power within the guilty breast. 
 Oft vanquish'd, never quite suppress'd, 
 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,22 — 
 
 That power in Bertram's breast awoke ; 
 Scarce conscious he was heard, he 
 
 spoke:— 
 " 'Twas Mortham's form, from foot to 
 
 head ! 
 His morion, with the plume of red. 
 His shape, his mien — 'twas Mortham, 
 
 right 
 As when I slew him in the fight." — 
 ' ' Thou slay him ? — thou ? " — With con- 
 scious start 
 He heard, then mann'd his haughty heart : 
 " I slew him? — I ! — I had forgot 
 Thou, stripling, knew'st not of the plot. 
 But it is spoken — nor will I 
 Deed done, or spoken word, deny. 
 I slew him; I ! for thankless pride; 
 'Twas by this hand that Mortham died." 
 
 Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart, 
 Averse to every active part. 
 But most averse to martial broil. 
 From danger shrunk , and turn 'd from toil ; 
 Yet the meek lover of the lyre 
 Nursed one brave spark of noble fire, 
 Against injustice, fraud, or wrong. 
 His blood beat high, his hand wax'd 
 
 strong. 
 Not his the nerves that could sustain. 
 Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain; 
 But, when that spark blazed forth to flame, 
 He rose superior to his frame. 
 And now it came, that, generous mood : 
 And, in full current of his blood. 
 On Bertram he laid desperate hand, 
 Placed firm his foot, and drew his brand. 
 "Should every fiend, to whom thou'rt 
 
 sold. 
 Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold. 
 Arouse there, ho ! take spear and sword ! 
 Attach the murderer of your Lord I " 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A moment, fix'd as by a spell. 
 Stood Bertram. — It seem'd miracle, 
 That one so feeble, soft, and tame 
 Set grasp on warlike Risingham. 
 But when he felt a feeble stroke. 
 The fiend within the ruffian woke ! 
 To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's hand. 
 To dash him headk)ng on the sand. 
 Was but one moment's work, — one moie 
 
Canto II. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 zyi 
 
 Had drench 'd the blade in Wilfrid's gore; 
 But, in the instant it arose, 
 To end his life, his love, his woes, 
 A warlike form, that niark'd the scene, 
 Presents his rapier sheathed Ixitween, 
 I'arries the fast-descending blow, 
 And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe; 
 Nor then unscabbarded his brand. 
 Hut, sternly poirrting with his hand. 
 With monarch's voice forbade the fight, 
 And motion'd Bertram from his sight. 
 " Go, and repent," he said, " while time 
 Is given thee; add not crime to crime." 
 
 Mute and imcertain and amazed. 
 
 As on a vision Bertram gazed ! 
 
 'Twas Mortham's bearing, bold and 
 
 high. 
 His sinewy frame, his falcon eye. 
 His look and accent of command. 
 The martial gesture of his hand, 
 His stately form, spare-built and tall, 
 His war-bleach'd locks — 'twas Mor- 
 
 tham all. 
 Through Bertram's dizzy brain career 
 A thousand thoughts, and all of fear; 
 His wavering faith received not quite 
 The form he saw as Mortham's sprite. 
 But more he fear'd 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. 
 Had march'd and fought beneath his 
 
 sway, 
 Tamed him — and, with reverted face. 
 Backwards he bore his sullen pace; 
 Oft stopp'd, and oft on Mortham stared, 
 And dark as rated mastiff glared; 
 But when the tramp of steeds was heard, 
 Plunged in the glen, and disappear'd; — 
 Nor longer there the warrior stood, 
 Retiring eastward through the wood; 
 But first to Wilfrid warning gives, 
 " Tell thou to none that Mortham lives." 
 
 Still rung these words in Wilfrid's ear, 
 Hinting he knew not what of fear; 
 When nearer came the coursers' tread, 
 
 And, with his father at their head. 
 Of horsemen arm'd a gallant power 
 Rein'd up their steeds before the tower. 
 "Whence these pale looks, my son?" 
 
 he said: 
 " Where's Bertram ? — Why that naked 
 
 blade?" 
 Wilfrid ambiguously replied, 
 (For Mortham's charge his honor tied,) 
 " Bertram is gone — the villain's word 
 Avouch 'd him murderer of his lord ! 
 Even now we fought — but, when your 
 
 tread 
 Announced you nigh, the felon fled." 
 In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear 
 A guilty hope, a guilty fear; 
 On his pale brow the dewdrop broke. 
 And his lip quiver'd as he spoke: — 
 
 " A murderer ! — Philip Mortham died 
 Amid the battle's wildest tide. 
 Wilfrid ! or Bertram raves, or you ! 
 Yet, grant such strange confession true, 
 Pursuit were vain — let him fly 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 follow'd now in Wycliffe's train, 
 An answer for his lord to gain. 
 His steed, whose arch'd and sable neck 
 A hundred wreaths of foam bedeck, 
 Chafed not against the curb more high 
 Than he at Oswald's cold reply: 
 He bit his lip, implored his saint, 
 (His the old faith) — then burst re- 
 straint : — 
 
 XXV. 
 
 "Yes ! I beheld his bloody fall 
 By that base traitor's dastard ball. 
 Just when I thought to measure sword, — 
 Presumptuous hope ! — with Mortham's 
 
 lord. 
 And shall the murderer 'scape, who slew 
 His leader, generous, brave, and true ? 
 Escape, while on the dew you trace 
 The marks of his gigantic pace? 
 No ! ere the sun that dew shall dry. 
 False Risingham shall yield or die. — 
 Ring out the castle 'larum bell I 
 Arouse the peasants with the knell ! 
 
2l8 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 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. 
 Redmond his spurs from buskins drew. 
 His mantle from his shoulders threw. 
 His pistols in his belt he placed. 
 The green-wood gain'd, 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. 
 Whoever finds him, shoot him dead! 
 Five hundred nobles for his head ! " 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The horsemen gallop'd, to make good 
 Each path that issued from the wood. 
 Loud from the thickets rung the shout 
 Of 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? 
 He, bound by honor, law, and faith. 
 Avenger of his kinsman's death? — 
 Leaning against the elmin tree. 
 With drooping head and slacken'd knee. 
 And clenched teeth, and close-clasp'd 
 
 hands. 
 In agony of soul he stands ! 
 His downcast eye on earth is bent. 
 His soul to every sound is lent; 
 For in each shout that cleaves the air, 
 May ring discovery and despair. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 What 'vail'd it him, that brightly play'd 
 The morning sun on Mortham's glade? 
 All seems in giddy round to ride. 
 Like objects on a stormy tide. 
 
 Seen eddying by the moonlight dim, 
 Imperfectly to sink and swim. 
 What 'vail'd it, that the fair domain. 
 Its battled mansion, hill, and plain. 
 On which the sun so brightly shone. 
 Envied so long, was now his own ? 
 The lowest dungeon, in that hour. 
 Of Brackenbury's dismal tower,-^ 
 Had been his choice, could such a 
 
 doom 
 Have open'd Mortham's bloody tomb ! 
 Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear 
 To each surmise of hope or fear, 
 Murmur'd among the rustics round. 
 Who gather'd at the 'larum sound; 
 He dared not turn his head away. 
 E'en to look up to heaven to pray. 
 Or call on hell in bitter mood, 
 For one sharp death-shot from the wood ! 
 
 At length, o'erpast that dreadful space. 
 Back straggling came the scatter'd chase : 
 Jaded and weary, horse and man, 
 Return'd 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. — 
 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: — 
 
 " 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. — 
 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; 
 Ills she avoids, or, urged and pray'd. 
 Unwilling takes his proffer'd aid. 
 While conscious passion plainly speaks 
 In downcast look and blushing cheeks. 
 
i'avto III. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 219 
 
 Whene'er he sings, will she glide nigh. 
 And all her soul is in her eye; 
 Vet 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 couHsels of thy sire aiid friend. 
 
 ' ' Scarce wert thou gone, when peep of 
 
 light 
 IJrought genuine news of Marston's fight. 
 I^rave Cromwell turn'd the doubtful tide, 
 And conquest bless'd the rightful side; 
 Three thousand cavaliers lie dead, 
 Rupert and that bold Marquis fled; 
 Xobles and knights, so proud of late. 
 Must fine for freedom and estate. 
 Of these, committed to my charge. 
 Is Rokeby, prisoner at large; 
 Redmond, his page, arrived to say 
 lie reaches Barnard's towers to-day. 
 Right heavy shall his ransom be, 
 Unless that maid compound with thee ! ^ 
 ( io to her now — be bold of cheer. 
 While her soul floats 'twixt hope and 
 
 fear; 
 It is the very change of tide. 
 When best the female heart is tried — 
 Pride, prejudice, and modesty 
 Are in the current swept to sea; 
 And the bold swain, who plies his oar. 
 May lightly row his bark to shore." 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 I. 
 
 The hunting trilx;s of air and earth 
 Respect the brethren of their birth; 
 Nature, who loves the claim of kind. 
 Less cruel chase to each assign'd. 
 The falcon, poised on soaring wing. 
 Watches the wild-duck by the spring; 
 The slow-hound wakes the fox's lair; 
 The greyhound presses on the hare; 
 The eagle 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 : 
 Plying war's desultory trade. 
 Incursion, flight, and ambuscade. 
 Since Nimrod, Cush's mighty son. 
 At first the bloody game begun. 
 
 The Indian, prowling for his prey. 
 Who hears the settlers track his way,^ 
 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 thro' rushes 
 
 glide. 
 Now covering with the wither'd leaves 
 The foot-prints that the dew receives: 
 He, skill'd in every sylvan guile. 
 Knows not, nor tries such various wile, 
 As Risingham, when on the wind 
 Arose the loud pursuit behind. 
 In Redesdale his youth had heard 
 Each art her wily dalesmen dared. 
 When Rooken-edge, and Redswair high, 
 To bugle rung and blood-hound's cry,* 
 Announcing Jedwood-axe and spear, 
 And Lid'sdale riders in the rear; 
 And well his venturous life had proved 
 The lessons that his childhood loved. 
 
 Oft had he shown in climes afar. 
 Each attribute of roving war; 
 The sharpen'd ear, the piercing eye. 
 The quick resolve in danger nigh; 
 The speed, that in the flight or chase, 
 Outstripp'd the Charib's rapid race; 
 The steady brain, the sinewy limb. 
 To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim; 
 The iron frame inured to bear 
 Each dire inclemency of air, 
 Nor less confirm'd to undergo 
 Fatigue's faint chill, and famine's throe. 
 These arts he proved, his life to save. 
 In peril oft by land and wave. 
 On Arawaca's desert shore. 
 Or where La Plata's billows roar, 
 When oft the sons of vengeful Spain 
 Track'd the marauder's steps in vain 
 These arts in Indian warfare tried. 
 Must save him now by Greta's side. 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Twas then, in hour of utmost need, 
 He proved his courage, art, and speed. 
 Now slow he stalk'd with stealthy 
 
 pace. 
 Now started forth in rapid race. 
 Oft doubling back in mazy train. 
 To blind the trace the dews retain; 
 Now clomb the rocks projecting high. 
 To bailie the pursuer's eye; 
 Now sought the stream, whose brawling 
 
 sound 
 The echo of his footsteps drown'd. 
 But if the forest verge he nears, 
 There trample steeds, and glimmer spears ; 
 If deeper down the copse he drew, 
 He heard the rangers' loud halloo. 
 Beating each cover while they came. 
 As if to start the sylvan game. 
 'Twas then — like tiger close beset 
 At every pass with toil and net, 
 'Counter'd, where'er he turns his glare. 
 By clashing arms and torches' flare. 
 Who meditates, with furious bound, 
 To burst on hunter, horse, and hound, — 
 'Twas then that Bertram's soul arose. 
 Prompting to rush upon his foes : 
 But as that crouching tiger, cow'd 
 By brandish'd steel and shouting crowd. 
 Retreats beneath the jungle's shroud, 
 Bertram suspends his purpose stern. 
 And couches in the brake and fern. 
 Hiding his face, lest foemen spy 
 The sparkle of his swarthy eye.'^" 
 
 Then Bertram might the bearing trace 
 Of the bold youth who led the chase; 
 Who paused to list for every sound, 
 Climb every height to look around. 
 Then rushing on with naked sword, 
 Each dingle's bosky depths explored. 
 'Twas Redmond — by the azure eye ; 
 'Twas Redmond — by the locks that fly 
 Disorder'd from his glowing cheek; 
 Mien, face, and form, young Redmond 
 
 speak. 
 A form more active, light, and strong. 
 Ne'er shot the ranks of war along; 
 The modest, yet the manly mien, 
 Might grace the court of maiden queen. 
 A face more fair you well might fintl, 
 For Redmond's knew the sun and wind, 
 
 Nor boasted, from their tinge when free. 
 The charm of regularity; 
 But every feature had the power 
 To aid the expression of the hour: 
 Whether gay wit, and humor sly, 
 Danced laughing in his light-blue eye; 
 Or bended brow, and glance of fire. 
 And kindling cheek, spoke Erin's ire; 
 Or soft and sadden'd glances show 
 Her ready sympathy with woe; 
 Or in that wayward mood of mind, 
 When various feelings are combined. 
 When joy and sorrow mingle near. 
 And hope's bright wings are check 'd by 
 
 fear, 
 And rising doubts keep transport down, 
 And anger lends a short-lived frown; 
 In that strange mood which maids approve 
 Even when they dare not call it love; 
 With every change his features play'd. 
 As aspens show the light and shade. 
 
 Well Risingham young Redmond knew: 
 An<l much he marvell'd that the crew. 
 Roused to revenge bold Morlham dead. 
 Were by that Morthnm's foeman led; 
 For never fi-lt his soul the woe. 
 That wails a generous foeman low, 
 Far less that sense of justice strong, 
 That wreaks a generous foeman'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 couch'd like hunted deer, 
 The very boughs his steps displace. 
 Rustled against the ruffian's face, 
 Who, desperate, twice prepared to start. 
 And plunge his dagger in his heart ! 
 But Redmond turn'd a different way. 
 And the bent boughs resumeil their sway, 
 And Bertram held it wise, unseen, 
 Deejier to plunge in coppice green. 
 Thus, circled in his coil, the snake. 
 When roving hunters beat the brake. 
 Watches witifi red and glistening eye, 
 Prepared, if heedless step draw nigh. 
 With forked tongue and venom'd 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 undisturb'd retreat to find. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 But Bertram, as he backward drew, 
 And heard the loud pursuit renew, 
 And Redmond's hollo on the wind, 
 Oft nuUter'd 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, — 
 Til at 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 lx)wer." 
 Eluded, now behind him die, 
 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. 
 
 He listen'd long with anxious heart. 
 Ear bent to hear, and foot to start, 
 And, while his stretch'd attention glows. 
 Refused his weary frame repose. 
 'Twas silence all — he laid him down. 
 Where purple heath profusely strown. 
 And ihroatwort, 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. 
 In yellow light her currents shone. 
 Matching in hue the favorite gem 
 Of Albin's mountain-diadem. 
 Then, tired to watch the current's play, 
 He turn'd his weary eyes away. 
 To where the bank opposing show'd 
 Its huge, square cliffs thro' shaggy wood. 
 One, prominent above the rest, 
 Rear'd to the sun his pale gray breast; 
 Around its broken summit grew 
 The hazel rude and sable yew; 
 .\ thousand varied lichens dyed 
 Its waste and weather-beaten side. 
 And round its rugged basis lay. 
 By time or thunder rent away, 
 Tragments, that, from ijs frontlet torn. 
 Were mantled now by verdant thorn. 
 
 Such was the scene's wild majesty, 
 That filled stern Bertram's gazing eye. 
 
 In sullen mood he lay reclined. 
 Revolving, in his stormy mind, 
 The felon deed, the fruitless guilt. 
 His patron's blood by treason spilt; 
 A crime,^ it seem'd, so dire and dread. 
 That it had power to wake the dead. 
 Then, pondering. on his life Vjetray'd 
 By Oswald's art to Redmond's blade, 
 In treacherous purpose to withhold, 
 So seem'd it, Mortham's promised gold, 
 A deep and full revenge he vow'd 
 On Redmond, forward, fierce, and proud; 
 Revenge on Wilfrid — on his sire 
 Redoubled vengeance, swift and dire ! — 
 If, in such a mood (as legends say. 
 And well believed that simple day). 
 The Enemy of man has power 
 To profit by the evil hour. 
 Here stood a wretch, prepared to change 
 His soul's redemption for revenge ! ** 
 But though his vows, with such a fire 
 Of earnest and intense desire 
 For vengeance dark and fell, were made. 
 As well might reach hell's lowest shade. 
 No deeper clouds the grove embrown'd. 
 No nether thunders shook the ground; — 
 The demon knew his vassal's heart. 
 And spared temptation's needless art. 
 
 Oft, mingled with the direful theme. 
 
 Came Mortham's form — Was it a dream ? 
 
 Or had he seen, in vision true, 
 
 That very Mortham whom he slew? 
 
 Or had in living flesh appear'd 
 
 The only man on earth he fear'd? — 
 
 To try the mystic cause intent, 
 
 His eyes, that on the cliff were Ix^nt, 
 
 'Counter'd at once a dazzling glance, 
 
 Like sunbeam flash'd from sword or 
 
 lance. 
 At once he started as for fight, 
 But not a foeman was in sight; 
 He heard the cushat's murmur hoarse. 
 He heard the river's sounding course; 
 The solitary woodlands lay. 
 As slumbering in the summer ray. 
 He gazed, like lion roused, around. 
 Then sunk again upon the ground. 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 Ci¥!<TO III. 
 
 'Twas but, he thought, some fitful beam, 
 Glanced sudden from the sparkling 
 
 stream; 
 Then plunged him from his gloomy train 
 Of ill-connected thoughts again, 
 Until a voice behind him cried: — 
 " Bertram! well met on Greta side." 
 
 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 
 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 lx;tter game 
 Awaits us both, if thou'rt the same 
 Unscrupulous, bold Risingham, 
 Who watch'd with me in midnight dark. 
 To snatch a deer from Rokeby-park. 
 How think'st thou? " — " Speak thy pur- 
 pose out; 
 \ love not mystery or doubt." — 
 
 XII. 
 "Then, list. — Not far there lurk a crew 
 Of trusty comrades stanch and true, 
 Glean'd from both factions — Round- 
 heads freed 
 From cant of sermon and of creed; 
 And Cavaliers, whose souls, like mine. 
 Spurn at the bonds of discipline. 
 Wiser, we judge, by dale and 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 way-laid. 
 Thy head at price — so say our spies. 
 Who range the valley in disguise. 
 
 Join then with us: — tho' wild debate 
 And wrangling rend our infant state, 
 Each to an equal loth to bow. 
 Will yield to chief renown'd as thou." — 
 
 " Even now," thought Bertram, passion- 
 
 stirr'd, 
 " I called on hell, and hell has heard ! 
 What lack I, vengeance to command, 
 But of stanch comrades such a band? 
 This Denzil, vow'd to every evil, 
 Might read a lesson to the devil. 
 Well, l>e 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 mutter'd, " It is best make sure; 
 Guy Denzil's faith was never pure." 
 He follow'd down the steep descent, 
 Then through the Greta's streams they 
 
 went; 
 And, when they reach'd the farther shore. 
 They stood the lonely cliff before. 
 
 With wonder Bertram heard within 
 
 The flinty rock a murmur'd din; 
 
 But when Guy puU'd the wilding spray. 
 
 And brambles, from its base away, 
 
 He saw, appearing to the air, 
 
 A little entrance, low and square. 
 
 Like opening cell of hermit lone. 
 
 Dark, winding through the living stone. 
 
 Here enter'd Denzil, Bertram here; 
 
 And loud and louder on their car. 
 
 As from the bowels of the earth, 
 
 Resounded shouts of boisterous mirth. 
 
 Of old, the cavern strait and rude. 
 
 In slaty rock the peasant hew'd; 
 
 .A^nd Brignall's woods, andScargill's wave, 
 
 E'en now, o'er many a sister cave,^ 
 
 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. — 
 
Canto III. 
 
 SOKES Y. 
 
 223 
 
 There Guilt his anxious revel kept; 
 There, on his sordid pallet, slept 
 Guilt-born Excess, the goblet drain'd 
 Still in his slumbering grasp retain'd; 
 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 show'd, amid the crew, 
 The Master-Fiend that Milton drew. 
 
 Hark ! the loud revel wakes again. 
 To greet the leader of the train. 
 Behold the group by the pale lamp. 
 That struggles with the earthy damp. 
 By what strange features Vice hath known, 
 To single out and mark her own ! 
 Yet some there are, whose brows retain 
 Less deeply stamp'd her brand and stain. 
 See yon pale stripling ! when a boy, 
 A mother's pride, a father's joy ! 
 Now, 'gainst the vault's rude walls re- 
 clined. 
 An early image fills his mind: 
 The cottage, once his sire's, he sees, 
 Embower'd upon the banks of Tees; 
 He views sweet Winston's woodland 
 
 scene. 
 And shares the dance on Gainford-green. 
 A tear is springing — but the zest 
 Of some wild tale or brutal jest, 
 I lath to l(3ud laughter stirr'd the rest. 
 On him they call, the aptest mate 
 For jovial song and merry feat : 
 Fast flies his dream - — with dauntless 
 
 air 
 As one victorious o'er Despair, 
 He bids the ruby cup go round. 
 Till sense and sorrow both are drown 'd: 
 And soon, in merry wassail, he. 
 The life of all their revelry. 
 Peals his loud song ! — The muse has 
 
 found 
 Her blossoms on the wildest ground, 
 Mid noxious weeds at random strew'd. 
 Themselves all profitless and rude. — 
 With desperate merriment he sung. 
 The cavern to the chorus rung; 
 Yet mingled with his reckless glee 
 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, — 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 "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, 
 Thou first must guess what life lead we. 
 
 That dwell by dale and down? 
 And if thou canst that riddle read, 
 
 As read full well you may. 
 Then to the greenwood shall thou speed. 
 
 As blithe as Queen of May." — 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair. 
 And Greta woods are green; 
 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there. 
 Than reign our English queen. 
 
 " I read you, by your bugle-horn, 
 
 And by your palfrey good, 
 I read you for a ranger sworn. 
 
 To keep the king's greenwood." — 
 " A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 
 
 And 'tis at peep of light; 
 His blast is heard at merry morn, 
 
 And mine at dead of night." — 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair. 
 
 And Greta woods are gay; 
 I would I were with Edmund there. 
 
 To reign his Queen of May ! 
 
 " With burnish 'd brand and musketoon, 
 
 So gallantly you come, 
 I read you for a lx>ld Dragoon, 
 
 That lists the tuck of drum." — 
 
224 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 " 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 ! tho' Brignall banks be fair, 
 
 And Greta woods be gay. 
 Yet mickle must the maiden dare, 
 
 Would reign my Queen of May ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 
 
 A nameless death I'll 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 hanks are fresh and fair. 
 
 And Greta woods are green. 
 And you may gather garlands there. 
 
 Would grace a summer queen." 
 
 When Edmund ceased his simple song, 
 Was silence on the sullen throng, 
 Till waked some ruder mate their glee 
 With note of coarser minstrelsy. 
 But, far apart, in dark divan, 
 Denzil and Bertram many a plan 
 Of import foul and fierce design'd. 
 While still on Bertram's grasping mind 
 The wealth of murder'd Mortham hung; 
 Tho' half he fear'd 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 liold; 
 For, train'd in license of a court, 
 Religion's self was Denzil's sport; 
 Then judge in what contempt he held 
 The visionary tales of eld ! 
 His awe for Bertram scarce repress'd 
 The unbeliever's sneering jest. 
 *' 'Twcre hard," he said, "for sage or seer 
 To spell the subject of your fear; 
 Nor do I boast the art renown'd, 
 Vision and omen to expound. 
 
 Yet, f.aith, if I must needs afford 
 To spectre watching treasured hoard, 
 As bandog keeps his master's roof. 
 Bidding the plunderer stand aloof, 
 This doubt remains — thy goblin gaunt 
 Hath chosen ill his ghostly haunt; 
 For why his guard on Mortham hold. 
 When Rokeby castle hath the gold 
 Thy patron won on Indian soil. 
 By stealth, by piracy, and spoil? " 
 
 At this he paused — for angry shame 
 Lower'd on the brow of Risingham. 
 He blush'd to think that he should seem 
 Assertor of an airy dream, 
 And gave his wrath another theme. 
 " Denzil," he says, "tho' lowly laid, 
 Wrong not the memory of the dead; 
 For, while he lived, at Mortham's look 
 Thy very soul, Guy Denzil, shook ! 
 And when he tax'd thy breach of word 
 To yon fair Rose of Allenford, 
 I saw thee crouch like chasten'd hound. 
 Whose back the huntsman's lash hath 
 
 found. 
 Nor dare to call his foreign wealth 
 The spoil of piracy or stealth; 
 He won it bravely with his brand, 
 When Spain waged warfare with our 
 
 land.^i 
 Mark, too — I brook no idle jeer. 
 Nor couple Bertram's name with fear; 
 Mine is but half the demon's lot. 
 For I believe, but tremble not. — 
 Enough of this. — Say, why this hoard 
 Thou deem'st at Rokeby castle stored; 
 Or think'st that Mortham would bestow 
 His treasure with his faction's foe? " 
 
 Soon quench'd was Denzil's ill-timed 
 
 mirth; 
 Rather he would have seen the earth 
 Give to ten thousand spectres birth, 
 Than venture to awake to flame 
 The deadly wrath of Risingham. 
 Submiss he answer'd: — " Mortham's 
 
 mind, 
 Thou know'st, to joy was ill inclined. 
 In youth, 'tis said, a gallant free, 
 A lusty reveller was he; 
 But since return'd from over sea, 
 
Canto III. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 225 
 
 A sullen and a silent mood 
 
 Hath numb'd the current of his blood. 
 
 Hence he refused each kindly call 
 
 To Rokeby's hospitable hall, 
 
 And our stout knight, at dawn of morn 
 
 Who loved to hear the bugle horn, 
 
 Nor less, when eve his oaks embrown'd, 
 
 To see the ruddy cup go round, 
 
 Took umbrage that a friend so near 
 
 Refused to share his chase and cheer; 
 
 Thus did the kindred barons jar. 
 
 Ere they divided in the war. 
 
 Yet, trust me, friend, Matilda fair 
 
 Of Mortham's wealth is destined heir." — 
 
 " Destined to her ! to yon slight maid ! 
 The prize my life had wellnigh paid, 
 When 'gainst Laroche, by Cayo's wave, 
 I fought, my patron's wealth to save ! — 
 Denzil, I knew him long, yet ne'er 
 Knew him that joyous cavalier. 
 Whom youthful friends and early fame 
 Call'd soul of gallantry and game. 
 A moody man, he sought our crew, 
 Desperate and dark, whom no one knew; 
 And rose, as men with us must rise. 
 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 e'er one wrinkled knot untwine; 
 111 was the omen if he smiled, 
 For 'twas in peril stern and wild; 
 But when he laugh'd, each luckless mate 
 Might hold our fortune desperate. 
 Foremost he fought in every broil, 
 Then scornful turn'd him from the spoil; 
 Nay, often strove to bar the way 
 Between his comrades and their prey; 
 I'reaching, 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, 
 'Twas I that wrangled for his right, 
 Redeem'd his portion of the prey 
 That greedier mates had torn away : 
 In field and storm thrice saved his life, 
 And once amid our comrades' strife.*^ — 
 
 Yes, I have loved thee ! Well have 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 look'd around, 
 And sternly stamp'd 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! " 
 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. 
 I know not if her features moved 
 Remembrance of the wife he loved; 
 But he would gaze upon her eye, 
 Till his mood soften'd to a sigh. 
 He, whom no living mortal sought 
 To question of his secret thought, 
 Now every thought and care confess'd 
 To his fair niece's faithful breast; 
 Nor was there aught of rich and rare. 
 In earth, in ocean, or in air, 
 But it must deck Matilda's hair. 
 Her love still bound him unto life; 
 But then awoke the civil strife. 
 And 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. 
 
 " Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train. 
 These iron-banded chests to gain; 
 Else, wherefore should he hover here. 
 Where many a peril waits him near. 
 For all his feats of war and peace, 
 For plunder'd boors, and harts of greese ?* 
 Since thro' the hamlets as he fared. 
 What hearth has Guy's marauding spared, 
 
 * Deer lu suasoB. 
 
226 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Or where the chase that hath not rung 
 With Denzil's bow, at midnight 
 
 strung ? " — 
 " I hold my wont — my rangers go, 
 Even now, to track a milk-white doe. 
 By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair, 
 In Greta wood she 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." 
 
 XXVI. 
 " 'Tis well ! — there's vengeance in the 
 
 thought : 
 Matilda is by Wilfrid sought; 
 And hot-brain'd Redmond, too, 'tis said. 
 Pays lover's homage to the maid. 
 Bertram she scorn'd. — If met by chance, 
 She turn'd from me her shuddering 
 
 glance, 
 Like a nice dame, 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, 
 F"oreboding evil. — She may rue 
 To find her prophecy fall true ! — >- 
 The war has weeded Rokeby's train. 
 Few followers in his halls remain : 
 If thy scheme miss, then, brief and bold. 
 We are enow to storm the hold; 
 Bear off the plunder, and the dame, 
 And leave the castle all in flame." — 
 
 " 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 — 
 The wicket-grate — the inner fosse." — 
 — "Fool ! if we l)lench 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. 
 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 unbarr'd : 
 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." — 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 
 
 A weary lot is thine ! 
 To pull the thorn thy brow to 
 braid, 
 And press the rue for wine ! 
 A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 
 
 A feather of the blue, 
 A doublet of the Lincoln green, — 
 No more of me you knew. 
 
 My love ! 
 No more of me you knew. 
 
 "This morn is merry June, I trow. 
 
 The rose is budding fain; 
 But she shall bloom in winter snow. 
 
 Ere we two meet again." 
 He turn'd his charger as he spake. 
 
 Upon the river shore, 
 He gave his bridle-reins a shake, 
 
 Said, "Adieu for evermore, 
 
 My love ! 
 And adieu for evermore." — ^ 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " What youth is this, your band among. 
 The best for minstrelsy and song? 
 In his wild notes seem aptly met 
 A strain of pleasure and regret." — 
 " Edmund of Winston is his name; 
 The hamlet sounded with the fame 
 Of early hopes his childhood gave, — 
 Now centr'd all in Brignall cave ! 
 
Canto III. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 i-rj 
 
 I watch him well — his wayward course 
 Shows oft a tincture of remorse. 
 Some early love-shaft grazed his heart. 
 And oft the scar will ache and smart. 
 Yet is he useful; — of the rest, 
 By fits, the darling and the jest, 
 His harp, his story, and his lay, 
 Oft aid the idle hours away. 
 When unemploy'd, each fiery mate 
 Is ripe for mutinous debate. 
 He tuned his strings e'en now — again 
 He wakes them with a blither strain." 
 
 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- 
 
 ing. 
 
 Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the 
 winning. 
 
 Come, read me my riddle ! come, hear- 
 ken 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 Arkin- 
 dale side. 
 
 The mere for his net, and the land for 
 his game, 
 
 The chase for the wild, and the park for 
 the tame, 
 
 Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of 
 the vale, 
 
 Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen- 
 a-Dale ! 
 
 Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight. 
 Though his spur l)e 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; 
 
 * The ruins of Ravensworth Castle stand in 
 the North Riding of Yorkshire, about three 
 miles from the town of Richmond, and adjoin- 
 ing to the waste called the P'orest of Arkin- 
 garth. It belonged originally to the powerful 
 family of Fitz-Hugh, from whom it passed to 
 the Lords Dacre of the South. 
 
 And the best of our nobles his bonnet 
 
 will vail. 
 Who at Rere-cross ^ on Stanmore meets 
 
 Allen-a-Dale. 
 
 Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; 
 The mother, she ask'd of his household 
 
 and home : 
 " Tho' the castle of Richmond stand fair 
 
 on the hill, 
 My hall," quoth bold Allen, " shows 
 
 gallanter still; 
 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its 
 
 crescent so pale. 
 And with all its bright spangles ! " said 
 
 Allen-a-Dale. 
 
 The father was steel, and the mother was 
 stone; 
 
 They lifted the latch, and they bade him 
 begone ; 
 
 But loud, on the morrow, their wail and 
 their cry : 
 
 He had laugh'd on the lass with his 
 bonny black eye. 
 
 And she fled to the forest to hear a love- 
 tale. 
 
 And the youth it was told by was Allen- 
 a-Dale ! 
 
 " Thou see' St that, whether sad or gay. 
 Love mingles ever in his lay. 
 But when his boyish wayward fit 
 Is o'er, he hath address and wit; 
 
 ! 'tis a brain of fire, can ape 
 Each dialect, each various shape." 
 "Nay, then, to aid thy project, Guy^ 
 Soft ! whocomeshere?" — "Mytrustyspy, 
 Speak, Hamlin ! hast thou lodged our 
 
 deer? " — ^ 
 " I have — but two fair stags are near. 
 
 1 watch'd her, as she slowly stray'd 
 From Egliston up Thorsgill glade; 
 But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side, 
 And then young Redmond, in his pride, 
 Shot down to meet them on their way : 
 Much, as it seem'd, was theirs to say 
 There's time to pitch lx)th toil and net, 
 Before their path he homeward set." 
 
 A hurried and a whisper'd speech 
 Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach; 
 Who, turning to the robber band. 
 Bade four, the bravest, take the brand. 
 
228 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 I. 
 When Denmark's raven soar 'd on high, 
 Triumphant thro' Northumbrian sky, 
 Till, hovering near, her fatal croak 
 Bade Rcged's Britons dread the yoke,** 
 And the broad shadow of her wing 
 Blacken'd each cataract and spring. 
 Where Tees in tumult leaves his source. 
 Thundering o'er Caldron and High- 
 Force : 
 Beneath the shade the Northmen came, 
 Fix'd on each vale a Runic name,"^ 
 Rear'd high their altar's rugged stone. 
 And gave their Gods the land they won. 
 Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine, 
 And one sweet brooklet's silver line. 
 And Woden's Croft did title gain 
 From the stern Father of the Slain; 
 But to the Monarch of the Mace, 
 That held in fight the foremost place, 
 To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse, 
 Near Strat forth high they paid their vows, 
 Rememlwr'd Thor's victorious fame. 
 And gave the dell the Thunderer's name. 
 
 Yet Scald or Kemper err'd, I ween. 
 Who gave that soft and quiet scene. 
 With all its varied light and shade. 
 And every little sunny glade. 
 And the blithe brook that strolls along 
 Its pebbled bed with summer song. 
 To the grim God of blood and scar. 
 The grisly King of Northern War. 
 O, better were its banks assign'd 
 To spirits of a gentler kind ! 
 For where the thicket-groups recede. 
 And the rath primrose decks the mead, 
 The velvet grass seems carpet meet 
 For the light fairies' lively feet. 
 Yon tufte(l knoll, with daisies strown. 
 Might make proud Oberon a throne. 
 While, hidden in the thicket nigh, 
 I'uck should brood o'er his frolic sly; 
 And where profuse the wood-vetch clings 
 Round ash and elm, in verdant rings. 
 Its pale and azure-pencill'd flower 
 Should canopy Titania's bower. 
 
 Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade; 
 But, skirting every sunny glade. 
 
 In f.iir variety of green 
 The woodland lends its sylvan screen. 
 Hoary, yet haughty, frowns the oak. 
 Its boughs by weight of ages broke; 
 And towers erect, in sable spire. 
 The pine-tree scathed by lightning fire; 
 The drooping ash and birch, 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 o<lors on the wind. 
 Such varied group Urbino's hand 
 Round Him of Tarsus nobly plann'd. 
 What time he bade proud Athens own 
 On Mars's Mount the God unknown ! 
 Then gray Philosophy stood nigh, 
 Tho' bent by age, in spirit high: 
 Then rose the scar-seam'd veteran's spear. 
 There Grecian Beauty bent to hear. 
 While Childhood at her foot was placed. 
 Or clung delighted to her waist. 
 
 "And rest we here," Matilda said. 
 And sat her in the varying shade. 
 " Chance-met, we well may steal an hour. 
 To friendship due, from fortune's power. 
 Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend 
 Thy counsel to thy sister-friend; 
 And, 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; 
 Well nigh an orphan, and alone, 
 Captive her sire, her house o'erthrown." 
 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. 
 And sat a little space removed, 
 Unmark'd to gaze on her he loved. 
 
 Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her 
 
 hair 
 Half hid Matilda's forehead fair, 
 Half hid and half reveal'd to view 
 Her full dark eye of hazel hue. 
 The rose, with faint and feeble streak, 
 So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek, 
 
Canto IV, 
 
 ROl^EBY. 
 
 Mfy 
 
 That you had said her hue was pale; 
 But if she faced the summer gale, 
 Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved. 
 Or heard the praise of those she loved, 
 Or when of interest was express'd 
 Aught that waked feeling in her breast. 
 The mantling blood in ready play 
 Rivail'd the blush of rising day. 
 There was a soft and pensive grace, 
 A cast of thought upon her face, 
 Tliat suited well the forehead high, 
 Ihe eyelash dark, and downcast eye; 
 1 he mild expression spoke a mind 
 III duty firm, composed, resign'd; 
 ■ lis that which Roman art has given 
 I o mark their maiden Queen of Heaven. 
 In hours of sport, that mood gave way 
 To fancy's light and frolic play; 
 And when the dance, or tale, or song, 
 In harmless mirth sped time along, 
 Fidl oft her doting sire would call 
 Mis Maud the merriest of them all. 
 But days of war and civil crime, 
 AUow'd but ill such festal time. 
 And her soft pensiveness of brow 
 Had deepen'd into sadness now. 
 In Marston field her father ta'en. 
 Her friends dispersed, brave 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 lower'd around the lovely maid, 
 To darken her dejection's shade. 
 
 Who has not heard — while Erin yet 
 Strove 'gainst the Saxon's iron bit — 
 Who has not heard how brave O'Neale 
 In English blood imbrued his steel, ^^ 
 Against St. George's cross blazed high 
 The banners of his Tanistry, 
 To fiery Essex gave the foil. 
 And reign'd a prince on Ulster's soil? 
 But chief arose his victor pride, , 
 When that brave Marshal fought and 
 
 died,39 
 And Avon-Duff to ocean Ixjre 
 His billows red with Saxon gore. 
 'Twas first in that disastrous fight, 
 Rokeby and Mortham proved their might. 
 
 There had they fallen 'mongst the rest, 
 But pity touch'd a chieftain's breast; 
 The Tanist he to great O'Neale ;*" 
 He check'd his followers' bloody zeal. 
 To quarter took the kinsmen bold, 
 And bore them to his mountain-hold. 
 Gave them each sylvan joy to know, 
 Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods could 
 
 show, 
 Shared with them Erin's festal cheer, 
 Show'd them the chase of wolf and deer. 
 And, when a fitting time was come. 
 Safe and unransom'd sent them home, 
 Loaded with many a gift, to prove 
 A generous foe's respect and love. 
 
 Years speed away. On Rokeby's head 
 Some touch of early snow was shed; 
 Calm he enjoy'd, by Greta's wave. 
 The peace which James the Peaceful gave, 
 While Mortham, far beyond the main. 
 Waged his fierce wars on Indian Spain. — 
 It chanced upon a wintry night. 
 That whiten'd Stanm<»re's stormy height. 
 The chase was o'er, the stag was kill'd, 
 In Rokeby hall the cups were fill'd. 
 And by the huge stone chimney sate 
 The Knight in hospitable state. 
 Moonless the sky, the hour was late, 
 When a loud summons shook the gate, 
 And sore for entrance and for aid 
 A voice of foreign accent pray'd. 
 The porter answer'd to the call. 
 And instant rush'd into to the hall 
 A Man, whose aspect and attire 
 Startled the circle by the fire. 
 
 His plaited hair in elf-locks spread 
 
 Around his bare and matted head; 
 
 On leg and thigh, close stretch'd and trim. 
 
 His vesture show'd the sinewy limb; 
 
 In saffron dyed, a linen vest 
 
 Was frequent folded round his breast: 
 
 A mantle long and loose he wore. 
 
 Shaggy with ice, and stain'd with gore. 
 
 He clasp'd a burden to his heart. 
 
 And, resting on a knotted dart. 
 
 The snow from hair and beard he shook, 
 
 And round him gazed with wilder'd look; 
 
 Then up the hall with staggering pace. 
 
 He hasten'd by the blaze to place. 
 
230 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 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. *i 
 "Sir Richard, Lord of Rokeby, hear! 
 Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear; 
 He graces thee, and to thy care 
 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 have seized his land. 
 And faint and feeble 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. 
 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." 
 
 His look grew fix'd, his cheek grew pale. 
 He sunk when he had told his tale; 
 For, hid l)eneath his mantle wide, 
 A mortal wound was in his side. 
 Vain was all aid — in terror wild. 
 And sorrow, scream'd the orphan Child. 
 Poor Ferraught raised his wistful eyes, 
 Anfl faintly strove to soothe his cries; 
 All reckless of his dying pain. 
 He lilest and blest him o'er again ! 
 And kiss'd the little hands outspread. 
 And kiss'd and cross'd the infant head. 
 And, in liis native tongue and phrase, 
 Pray'd to each Saint to watch his days; 
 Then all his strength together drew. 
 The charge to Rokeby to renew. 
 When half was falter'd from his breast. 
 And half by dying signs express'd, 
 " Bless the O'Neale ! " he faintly said, 
 And thus the faithful spirit fled. 
 
 'Twas long ere soothing might prevail 
 Upon the Child to end the tale; 
 And then he said, that from his home 
 His grandsire had been forced to roam, 
 
 Which had not been if Redmond's hand 
 Had but had strength to draw the brand, 
 The brand of Lenaugh More the Red, 
 That hung beside the gray wolf's head. — 
 'Twas from his broken phrase described. 
 His foster-father was his guide, '''•^ 
 Who, in his charge, from Ulster bore 
 Letters and gifts a goodly store : 
 But ruffians met them in the wood, 
 Ferraught in battle boldly stood. 
 Till wounded and o'erpower'd at length. 
 And stripp'd of all, his failing strength 
 Just bore him here — and then the child 
 Renew'd again his moaning wild. 
 
 The tear down childhood's cheek that 
 
 flows, 
 Is like the dewdrop 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. 
 Thro' his thick curls of flaxen hair. 
 But blithest laugh'd that cheek and eye, 
 When Rokeby 's little maid was nigh; 
 'Twas his, with elder brother's pride, 
 Matilda's tottering steps to guide; 
 His native lays in Irish tongue. 
 To soothe her infant ear he sung. 
 And primrose twined with daisy fair, 
 To form a chaplet for her hair. 
 By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand. 
 The children still were hand in hand, 
 And good Sir Richard smiling eyed 
 The early knot so kindly tied. 
 
 But summer months bring wilding siioot 
 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, 
 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 cluster'd stores to hail. 
 Where young Matilda holds her veil. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 231 
 
 And she, whose veil receives the shower, 
 
 Is alter'd too, and knows her power; 
 
 Assumes a nionitress'a pride, 
 
 Her Redmond 's dangerous sports to chide. 
 
 Vet listens still to hear him tell 
 
 Mow 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 
 
 iV pastime of such savage kind ! 
 
 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, 
 And knew so well o'er all to throw 
 His spirit's wild romantic glow. 
 That, while she blamed, and while she 
 
 fear'd. 
 She loved each venturous tale she heard. 
 Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain 
 To bower and hall their steps restrain, 
 Together they explored the page 
 Of glowing l)ard or gifted sage: 
 Oft, placed the evening fire beside. 
 The minstrel art alternate tried. 
 While gladsome harp and lively lay 
 Bade winter-night flit fast away; 
 Thus, from their childhood, blending still 
 Their sport, their study, and their skill, 
 An union of the soul they prove, 
 But must not think that it was love. 
 But tho' they dared not, envious Fame 
 Soon dared to give that union name; 
 And when so often, side by side. 
 From year to year the pair she eyed, 
 She sometimes blamed the good old 
 
 Knight, 
 As dull of ear and dim of sight, 
 Sometimes his purpose would declare. 
 That young O'Neale should wed his heir. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise 
 And bandage from the lovers' eyes; 
 'Twas plain that Oswald, for his son. 
 Had Rokeby's favor wellnigh won. 
 Now must they meet with change of 
 
 cheer, 
 With mutual looks of shame and fear; 
 Now must Matilda stray apart, 
 To school her disobedient heart : 
 
 And 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, 
 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 vow'd his race 
 Forever 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 hin>self in castled hold. 
 From such examples hope he drew. 
 And brighten'd as the trumpet blew. 
 
 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 bestow'd his life. 
 And well did Rokeby's generous Knight 
 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. 
 There never youth was form'd to steal 
 Upon the heart like brave O'Neale. 
 
 XVI. 
 Sir Richard loved him as his son : 
 And when the days of peace were done, 
 And to the gales of war he gave 
 The banner of his sires to wave, 
 Redmond, distinguish'd by his care, 
 He chose that honor'd flag to bear. 
 And named his page, the next degree. 
 In that old time, to chivalry.**' 
 
232 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 In five pitch'd fields he well maintain'd 
 The honor'd place his worth obtain'd, 
 And high was Redmond's youthful name 
 Blazed in the roll of martial fame. 
 Had fortune smiled on Marston fight, 
 The eve had seen him duhb'd a knight; 
 Twice, mid the battle's doubtful strife. 
 Of Rokeby's Lord he saved the life. 
 But when he saw him prisoner made. 
 He kiss'd and then resign'd his blade, 
 And yielded him an easy prey 
 To those who led the Knight away; 
 Resolved Matilda's sire should prove 
 In prison, as in fight, his love. 
 
 When lovers meet in adverse hour, 
 'Tis like a sun-glimpse through a shower, 
 A watery ray, an instant seen 
 The darkly closing clouds between. 
 As Redmond on the turf reclined, 
 The past and present fill'd his mind: 
 " It was not thus," Affection said, 
 " I dream'd of my return, dear maid ! 
 Not thus, when from thy trembling hand, 
 I took the banner and the brand. 
 When round me, as the bugles blew, 
 Their blades three hundred warriors drew, 
 And, while the standard I unroH'd, 
 Clash'd their bright arms, with clamor 
 
 bold. 
 Where is that banner now? — its pride 
 Lies 'whelm'd in Ouse's sullen tide! 
 Where now these warriors? — in theirgore, 
 They cumber Marston's dismal moor ! 
 And what avails a useless brand. 
 Held by a captive's shackled hand, 
 That only would his life retain, 
 To aid thy sire to bear his chain ! " 
 Thus Redmond to himself apart; 
 Nor lighter was his rival's heart; 
 For Wilfrid, while his generous soul 
 Disdain'd to profit V)y control. 
 By many a sign could mark too plain. 
 Save with such aid, his hopes were vain — 
 But now Matilda's accents stole 
 On the dark visions of their soul, 
 And bade their mournful musing fly. 
 Like mist before the zephyr's sigh. 
 
 " I need not to my friends recall, 
 How Mortham shunn'd my father's hall; 
 
 A man of silence and of woe, 
 Yet ever anxious to bestow 
 On my poor self whate'er could prove 
 A kinsman's confidence and love. 
 My feeble aid could sometimes chase 
 The clouds of sorrow for a space : 
 But oftener, fix'd beyond my power, 
 I mark'd his deep despondence lower. 
 One dismal cause, by all unguess'd, 
 His fearful confidence confess'd; 
 And twice it was my hap to see 
 Examples of that agony, 
 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; 
 But still he kept its source conceal'd. 
 Till arming for the civil field; 
 Then in my charge he bade me hold 
 A treasure huge of gems and gold. 
 With this disjointed dismal scroll, 
 That tells the secret of his soul. 
 In such wild words as oft betray, 
 A mind by anguish forced astray." — 
 
 XIX. 
 
 mortham's history. 
 " Matilda ! thou hast seen me start. 
 As if a dagger thrill'd my heart. 
 When it has hap'd some casual phrase 
 Waked memory of my former days. 
 Believe, that few can backward cast 
 Their thoughts with pleasure on the past; 
 But I ! — my youth was rash and vain. 
 And blood and rage my manhood stain, 
 And my gray hairs must now descend 
 To my cold grave without a friend ! 
 Even thou, Matilda, wilt disown 
 Thy kinsman, when his guilt is known. 
 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 ski:r 
 Thine own commission to fulfil? 
 Or, while thou point'st with gesture fierv-', 
 Thy blighted cheek, thy bloody hearse, 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 233 
 
 How can I paint thee as thou wert, 
 So fair in face, so warm in heart ! 
 
 " Yes, she was fair ! — Matilda, thou 
 Hast a soft sadness on thy brow; 
 But hers was like the sunny glow, 
 That laughs on earth and all below ! 
 We wedded secret — there was need — 
 Differing in country and in creed; 
 And, when to Mortham's tower she came. 
 We mention'd not her race and name, 
 Until thy sire, who fought afar. 
 Should turn him home from foreign war, 
 On whose kind influence we relied 
 To soothe her father's ire and pride. 
 Few months we lived retired, unknown. 
 To all l)ut one dear friend alone, 
 One darling friend — I spare his shame, 
 I will not write the villain's name ! 
 My trespasses I might forget, 
 And sue in vengeance for the debt 
 Due by a brother worm to me. 
 Ungrateful to God's clemency. 
 That spared me penitential time, 
 Nor cut me off amid my crime. — 
 
 " A kindly smile to all she lent, 
 But on her husljand's friend 'twas bent 
 So kind, that from its harmless glee. 
 The wretch misconstrued villany. 
 Repulsed in his presumptuous love, 
 A vengeful snare the traitor wove. 
 Alone we sat —the flask had flow'd. 
 My blood with heat unwonted glow'd, 
 When thro' the alley'd walk we spied 
 With hurried steji my Edith glide. 
 Cowering lienealh the verdant screen, 
 As one unwilling to be seen. 
 Words cannot paint the fiendish smile. 
 That curl'd the traitor's cheek the while ! 
 Fiercely I question'd of the cause; 
 He made a cold and artful pause, 
 Then pray'd it might not chafe my 
 
 mood — 
 ' There was a gallant in the wood ! ' 
 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 mark'd his heart — the bow I drew — 
 I loosed the shaft —'twas more than true ! 
 I found my Edith's dying charms 
 Lock'd in her murder'd brother's 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-nim'd; 
 And even from those the act who knew, 
 He hid the hand from which it flew. 
 Untouch'd by human laws I stood. 
 But God had heard the cry of blood ! 
 There is a blank upon my mind, 
 A fearful vision ill-defined, 
 Of raving till my flesh was torn, 
 Of dungeon-bolts and fetters worn — 
 And when I waked to woe more mild. 
 And question'd of my infant child, 
 (Have I not written, that she bare 
 A boy, like summer morning fair?) — 
 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 ! 
 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. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " 'Twas 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. 
 Much then I learn'd, and much can show, 
 Of human guilt and human woe. 
 Yet ne'er have, in my wanderings, known 
 A wretch whose sorrows match'd niy 
 own ! — 
 
234 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 It chanced, that after battle fray, 
 Upon the bloody field we lay; 
 The yellow moon her lustre shed 
 Upon the wounded and the dead. 
 While, sense in toil and wassail drown'd, 
 My ruffian comrades slept around, 
 There came a voice — its silver tone 
 Was soft, Matilda, as thine own: — 
 * Ah, wretch ! ' it said, ' what makest 
 
 thou here. 
 While unavenged my bloody bier. 
 While unprotected lives mine heir, 
 Without a father's name and care? ' 
 
 "I heard — obey'd — and homeward drew. 
 
 The fiercest of our desperate crew 
 
 I brought at time of need to aid 
 
 My purposed vengeance, long delay'd. 
 
 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 claim'd of him my only child — 
 As he disown'd the theft, he smiled ! 
 That very calm and callous look. 
 That fiendish sneer his visage took. 
 As 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 sufferance is one path to Heaven." 
 
 Thus far the woeful tale was heard, 
 When something in the thicket stirr'd. 
 Up Redmond sprung; the vjjlain Guy 
 (For he it was that lurk'd so nigh), 
 Drew back — he durst not cross his steel 
 A moment's space with brave O'Neale 
 For all the treasured gold that rests 
 In Mortham's iron-banded chests. 
 Redmond resumed his seat; — he said. 
 Some roe was rustling in the shade. 
 Bertram laugh'd grimly when he saw 
 His timorous comrade backward draw; 
 " A trusty mate art thou, to fear 
 A single arm, and aid so near ! 
 Yet have I seen thee mark a deer. 
 Give me thy carabine — I'll show. 
 
 An art that thou wilt gladly know. 
 How thou mayst safely quell a foe." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 On hands and knees fierce Bertram drew 
 The spreading birch and hazels through. 
 Till he had Redmond full in view; 
 The gun he levell'd. • — Mark like this 
 Was Bertram never known to miss, 
 When fair opposed to aim there sate 
 An object of his mortal hate. 
 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 press'd. 
 A deadly oath the ruffian swore. 
 But yet his fell design forebore. 
 " It ne'er," he mutler'd, " shall be said, 
 That thus I scath'd thee, haughty maid !" 
 Then moved to seek more open aim. 
 When to his side Guy Denzil came: 
 " Bertram, forbear ! — we are undone 
 Forever, if thou fire the gun. 
 By all the fiends, an armed force 
 Descends the dell, of foot and horse \ 
 We perish if they hear a shot — 
 Madman ! we have a safer plot — 
 Nay, friend, be ruled, and bear thee 
 
 back ! 
 Behold, down yonder hollow track. 
 The warlike leader of the band 
 Comes, with his broadsword in his hand. ' ' 
 Bertram look'd up; he saw, he knew 
 That Denzil's fears had counsel) 'd true. 
 Then cursed his fortune and withdrew. 
 Threaded the woodlands undescried, 
 And gained the cave on Greta side. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 They whom dark Bertram, in his wrath, 
 Doom'd to captivity or death. 
 Their thoughts to one sad subject lent. 
 Saw not nor heard the ambushment. 
 Heedless and unconcern'd they sate, 
 While on the very verge of fate; 
 Heedless and unconcern'd remain'd. 
 When Heaven the murderer's arm re- 
 
 strain'd; 
 As ships drift darkling down the tide, 
 Nor see the shelves o'er which they glide. 
 Uninterrupted thus they heard 
 What Mortham's closing tale declared. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 235 
 
 He spoke of wealth as of a load, 
 
 I')y Fortune on a wretch bestow'd. 
 
 In bitter mockery of hate, 
 
 His cureless woes to aggravate; 
 
 Hut yet he pray'd Matilda's care 
 
 Might save that treasure for his heir — 
 
 His Edith's son — for still he raved 
 
 As confident his life was saved; 
 
 In frequent vision, he averr'd. 
 
 He saw his face, his voice he heard; 
 
 Then argued calin — had murder been, 
 
 The blood, the corpses, had been seen; 
 
 Some had pretended, too, to mark 
 
 On Windermere a stranger bark. 
 
 Whose crew, with jealous care, yet mild, 
 
 Guarded a female and a child. 
 
 While these faint proofs he told and 
 
 press'd, 
 Hope seem'd to kindle in his breast; 
 rho' inconsistent, vague, and vain, 
 It warp'd 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, 
 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 thro' 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; 
 If none, from me, the treasure claim, 
 Perish'd is Mortham's race and name. 
 Then let it leave her generous hand. 
 And flow in lx>unty o'er the land; 
 Soften the wounded prisoner's lot, 
 Rebuild the peasant's ruin'd cot; 
 So spoils, ac(|uired by fight afar. 
 Shall mitigate domestic war." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The generous youths, who well had 
 
 known 
 Of Mortham's mind the powerful tone. 
 To that high mind, by sorrow swerved. 
 Gave sympathy his woes deserved; 
 But Wilfrid chief, who saw reveal'd 
 Why Mortham wish'd his life conceal'd. 
 
 In secret, doubtless, to pursue 
 
 The schemes his wilder'd fancy drew. 
 
 Thoughtful he heard Matilda tell, 
 
 That she would share her father's cell. 
 
 His partner of captivity, 
 
 Where'er his prison-house should be; 
 
 Yet grieved to think that Rokeby hall. 
 
 Dismantled, and forsook by all. 
 
 Open to rapine and to stealth. 
 
 Had now no safe-guard for the wealth 
 
 Intrusted by her kinsman kind^ 
 
 And for such noble use design 'd. 
 
 " Was Barnard Castle then her choice," 
 
 Wilfrid enquired with hasty voice, 
 
 " Since there the victor's laws ordain, 
 
 Her father must a space remain?" 
 
 A flutter'd hope his accent shook, 
 
 A flutter'd joy was in his look. 
 
 Matilda hasten'd to reply. 
 
 For anger flash'd in Redmond's eye; — 
 
 " Duty," she said, with gentle grace, 
 
 " Kind Wilfrid, has no choice of place; 
 
 Else had I for my sire assign'd 
 
 Prison less galling to his mind. 
 
 Than that his wild-wood haunts which 
 
 sees 
 And hears the murmurs of the Tees, 
 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 abash'd — then answer'd 
 
 grave : 
 " I sought thy purpose, noble maid. 
 Thy doubts to clear, thy schemes to aid. 
 I have beneath mine own command. 
 So wills my sire, a gallant band. 
 And well could send some horseman wight 
 To l)ear the treasure forth by night. 
 And so bestow it as you deem 
 In these ill days may safest seem." — 
 " Thanks, gentle Wilfrid, thanks," she 
 
 said : 
 " O, be it not one day delay 'd ! 
 And, more, thy sister-friend to aid. 
 Be thou thyself content to hold. 
 In thine own keeping, Mortham's gold. 
 Safest with thee." — While thus she 
 
 spoke, 
 Arm'd soldiers on their converse broke, 
 
236 
 
 ROKEB V. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 The same of whose approach afraid, 
 The ruffians left their ambuscade. 
 Their chief to Wilfrid bended low, 
 Then look'd around as for a foe. 
 " What niean'st thou, friend," young 
 
 Wycliffe said, 
 " Why thus in arms beset the glade ?" — 
 "That would I gladly learn from you: 
 For up my squadron as I drew, 
 To exercise our martial game 
 Upon the moor of Barninghame, 
 A stranger told you were waylaid. 
 Surrounded, and to death bctray'd. 
 He had a leader's voice, I ween, 
 A falcon glance, a warrior's mien. 
 He Ijade me bring you instant aid; 
 I doubted not, and I obey'd." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Wilfrid changed color, and amazed, 
 Turn'd short, and on the speaker gazed; 
 While Redmond every thicket round 
 Track'd earnest as a questing hound, 
 And Denzil's carabine he found; 
 Sure evidence, by which they knew 
 The warning was as kind as true. 
 Wisest it seem'd, with cautious speed 
 To leave the dell. It was agreed. 
 That Redmond, with Matilda fair. 
 And fitting guard, should home repair; 
 At nightfall Wilfrid should attend, 
 With a strong band, his sister-friend, 
 To bear with her from Rokcby's bowers 
 To Barnard Castle's lofty towers, 
 Secret and safe the. banded chests. 
 In which the wealth of Mortham rests 
 This hasty purpose fix'd, they i"'art, 
 Each with a grieved and anxious heart. 
 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 I. 
 The sultry summer day is done, 
 The western hills have hid the sun, 
 But mountain 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. 
 
 In crimson and in gold array 'd, 
 Streaks yet a while the closing shade, 
 Then slow resigns to darkening heaven 
 The tints which brighter hours had 
 
 given. 
 Thus aged men, full loth and slow. 
 The vanities of life forego, 
 And count their youthful follies o'er. 
 Till Memory lends her light no more. 
 
 The eve, that slow on upland fades, 
 Has darker closed on Rokeby's glades, 
 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; 
 For louder clamor'd Greta's tide, 
 And Tees in deeper voice replied. 
 And fitful waked the evening wind, 
 P'itful in sighs its breath resign'd. 
 Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul 
 Felt in the scene a soft control, 
 With lighter footstep press'd the ground, 
 And often paused to look around; 
 And, tho' his path was to his love, 
 Could not but linger in the grove, 
 To drink the thrilling interest dear, 
 Of awful pleasure check'd by fear. 
 .Such inconsistent moods have we, 
 Even when our passions strike the key. 
 
 Now, thro' the wood's dark mazes past, 
 The opening lawn he reach'd at last, 
 Where, silver'd by the moonlight ray. 
 The ancient Hall before him lay. 
 Those martial terrors long were fled, 
 That frown'd of old around its head: 
 The battlements, the turrets gray, 
 Seem'd half abandon'd to decay; *^ 
 On barbican and keep of stone 
 Stern Time the foeman'swork 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, 
 
Canto V. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 237 
 
 Now, while the cheerful fagots blaze. 
 On the paved floor the spindle plays; 
 The flanking guns dismounted lie, 
 The moat is ruinous and dry, 
 The grim portcullis gone — and all 
 The fortress turn'd to peaceful Hall. 
 
 But yet precautions, lately ta'en, 
 Show'd danger's day revived again; 
 The court-yard wall show'd marks of care. 
 The fall'n defences to repair. 
 Lending such strength as might with- 
 stand 
 The insult of marauding band. 
 The l>eams once more were taught to bear 
 The trembling drawbridge into air. 
 And not, till question'd o'er and o'er. 
 For Wilfrid oped the jealous door, 
 And when he enter'd bolt and bar 
 Resumed their place with sullen jar; 
 Then, as he cross'd the vaulted porch. 
 The old gray porter raised his torch. 
 And view'd him o'er, from foot to head. 
 Ere to the hall his steps he led. 
 That huge old hall, of knightly state. 
 Dismantled seem'd and desolate. 
 The moon thro' transom-shafts of stone, 
 Which cross'd the latticed oriels, shone, 
 And by the mournful light she gave. 
 The Gothic vault seem'd funeral cave. 
 Pennon and banner waved no more 
 O'er beams of stag and tusks of boar. 
 Nor glimmering arms were marshall'd 
 
 seen 
 To glance those sylvan spoils between. 
 Those arms, those ensigns, borne away, 
 Accomplish'd 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, 
 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 
 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 press'd it, till his kindly strain 
 The gentle youth return'd again. 
 Seem'd as between them this was said, 
 " A while let jealously be dead; 
 And let our contest be, whose care 
 Shall best assist this helpless fair." 
 
 There was no speech the truce to bind, 
 
 It was a compact of the mind, — 
 
 A generous thought, at once impress'd 
 
 On either rival's generous breast. 
 
 Matilda well the secret took. 
 
 From sudden change of mien and look; 
 
 And — for not small had been her fear 
 
 Of jealous ire and danger near — 
 
 Felt, even in her dejected state, 
 
 A joy beyond the reach of fate. 
 
 They closed beside the chimney's blaze. 
 
 And talk'd and hoped for happier 
 
 days. 
 And lent their spirits' rising glow 
 A while to gild impending woe; — 
 High privilege of youthful time, 
 Worth all the pleasures of our prime ! 
 The bickering fagot sparkled bright, 
 And gave the scene of love to sight. 
 Bade Wilfrid's cheek more lively glow, 
 Play'd on Matilda's neck of snow. 
 Her nut-brown curls and forehead high, 
 And laugh'd in Redmond's azure eye. 
 Two lovers by the maiden sate, 
 Without a glance of jealous hate; 
 The maid her lovers sat between. 
 With open brow and equal mien; — 
 It is a sight but rarely spied. 
 Thanks to man's wrath and woman's 
 
 pride. 
 
238 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 While thus in peaceful guise they sate, 
 A. knock alarm'd the outer gate, 
 And ere the tardy porter stirr'd, 
 The tinkling of a harp was hoard. 
 A manly voice of mellow swell, 
 Bore burden to the music well. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Summer eve is gone and past. 
 Summer dew is falling fast; — 
 I have wander'd all the day, 
 Do not bill 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 
 Answer'd 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." 
 
 The porter, all unmoved, replied: — 
 " Depart in peace, with Heaven to guide; 
 If longer by the gate thou dwell, 
 Trust me, thou shalt not part so well." 
 
 With somewhat of appealing look, 
 The harper's part young Wilfrid took: 
 " These notess so wild and ready thrill. 
 They show no vulgar minstrel's skill; 
 Hard were his t.ask to seek a home 
 More distant, since the night is come. 
 And for his faith I dare engage — 
 Your Harpool's blood is sour'd by age. 
 His gate, once readily display'd. 
 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 
 
 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, 
 I can count them name Ijy 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, 
 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, 
 Naught know'st thou of the Felon 
 
 Sow,"''^ 
 Quoth Harpool, " nor how Greta-side 
 She roam'd, and Rokeby forest wide: 
 Nor how Ralph Rokeby gave the beast 
 To Richmond's friars to make a feast. 
 Of Gillx-rt Griffinson the tale 
 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 was a jest to make us laugh ! 
 If thou canst tell it, in yon shed 
 Thou'st won thy supper and thy bed." 
 
Canto V. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 239 
 
 Matilda smiled; "Cold hope," said she, 
 " From Harpool's love of minstrelsy! 
 But, for this harper, may we dare, 
 Redmond, to mend his couch and fare ? " — 
 " O, ask me not ! — At minstrel-string 
 My heart from infancy would spring; 
 Nor can I hear its simplest strain, 
 But it brings Erin's dream again. 
 When placed hy 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. 
 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. 
 Tell maiden's love, or hero's praise ! 
 The mantling brambles hide thy hearth, 
 Centre of hospitable mirth; 
 All undistinguish'd in the glade. 
 My sires' glad home is prostrate laid. 
 Their vassals wander wide and far. 
 Serve foreign lords in distant war. 
 And now the stranger's sons enjoy 
 The lovely woods of Clandeboy ! " 
 He spoke, and proudly turn'd aside, 
 The starting tear to dry and hide. 
 
 Matilda's dark and soften'd eye 
 Was glistening ere O'Neale's was dry. 
 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 
 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 play'd. 
 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, 
 
 My Redmond — 'tis 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 Rcdmond.dared not trust his voice, 
 
 But rather had it been his choice 
 
 To share that melancholy hour^ 
 
 Than, arm'd with all a chieftain's power, 
 
 In full possession to enjoy 
 
 Slieve-Donard wide, and Clandeboy. 
 
 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, 
 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. 
 True, I must leave sweet Rokeby's glades, 
 Nor wander more in Greta's shades: 
 But sure, no rigid jailer, thou 
 Wilt a short prison-walk allow. 
 Where summer flowers grow wild at 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 ! 
 
24© 
 
 ROKEB Y. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 Too lively glow the lilies light, 
 The varnishd holly's all too bright, 
 The May-flower and the eglantine 
 May shade a brow less sad than mine; 
 But, Lady, weave no wreath for me, 
 Or weave it of the cypress-tree ! 
 
 Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine 
 With tendrils of the laughing vine; 
 The manly oak, the pensive yew, 
 To patriot and to sage be due; 
 The myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
 But that Matilda will not give; 
 Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me. 
 Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! 
 
 Let merry England proudly rear 
 
 Her blended roses, bought so dear; 
 
 Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
 
 With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew; 
 
 On favor'd Erin's crest be seen 
 
 The flower she loves of emerald green — 
 
 But, Lady, twine no wreath for me. 
 
 Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 
 
 Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare 
 The ivy meet for minstrel's hair; 
 And, while his crown of laurel- leaves. 
 With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
 Let the loud trump his triumph tell; 
 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 Virief months are past, 
 And I have look'd and loved my last ! 
 When villagers my shroud Ijestrew 
 With pansies, rosemary, and rue, — 
 Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me, 
 And weave it of the cypress-tree. 
 
 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 Ije freely wove 
 By hand of friendship and of love. 
 I would not wish that rigid Fate 
 Had doom'd thee to a captive's state. 
 
 Whose hands are bound by 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 Ixild, 
 Each lover of the lyre we'd seek. 
 From Michael's Mount toSkiddaw'sPeak, 
 Survey wild Albin's mountain strand, 
 And roam green Erin's lovely land. 
 While thou the gentler souls should move 
 With lay of pity and of love, 
 And L thy mate, in rougher strain. 
 Would sing of war and warriors slain. 
 Old England's bards were vanquish'd 
 
 then, 
 And Scotland's vaunted Hawthornden, 
 And, silenced on lernian shore, 
 M'Curtin's harp should charm no more !"^'^ 
 In lively mood he spoke, to wile 
 From Wilfrid's woe-worn cheek a smile. 
 
 " 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 knovv their faithful hearts will grieve. 
 
 When their poor Mistress takes her leave, 
 
 So let the horn and beaker flow 
 
 To mitigate their parting woe." 
 
 The harper came; — in youth's first prime 
 
 Himself; in mode of olden time 
 
 His garb was fashion'd, to express 
 
 The ancient English minstrel's dress, 
 
 A seemly gown of Kendal green. 
 
 With gorget closed of silver sheen; 
 
 His harp in silken scarf was slung. 
 
 And by his side an anlace hung. 
 
 It seem'd some masquer's quaint array, 
 
 For revel or for holiday. 
 
 He made obeisance with a free 
 Vet studied air of courtesy. 
 Each look and accent, framed to please, 
 Seem'd to affect a playful ease; 
 His face was of that doubtful kind. 
 That wins the eye, but not the mind; 
 Yet harsh it seem'd to deem amiss 
 Of brow so young and smooth as this. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 ROJCEBY. 
 
 241 
 
 His was the subtle look and sly, 
 rhat, spying all, seemed naught to spy; 
 Round all the group his glances stole, 
 Unmark'd themselves, to mark the whole. 
 Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look. 
 Nor could the eye of Redmond brook. 
 To the suspicious, or the old. 
 Subtile and dangerous and bold 
 Had seem'd this self-invited guest; 
 But young our lovers, — and the rest. 
 Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear 
 At parting of their Mistress dear, 
 Tear-blinded to the Castle-hall 
 Came as to bear her funeral pall. 
 
 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 ! 
 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, pray'd 
 Here to renew the strains she loved. 
 At distance heard and well approved. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 SONG. 
 The Harp. 
 [ was a wild and wayward boy, 
 My childhood scorn'd each childish toy. 
 Retired from all, reserved and coy, 
 
 To musing prone, 
 I woo'd 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; — 
 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. 
 And all that had my folly nursed 
 
 Love's sway to own; 
 Yet spared the spell that luH'd me first. 
 
 My Harp alone ! 
 
 Woe came witli war, and want with woe; 
 J And it was mine to undergo 
 Each outrage of the rebel foe : — 
 
 Can aught atone 
 My fields laid waste, my cot laid low? 
 
 My Harp alone ! 
 
 Ambition's dreams I've seen depart. 
 Have rued of penury the smart. 
 Have felt of love the venom 'd dart. 
 
 When hope was flown; 
 Yet rests one solace to my heart, — 
 
 My Harp alone ! 
 
 Then over moimtain, moor, and hill, 
 My faithful Harp, I'll bear thee still; 
 And when this life of want and ill 
 
 Is wellnigh gone. 
 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; 
 Then paused amid the martial sound. 
 And look'd with well-feign'd fear 
 
 around; — 
 " None to this noble house belong," 
 He said, " that would a Minstrel wrong, 
 Whose fate has been, through good and ill. 
 To love his Royal Master still; 
 And with your honor'd leave, would fain 
 Rejoice you with a loyal strain." 
 
242 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 Then, as assured by sign and look, 
 
 The warlike tone again he took; 
 
 And Harpool stopp'd, and turn'd to 
 
 hear 
 A ditty of the Cavalier. 
 
 XX. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The 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 ! 
 
 lie has doff'd the silk doublet the breast- 
 plate to bear, 
 
 He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long 
 flowing hair. 
 
 From his belt to his stirrup his broad- 
 sword hangs down, — 
 
 Heaven shield the brave Gallant that 
 fights for the Crown ! 
 
 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 round-headed rebels of Westminster 
 Hall; 
 
 But tell these bold traitors of London's 
 proud town. 
 
 That the spears of the North have en- 
 circled the Crown. 
 
 There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of 
 their foes; 
 
 There's Erin's High Ormond, and Scot- 
 land's Montrose ! 
 
 Would you match the base Skippon, and 
 Massey, and Brown, 
 
 With the Barons of England, that fight 
 for the Crown? 
 
 Now joy to the crest of the brave Cav- 
 alier ! 
 
 Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his 
 spear. 
 
 Till in peace and in triumph his toils he 
 may drown. 
 
 In a pledge to fair England, her Church, 
 and her Crown. 
 
 " Alas ! " Matilda said, " that strain. 
 Good harper, now is heard in vain ! 
 The time has been, at such a sound. 
 When Rokeby's vassals gather'd round, 
 A 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. 
 Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains: — 
 And, lend thy harp; I fain would try. 
 If my poor skill can aught supply. 
 Ere yet I leave my father's hall. 
 To mourn the cause in which we fall." 
 
 The harper, with a downcast look. 
 And trembling hand, her bounty took, - 
 As yet, the conscious pride of art 
 Had steel 'd him in his treacherous part; 
 A powerful spring of force unguess'd. 
 That hath each gentler mood suppress 'd 
 And reign'd 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 
 Drown'd in his own successful skill. 
 The veteran, too, who now no more 
 Aspires to head the battle's roar. 
 Loves still the triumph of his art. 
 And traces on the pencill'd chart. 
 Some stern invader's destined way. 
 Through blood and ruin, to his prey; 
 Patriots to death, and towns to flame. 
 He dooms to raise another's name, 
 And shares the guilt, though not the fame. 
 
Canio V. 
 
 MOKEB Y. 
 
 243 
 
 What pays him for his span of time 
 Spent in premeditating crime? 
 What against pity arms his heart? — 
 It is the conscious pride of art. 
 
 But principles in Edmund's mind 
 Were l)a,seless, 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 
 That lack of sterner guilt supplied, 
 Could scarce support him when arose 
 The lay that mourned Matilda's woes. 
 
 SONG. 
 T/ie Farewell. 
 The sound of Rokeliy'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 aunt. 
 
 Must part before the day. 
 
 Soon from the halls my fathers rear'd 
 
 Their scutcheons may descend. 
 A line so long beloved and fear'd 
 
 May soon ol)scurely end. 
 No longer here Matilda's tone 
 
 Shall bid those echoes swell; 
 Yet shall they hear her proudly own 
 
 The cause in which we fell. 
 
 The Lady paused, and then again 
 Resumed the lay in loftier strain. 
 
 XXIV. 
 Let our halls and towers decay. 
 
 Be our name and line forgot, 
 Lands and manors pass away, — 
 
 We but share our Monarch's lot. 
 If no more our annals show 
 
 Battles won and banners taken. 
 Still in death, defeat, and woe. 
 
 Ours be loyalty unshaken ! 
 
 Constant still in danger's hour, 
 
 Princes own'd our fathers' aid; 
 Lands and 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. 
 
 While thus Matilda's lay was heard, 
 
 A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirr'd. 
 
 In peasant life he might have known 
 
 As fair a face, as sweet a tone; 
 
 But village notes could ne'er supply 
 
 That rich and varied melody; 
 
 And ne'er in cottage-maid was seen 
 
 The easy dignity of mien, 
 
 Claiming respect, yet 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 
 
 Superior rose to griefs combined. 
 
 Lending its kindling to her eye. 
 
 Giving her form new majesty, — 
 
 To Edmund's thought Matilda seem'd 
 
 The very object he had dream 'd; 
 
 When, long ere guilt his soul had known. 
 
 In Winston bowers he mused alone, 
 
 Taxing his fancy to combine 
 
 'ITie face, the air, the voice divine, 
 
 Of princess fair, by cruel fate 
 
 Reft of her honors, power, and state, 
 
 Till to her rightful realm restored 
 
 By destined hero's conquering sword. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 my vision ! 
 
 Edmund 
 
 " Such was 
 thought, 
 
 " And have I, then, the ruin wrought 
 Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er 
 In fairest vision form'd her peer? 
 Was it my hand that could unclose 
 The postern to her ruthless foes? 
 Foes, lost to honor, law, and faith. 
 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 ! — 
 
244 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 Is there no hope? Is all then lost? — 
 
 Bertram's already on his post ! 
 
 Even now, beside the Hall's arch'd 
 
 door, 
 I saw his shadow cross the floor ! 
 He was to wait my signal strain — 
 A little respite thus we gain : 
 By what I heard the menials say, 
 Young Wyclifte's troop are on their 
 
 way. — 
 Alarm precipitates the crime ! 
 My harp must wear away the time." — 
 And then, in accents faint and low, 
 He falter'd forth a tale of woe. 
 
 XXVII. 
 BALLAD. 
 
 "And whither would you lead me 
 then?" 
 
 Quoth the P"riar of orders gray; 
 And the Kufifians twain replied again, 
 
 "By a dying woman to pray." 
 
 " I see," he said, " a lovely sight, 
 
 A sight lx)des 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. 
 Fling all its guilt on thee. 
 
 " Let mass be said, and trentals read, 
 When thou'rt to convent gone. 
 
 And bid the bell of St. Benedict 
 Toll out its deepest tone." 
 
 rhe shrift is done, the Friar has gone. 
 
 Blindfolded as he came — 
 M^ext morning, all in Littlecot Hall ^ 
 
 Were weeping for their dame. 
 
 Wild Darrel is an alter'd man, 
 
 The village crones can tell; 
 He looks pale as clay, and strives to 
 pray. 
 
 If he hears the convent bell. 
 
 [f prince or peer cross Darrel's way. 
 He'll beard him in his pride — 
 
 [f he meet a Friar of orders gray, 
 He droops and turns aside. j 
 
 XXVIII. 
 " Harper! methinks thy magic lays," 
 Matilda said, " can goblins raise ! 
 Well nigh my fancy can discern. 
 Near the dark porch, a visage stern; 
 E'en now, in yonder shadowy nook, 
 I see it ! — Redmond, Wilfrid, look ! — 
 A human form distinct and clear — 
 God for thy mercy ! — It draws near ! ' ' 
 She saw too true. Stride after stride. 
 The centre of that chamber wide 
 Fierce Bertram gain'd; then made a 
 
 stand. 
 And, proudly waving his hand, 
 Thunder'd: — " Be still, upon your lives ! 
 He bleeds who speaks, he dies who 
 
 strives." 
 Behind their chief, the robber crew 
 Forth from the darken'd portal drew 
 In silence — save that echo dread 
 Return'd 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 mj'stic glass. 
 Then, halting at their leader's sign, 
 At once they form'd and curved their line, 
 Hemming within its crescent drear 
 Their victims like a herd of deer. 
 Another sign, and to the aim 
 Levell'd at once their muskets came. 
 As waiting but their chieftain's word, 
 To make their fatal volley heard. 
 
 Back in a heap the menials drew; 
 Yet, even in mortal terror, true, 
 Their pale and startled group oppose 
 Between Matilda and the foes. 
 " O, haste thee, Wilfrid!" Redmond 
 
 cried; 
 " Undo that wicket by thy side ! 
 Bear hence Matilda — gain the wood — 
 The pass may be a while 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. 
 In Gothic intricacy twined; 
 Wilfrid half led, and half he bore, 
 Matilda to the postern-door. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 kOlCEHV. 
 
 145 
 
 And safe beneath the forest tree, 
 The Lady stands at liberty. 
 The moonbeams, the fresh gale's caress, 
 Uenew'd suspended consciousness: — 
 " Where's Redmond? " eagerly she cries; 
 " Thou answer'st not — he dies ! he dies ! 
 And thou hast left him, all bereft 
 Of mortal aid — with murderers left! 
 I know it well — he would not yield 
 His sword to man — his doom is seal'd ! 
 For my scorn'd life, which thou hast 
 
 bought 
 At price of his, I thank thee not." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The unjust reproach, the angry look. 
 The heart of Wilfrid could not brook. 
 " Lady," he said, " my band is near. 
 In safety thou mayest rest thee here. 
 For Redmond's death thou shalt not 
 
 mourn, 
 If mine can buy his safe return." 
 He turn'd away — his heart throbb'd 
 
 high. 
 The tear was bursting from his eye; 
 The sense of her injustice press'd 
 Upon the Maid's distracted breast: — 
 *' Stay, Wilfrid, stay ! all aid is vain ! " 
 He heard, but turn'd him not again; 
 He reaches now the postern-door, 
 Now enters — and is seen no more. 
 
 With all the agony that e'er 
 Was gender'd 'twixt suspense and fear, 
 .She walch'd the line of windows tall, 
 Whose Gothic lattice lights the Hall, 
 Distinguish'd by the paly red 
 The lamps in dim reflection shed. 
 While all beside in wan moonlight 
 Each grated casement glimmer'd white, 
 No sight of harm, no sound of ill. 
 It is a deep and midnight still. 
 Who look'd upon the scene had guess'd 
 All in the Castle were at rest; 
 When sudden on the window shone 
 A lightning flash, just seen and gone ! 
 A shot is heard. — Again the flame 
 Flash'd thick and fast — a volley came ! 
 Then echo'd wildly, from within, 
 Of shout and scream the mingled din, 
 And weapon-clash and maddening cry, 
 Of those who kill, and those who die ! — 
 
 As fill'd the Hall with sulphurous smoke. 
 More red, more dark, the death-flash 
 
 broke : 
 And forms were on the lattice cast, 
 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 Ix? vain ! 
 Fly to the postern — gain the Hall ! " 
 From saddle spring the troopers all; 
 Their gallant steeds, at liljerty, 
 Run wild along the moonlight lea. 
 But, ere they burst upon the scene. 
 Full stubborn had the conflict been. 
 When Bertram mark'd Matilda's flight, 
 It gave the signal for the fight; 
 And Rokeby's veterans, seam'd with scars 
 Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars. 
 Their momentary panic o'er, 
 Stood to the arms which then they bore. 
 (For they were weapon'd, and prepared 
 Their mistress on her way to guard.) 
 Then cheer'd them to the fight O'Neale, 
 Then peal'd the shot, and clash'd the 
 
 steel ; 
 The war-smoke soon with sable breath 
 Darken'd the scene of blood and death, 
 While on the few defenders close 
 The Bandits, with redoubled blows. 
 And, twice driven back, yet fierce and fell 
 Renew the charge with frantic yell. 
 
 Wilfrid has fall'n — but o'er him stood 
 Young Redmond, soil'd with smoke and 
 
 blood. 
 Cheering his mates with heart and hand 
 Still to make good their desperate stand. 
 " Up, comrades, up ! In Rokeby halls 
 Ne'er be it said our courage fails. 
 What ! faint ye for their savage cry. 
 Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye? 
 These rafters have return'd a shout 
 As loud at Rokeby's wassail rout. 
 As thick a smoke these hearths have given 
 At Hallow-tide or Christmns-even.** 
 Stand to it yet ! renew the fight. 
 For Rokeby's and Matilda's right ! 
 
246 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto V^ 
 
 These slaves ! they dare not, hand to hand, 
 Bide buffet from a true man's brand." 
 Impetuous, active, fierce, and young, 
 Upon the advancing foes he sprung. 
 Woe to the wretch at whom is bent 
 His brandish'd falchion's sheer descent ! 
 Backward they scatter'd as he came, 
 Like wolves before the levin flame. 
 When, mid their howling conclave driven, 
 Hath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven. 
 Bertram rush'd on — but Harpool clasp'd 
 His knees, although in death he gasp'd. 
 His falling corpse before him flung, 
 And round the trammell'd ruffian clung. 
 Just then, the soldiers filled the dome. 
 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 abtive the battle's roar; 
 While, trampling down the dying man. 
 He strove, with voUey'd threat and ban, 
 In scorn of odds, in fate's despite. 
 To rally up the desperate fight. 
 
 Soon murkier clouds the Hall enfold 
 Than e'er from battle-thuntlers roll'd. 
 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. 
 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, pencill'd on its azure pure, 
 The eye could count each cmbrazure, 
 Now, swathed within the sweeping cloud. 
 Seems giant-spectre in his shroud; 
 Till, from each loop-hole flashing light, 
 A spout of fire shines ruddy bright. 
 And, gathering to united glare, 
 Streams high into the midnight air; 
 A dismal beacon, far and wide 
 That waken'd Greta's slumbering side. 
 
 Soon all beneath, through gallery long, 
 And pendant arch, the fire flash'd strong, 
 Snatching whatever could maintain. 
 Raise, or extend, its furious reign; 
 Startling, with closer cause of dread. 
 The females who the conflict fled. 
 And now rush'd forth upon the plain, 
 Filling the air with clamors vain. 
 
 But ceased not yet, the Hall within. 
 
 The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din. 
 
 Till bursting lattices give proof 
 
 The flames have caught the rafter'd roof. 
 
 What ! wait they till its beams amain 
 
 Crash on the slayers and the slain? 
 
 The alarm is caught — the drawbridge falls. 
 
 The warriors hurry from the walls. 
 
 But, by the conflagration's light. 
 
 Upon the lawn renew the fight. 
 
 Each struggling felon down was hewM, 
 
 Not one could gain the sheltering wood; 
 
 But forth the affrighted harper sprung. 
 
 And to Matilda's robe he clung. 
 
 Her shriek, entreaty, and command, 
 
 Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand. 
 
 Denzil and he alive were ta'en; 
 
 The rest, save Bertram, all are slain. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And where is Bertram ? — Soaring high. 
 The general flame ascends the sky; 
 In gather'd group the soldiers gaze 
 Upon the broad and roaring blaze. 
 When, like infernal demon sent. 
 Red from his penal element, 
 To plague and to pollute the air, — 
 His face all gore, on fire his hair. 
 Forth from the central mass of smoke 
 The giant form of Bertram broke ! 
 His brandish'd sword on high he rears, 
 Then plunged among opposing spears; 
 Round his left arm his mantle truss'd, 
 Received and foil'd three lances' thrust; 
 Nor these his headlong course withstood. 
 Like reeds he snapp'd the tough ash- 
 wood. 
 In vain his foes around him clung; 
 With matchless force aside he flung 
 Their boldest, — as the l")ull, at bay. 
 Tosses the ban-dogs from his way. 
 Through forty foes his path he made, 
 And safely gain'd the forest glade. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 247 
 
 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 turn'd again. — 
 Beneath an oak he laid him down, 
 That in the blaze gleam'd ruddy brown. 
 And then his mantle's clasp undid; 
 Matilda held his drooping head, 
 rill, given to breathe the freer air. 
 Returning life repaid their care. 
 He gazed on them with heavy sigh: — . 
 " I could have wish'd even thus to die ! " 
 No more he said — for now with speed 
 Each trooper had regain'd his steed: 
 The ready palfreys stood array'd. 
 For Redmond and for Rokeby's Maid; 
 Two Wilfred on his horse sustain, 
 One leatls his charger by the rein. 
 But oft Matilda look'd behind. 
 As up the Vale of Tees they wind. 
 Where far the mansion of her sires 
 Beacon'd the dale with midnight fires. 
 In gloomy arch above them spread, 
 The clouded heaven lower'd bloody red; 
 Beneath, in sombre light, the flood 
 Appear'd to roll in waves of blood. 
 Then, one by one, was heard to fall 
 The Tower, the donjon-keep, the hall. 
 Each rushing down with thunder sound, 
 A space the conflagration drown'd; 
 Till, gathering strength, again it rose. 
 Announced its triumph in its close, 
 Shook wide its light the landscape o'er, 
 Then sunk, — and Rokeby was no more ! 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 I. 
 
 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 had 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. 
 
 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 blackcn'd mound. 
 Striving, amid the ruin'd space, 
 Each well-remember 'd spot to trace. 
 That length of frail and fire-scorch'd wall 
 Once screen'd the hospitable hall; 
 When yonder broken arch was wliole, 
 'Twas there was dealt the weekly dole; 
 And where yon tottering columns nod, 
 The chapel sent the hymn to God. — 
 So flits the world's uncertain span ! 
 Nor zeal for God, nor love for man, 
 Gives mortal monuments a date 
 Beyond the power of Time and Fate. 
 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 witness'd Rokeby's 
 
 flame. 
 On Brignall cliffs and Scargill brake 
 The owlet's homilies awake. 
 The bittern scream 'd from rush and flag. 
 The raven slumber'd on his crag. 
 Forth from his den the otter drew, — 
 Grayling and trout their tyrant knew, 
 As between reed and sedge he peers. 
 With fierce round snout and sharpen'd 
 
 ears. 
 Or prowling by the moonbeam cool. 
 Watches the stream or swims the pool; — 
 Perch'd on his wonted eyrie high, 
 Sleep scal'd the tercelet's wearied eye, 
 That all the day had watch'd so well 
 The cushat dart across the dell. 
 In dubious beam reflected shone 
 That 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; 
 
248 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 Shadows that met or shunn'd the sight, 
 
 With every change of fitful light; 
 
 As hope and fear alternate chase 
 
 Our course through life's uncertain race. 
 
 Gliding by crag and copsewood green, 
 A solitary form was seen 
 To trace with stealthy pace the wold. 
 Like fox that seeks the midnight fold, 
 And pauses oft, and cowers dismay'd. 
 At every breath that stirs the shade. 
 He passes now the ivy bush, — 
 The owl has seen him, and is hush; 
 He passes now the dodder'd oak, — 
 Ye heard the startled raven croak; 
 Lower and lower he descends, 
 Rustle the leaves, the brushwood bends; 
 The otter hears him tread the shore, 
 And 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-remember'd form and face ! 
 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 ! 
 'Tis Edmund's eye, at every sound 
 That flings that guilty glance around; 
 'Tis Edmund's trembling haste divides 
 The brushwood that the cavern hides; 
 And, when its narrow porch lies bare, 
 'Tis Edmund's form that enters there. 
 
 His flint and steel have sparkled bright, 
 A lamp hath lent the cavern light. 
 Fearful and quick his eye surveys 
 Each angle of the gloomy maze. 
 Since last he left that stern abode, 
 It seem'd as none its floor had trode; 
 Untouch'd appear'd the various spoil. 
 The purchase of his comrades' toil; 
 Masks and disguises grim'd with mud, 
 Arms Vjroken and defiled with blood. 
 And all the nameless tools that aid 
 Night- felons in their lawless trade, 
 Upon the gloomy walls were hung, 
 Or lay in nooks obscurely flung. 
 Still on the sordid board appear 
 The relics of the noontide cheer; 
 
 Flagons and emptied flasks were there. 
 And bench o'erthrown, and shatter'd 
 
 chair ; 
 And all around the semblance show'd, 
 As when the final revel glow'd. 
 When the red sun was setting fast. 
 And parting pledge Guy Denzil past. 
 "To Rokeby treasure-vaults!" they 
 
 quaff'd. 
 And shouted loud and wildly laugh'd, 
 I'our'd 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, 
 
 Doff'd to assume that quaint disguise; 
 
 And, shuddering, thought upon his glee, 
 
 When prank'd in garb of minstrelsy. 
 
 " O, be the fatal art accurst," 
 
 He cried, " that moved my folly first; 
 
 Till, bribed by bandits' base applause, 
 
 I hurst 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 ! 
 
 Even now I list my comrades' cheer. 
 
 That general laugh is in mine ear, 
 
 Which raised my pulse and steel 'd my 
 
 heart. 
 As I rehearsed my treacherous part — 
 And would that all since then could seem 
 The phantom of a fever's dream ! 
 But fatal Memory notes too well 
 The horrors of the dying yell 
 From my despairing mates that broke, 
 When flash'd the fire and roll'd the 
 
 smoke ; 
 When the avengers shouting came. 
 And hemm'd 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 turn'd, nor spoke the rest. 
 
 Due northward from the rugged hearth. 
 With paces five he metes the earth, 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 249 
 
 Then toil'd with mattock to explore 
 The entrails of the cabin floor, 
 Nor paused till, deep beneath the ground, 
 His search a small steel casket found. 
 Just as he stoop'd to loose its hasp. 
 His shoulder felt a giant grasp; 
 He started, and look'd up aghast. 
 Then shriek'd ! — 'Twas Bertram held 
 
 hini fast. 
 " Fear not ! " he said; but who could hear 
 That deep stern voice, and cease to fear. 
 " Fear not ! — By Heaven, he shakes as 
 
 much 
 As partridge in the falcon's clutch:" — 
 He raised him, and unloosed his hold, 
 While from the opening casket roU'd 
 A chain and reliquaire of gold. 
 Bertram beheld it with surprise. 
 Gazed on its fashion and device. 
 Then, cheering Edmund as he could, 
 Somewhat he smooth 'd his rugged mood : 
 For still the youth's half-lifted eye 
 Quiver'd with terror's agony, 
 And sidelong glanced, as to explore. 
 In meditated flight, the do<ir. 
 ".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 mark'd, were ta'en; 
 What lucky chance unlx)und your chain? 
 I deem'd, long since on Baliol's tower. 
 Your heads were warp'd with sun and 
 
 shower. 
 Tell me the whole — and, mark ! naught 
 
 e'er 
 Chafes me like falsehood, or like fear." 
 Gathering his courage to his aid, 
 But trembling still, the youth obey'd: — 
 
 " Denzil and I two nights pass'd o'er 
 In fetters on the dungeon floor. 
 A guest the, third sad morrow brought : 
 Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe sought, 
 And eyed my comrade long askance, 
 With fix'd and penetrating glance. 
 'Guy Denzil art thou call'd?' — 'The 
 
 same.' — 
 ' At Court who served wild Buckinghame ; 
 
 Thence banish'd, won a keeper's place, 
 So Villiers will'd, in Marwood-chase; 
 That lost — I need not tell thee why — 
 Thou madest thy wit thy wants supply, 
 Then fought for Rokeby : — Have I 
 
 guess 'd 
 My prisoner right ? ' — 'At thy behest.' — 
 He paused a while, and then went on 
 With low and confidential tone; — 
 Me, as I judge, not then he saw, 
 Close nestled in my 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, 
 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 turn'd to me — ' Thou art his son ? ' 
 I bow'd — our fetters were undone, 
 And we were led to hear apart 
 A dreadful lesson of his art. 
 Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son, 
 Had fair Matilda's favor won; 
 And long since had their union been. 
 But for her father's bigot spleen, 
 Whose brute and blindfold party-rage 
 Would, force per force, her hand 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 
 Old Rokeby to enlarge his creed; 
 But fair occasion he must find 
 For such restraint well-meant and kind, 
 The Knight being render'd to his charge 
 But as a prisoner at large. 
 
 " He school'd us in a well-forged tale. 
 Of scheme the Castle walls to scale. 
 To which was leagued each Cavalier 
 That dwells upon the Tyne and AVear; 
 That Rokeby, his parole forgot, 
 Had dealt with us to aid the plot. 
 
250 
 
 ROKEBY, 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 Such was the charge, which Denzil's zeal 
 
 Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale 
 
 Proffer'd as witness, to make good, 
 
 Even though the forfeit were their blood. 
 
 I scrupled, until o'er and o'er 
 
 His prisoner's safety Wycliffe swore; 
 
 And then — alas ! what needs there more ? 
 
 I knew I should not live to say 
 
 The proffer I refused that day; 
 
 Ashamed to live, yet loth to die, 
 
 I soil'd 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 scroll'd and sign'd our fatal charge. 
 There never yet, on tragic stage. 
 Was seen so well a painted rage 
 As Oswald's show'd ! With loud alarm 
 He call'd his garrison to arm; 
 From tower to tower, from post to 
 
 post. 
 He hurried as if all were lost; 
 Consign'd to dungeon and to chain 
 The good old Knight and all his train; 
 Warn'd each suspected Cavalier, 
 Within his limits, to appear 
 To-morrow, at the hour of noon, 
 In the high church at Egliston." — 
 
 " Of Egliston ! — Even now I pass'd," 
 Said Bertram, " as the night closed fast; 
 Torches and cressets gleam'd around, 
 I heard the saw and hammer sound. 
 And I could mark they toil'd to raise 
 A scaffold, hung with sable baize. 
 Which the grim headsman's scene dis- 
 
 play'd. 
 Block, axe, and sawdust ready laid. 
 Some evil deed will there he done. 
 Unless Matilda wed his son; — 
 She loves him not — • 'tis shrewdly guess'd 
 That Redmond rules the damsel's breast. 
 This is a turn of Oswald's skill; 
 But I may meet, and foil him still; — 
 How camest thou to thy freedom? " — 
 
 "There 
 Lies mystery more dark and rare. 
 In midst of Wycliffe's well-feign'd rage, 
 A scroll was offer 'd by a page. 
 Who told, a muffled horseman late 
 Had left it at the Castle-gate. 
 
 He broke the seal — his cheek show'd 
 
 change. 
 Sudden, portentous, wild and strange; 
 The mimic passion of his eye 
 Was turn'd to actual agony; 
 His hand like summer sapling shook. 
 Terror and guilt were in his look. 
 Denzil he judged, in time of need. 
 Fit counsellor for evil deed; 
 And thus apart his counsel broke, 
 While with a ghastly smile he spoke : 
 
 " ' As in the pageants of the stage. 
 The dead awake in this wild age, 
 Mortham — whom all men deem'd decreed 
 In his own deadly snare to lileed. 
 Slain by a bravo, whom, o'er sea. 
 He train'd to aid in murdering me, — 
 Mortham has 'scaped ! The coward shot 
 The steed, but harm'd the rider not.' " 
 Here, with an execration fell, 
 Bertram leap'd up, and paced the cell : 
 " Thine own gray head, or bosom dark," 
 He utter'd, "may be surer mark! " 
 Then sat, and sign'd to Edmund, pale 
 With terror, to resume his tale. 
 " Wycliffe went on: — ' Mark with what 
 
 flights 
 Of wilder'd reverie he writes : — 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 " ' Ruler of Mortham's destiny! 
 Though dead, thy victim lives to thee. 
 Once had he all that binds to life, 
 A lovely child, a lovelier wife; 
 Wealth, fame, and friendship, were his 
 
 own — 
 Thou gavcst the word, and they are flown. 
 Mark how he pays thee : — To thy hand 
 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 show'd his dread; 
 He press'd his forehead with his palm. 
 Then took a scornful tone and calm : 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 251 
 
 ' 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. 
 I leaven be my witness ! wist I where 
 To find this youth, my kinsman's heir, — 
 Unguerdon'd 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; 
 Thy generous wish is fully won, — 
 Redmond O'Neale is Mortham's son.' — 
 
 " 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 
 
 towers 
 Have racks, of strange and ghastly 
 
 powers.' 
 Denzil, who well his safety knew. 
 Firmly rejoin'd, ' I tell thee true. 
 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 ! 
 It was not given, nor lent, nor sold. — 
 Gilt tablets to the chain were hung. 
 With letters in the Irish tongue. 
 I hid my spoil, for there was need 
 That I should leave the land with speed; 
 Nor then I deem'd it safe to bear 
 On mine own person gems so rare. 
 Small heed I of the tablets took, 
 But since have spell'd them by the book, 
 When some sojourn in Erin's land 
 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. 
 
 " ' Three days since, was that clue re- 
 
 veal'd 
 In Thorsgill as I lay conceal'd, 
 And heard at full when Rokeby's Maid 
 Her uncle's history display 'd; 
 And now I can interpret well 
 Each syllable the tablets tell. 
 Mark, then : Fair Edith was the joy 
 Of old O'Neale of Clandeboy; 
 But from her sire and country fled. 
 In secret Mortham's Lord to wed. 
 O'Neale, his first resentment o'er. 
 Despatched his son to Greta's shore, 
 Enjoining he should make him known 
 (Until his farther will were shown) 
 To Edith, but to her alone. 
 What of their ill-starr'd meeting fell, 
 Lord Wycliffe knows, and none so wells 
 
 " ' O'Neale it was, who, in despair, 
 Robb'd Mortham of his infant heir; 
 He bred him in their nurture wild. 
 And call'd him murder'd Connel's child. 
 Soon died the nurse; the Clan believed 
 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. 
 Then on the land wild troubles came, 
 And stronger Chieftains urged a claim. 
 And wrested from the old man's hands 
 His native towers, his father's lands. 
 Unable then, amid the strife. 
 To guard young Redmond's rights or life, 
 Late and reluctant he restores 
 The infant to his native shores. 
 With goodly gifts and letters stored, 
 With many a deep conjuring word. 
 To Mortham and to Rokeby's Lord. 
 Naught knew the clod of Irish earth, 
 Who was the guide, of Redmond's birth : 
 But deem'd his Chief'scommands were laid 
 On both, by both to be obey'd. 
 
252 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 How he was wounded by the way, 
 I need not, and I list not say.' — 
 
 " ' A wondrous tale ! and, grant it true, 
 What,' Wycliffe answor'd, ' 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; 
 Hut Mortham is distraught — O'Neale 
 Has drawn for tyranny his steel, 
 Malignant to our rightful cause, 
 And train'd in Rome's delusive laws. 
 Hark thee apart !' — They whisper'd long. 
 Till Denzil's voice grew bold and 
 
 strong; — 
 ' My proofs! I never will,' he said, 
 ' Show mortal man where they are laid. 
 Nor hope discovery to foreclose, 
 By giving me to feed the crows; 
 For I have mates at large, who know 
 Where I am wont such toys to stow. 
 Free me from peril and from band. 
 These tablets are at thy command : 
 Nor were it hard to form some train. 
 To wile old Mortham o'er the main. 
 Then, lunatic's nor papist's hand 
 Should wrest fromthine 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 
 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 gibl)et frees thee from the jail.' — 
 
 " Mesh'd 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, 
 By all he scoff'd and disobey'd, 
 And look'd 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. 
 
 (Then chanced it wandering in the glade, 
 That he descried our ambuscade.) 
 I was dismiss'd as evening fell. 
 And reach'd but now this rocky cell. " — 
 "Give Oswald's letter." — Bertram 
 
 read. 
 And tore it fiercely shred by shred : — 
 " All lies and villany ! to blind 
 His noble kinsman's generous mind. 
 And train him on from day to day. 
 Till he can take his life away. • — 
 And now declare thy purpose, youth. 
 Nor dare to answer, save the truth; 
 If aught I mark of Denzil's art, 
 I'll tear the secret from thy heart ! " — 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " It needs not. I renounce," he said, 
 
 " My tutor and his deadly trade. 
 
 Fix'd 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. 
 
 Fix'd was my purpose to atone, 
 
 Far as I may, the evil done; 
 
 And fix'd it rests — if I survive 
 
 This night, and leave this cave alive." 
 
 " And 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 ycjuth he led astray, 
 And damn'd to this unhallow'd way? 
 He school'd me faith and vows were vain ; 
 Now let my master reap his gain." — 
 "True," answer'd Bertram, "'tis 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 unburden'd reach the shore." 
 
 He paused, and, stretching him at length, 
 Seem'd to repose his bulky strength. 
 Communing with his secret mind, J 
 
 As half he sat, and half reclined, \ 
 
 One ample hand his forehead press'd, 
 And one was dropp'd across his breast. 
 
 i 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 253 
 
 The shaggy eyebrows deeper came 
 Atxjve liis eyes of swarthy flame; 
 His lip of pride a while forbcjre 
 The haughty curve till then it wore; 
 The unalter'd fierceness of his look 
 A shade of darken'd sadness took,^ — 
 For dark and sad a presage press'd, 
 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 mix'd with Edmund's fear, 
 Its low unbroken depth to hear. 
 
 " Edmund, in thy sad tale I find 
 The woe that warp'd my patron's mind; 
 'Twould wake the fountains of the eye 
 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 n(jw, 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. 
 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; 
 As priest had said, ' Return, repent! ' 
 As well to bid that rock be rent. 
 Firm as that flint I face mine end; 
 My heart may burst, but cannot bend. 
 
 "The dawning of my youth, with awe 
 And prophecy, 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, 
 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, 
 Mine l>e 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 
 To Richmond, where his troops are laid, 
 And lead his force to Redmond's aid. 
 Say, till he reaches Egliston, 
 A friend will watch to guard his son. 
 Now, farc-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, 
 That stoop'd not in extremity, 
 But strove, irregularly great, 
 To triumph o'er approaching fate ! 
 Bertram beheld the dewdrop start, 
 It almost touch'd his iron heart : — 
 " I did not think there lived," he said, 
 "One, who would tear for Bertram 
 
 shed." 
 He loosen'd then his baldric's hold, 
 A buckle broad of massive gold; — 
 " Of all the spoil that paid his pains. 
 But this with Risingham remains; 
 And this, dear Edmund, thou shalt take, 
 And wear it long for Bertram's sake. 
 Once more — to Mortham speed amain; 
 Farewell ! and turn thee not again." 
 
 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. 
 Impatient question'd now his train, 
 " Was Denzil's son retum'd again? " 
 
254 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 It chanced there answer'd of the crew, 
 A menial, whom young Edmund knew: 
 " No son of Denzil this," — he said; 
 " A peasant boy from Winston glade. 
 For song and ministrelsy renown'd, 
 And knavish pranks, the hamlets round." 
 "Not Denzil's son! — From Winston 
 
 vale ! — 
 Then it was false, that specious tale : 
 Or, worse — he hath despatch'd the youth 
 To show to Mortham's Lord its truth. 
 Fool that I was ! — but 'tis too late : — 
 This is 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 appal 
 Marauders from the Castle-wall. 
 Lead forth thy guard, that duty done. 
 With best despatch to Egliston. — 
 — 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, 
 
 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 Egliston be boune. 
 
 And quick ! — I hear the dull death-drum 
 
 Tell Denzil's hour of fate is come." 
 
 He paused with scornful smile, and then 
 
 Resumed his train of thought agen. 
 
 " Now comes my fortune's crisis near ! 
 
 Entreaty boots not — instant fear. 
 
 Naught else, can bend Matilda's pride, 
 
 Or win her to be Wilfrid's bride. 
 
 But when she sees the scaffold placed. 
 
 With axe and block and headsman graced, 
 
 And when she deems, that to deny 
 
 Dooms 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 tate ! 
 
 If Mortham come, he comes too late. 
 
 While I, aUied 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 
 Must yield. — Without there ! Sound to 
 
 horse." 
 
 'Twas bustle in the court below, — 
 
 " Mount, and march forward ! " — Forth 
 
 they go; 
 Steeds neigh and trample all around. 
 Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets 
 
 sound. — 
 Just then was sung his parting hymn; 
 And Denzil turn'd his eyeballs dim, 
 And, scarcely conscious what he sees, 
 Follows the horsemen down the Tees; 
 And, scarcely conscious what he hears. 
 The trumpets tingle in his ears. 
 O'er the long bridge they're 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. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 O, for that pencil, erst profuse 
 Of chivalry's emblazon'd hues. 
 That traced of old, in Woodstock bower, 
 The pageant of the Leaf and Flower, 
 And bodied forth the tourney high, 
 Held for the hand of Emily ! 
 Then might I paint the tumult broad, 
 That to the crowded abbey flow'd. 
 And pour'd, as with an ocean's sound. 
 Into the church's ample bound ! 
 Then might I show each varying mien, 
 Exulting, woeful, or serene; 
 Indifference, with his idiot stare. 
 And Sympathy, with anxious air; 
 Paint the dejected Cavalier, 
 doubtful, disarm'd, and sad of cheer; 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 255 
 
 And his proud foe, whose formal eye 
 Claim'd conquest now and mastery; 
 And the brute crowd, whose envious zeal 
 Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel, 
 And loudest shouts when lowest lie 
 Exalted worth and station high. 
 Yet what may such a wish avail ? 
 'Tis mine to tell an onward tale. 
 Hurrying, as best I can, along, 
 The hearers and the hasty song; — 
 Like traveller when approaching home, 
 Who sees the shades of evening come, 
 And must not now his course delay, 
 Or choose the fair, but winding way; 
 Nay, scarcely may his pace suspend, 
 where o'er his head the wildings bend. 
 To bless the breeze that cools his brow. 
 Or snatch a blossom from the bough. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The reverend pile lay wild and waste. 
 Profaned, dishonor'd, and defaced. 
 Through storied lattices no more 
 In soften'd light the sunbeams pour. 
 Gilding the Gothic sculpture rich 
 Of shrine, and monument, and niche. 
 The Civil fury of the time 
 Made sport of sacrilegious crime; 
 For dark Fanaticism rent 
 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 display'd, and there 
 The headsman grim his hatchet bare; 
 And for the word of Hope and Faith, 
 Resounded loud a doom of death. 
 Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was 
 
 heard. 
 And echo'd thrice the herald's word. 
 Dooming, for 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 flourish'd high and shrill, 
 Then was a silence dead and still; 
 And silent prayers to heaven were cast. 
 And stifled sobs were bursting f.ist. 
 Till from the crowd l)egun to rise 
 Murmurs of sorrow or surprise, 
 
 And from the distant aisles there came 
 Deep-mutter'd threats, with Wyclifie's 
 name. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 But Oswald, guarded by his band. 
 Powerful in evil, waved his hand. 
 And bade Sedition's voice be dead. 
 On peril of the murmurer's head. 
 Then first his glance sought Rokeby's 
 
 Knight; 
 Who gazed on the tremendous sight, 
 As calm as if he came a guest 
 To kindred Baron's feudal feast. 
 As calm as if that trumpet-call 
 Were summons to the banner'd 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, 
 "Thou know'st the terms of life and 
 
 death." 
 The Knight then turn'd, and sternly 
 
 smiled: — 
 ' The maiden is mine only child. 
 Vet shall my blessings leave her head. 
 If with a traitor's son she wed." 
 1 hen Redmond spoke : — "The life of one 
 Might thy malignity atone. 
 On me be flung a double guilt ! 
 Spare Rokeby's blood, let mine be spilt ! " 
 Wycliffe had listen'd to his suit. 
 But dread prevail'd, and he was mute. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And now he pours his choice of fear 
 
 In secret on Matilda's ear; 
 
 " An union form'd with me and mine, 
 
 Ensures the faith of Rokeby's line. 
 
 Consent, and all this dread array. 
 
 Like morning dream shall pass away; 
 
 Refuse, and, by my duty press'd, 
 
 I give the word — thou know'st the rest." 
 
 >Ialilda, still and motionless. 
 
 With terror heard the dread address, 
 
 Pale as the sheeted maid who dies 
 
 To hopeless love a sacrifice; 
 
 Then wrung her hands in agony. 
 
 And round her cast liewilder'd eye. 
 
 Now on the scafff)ld glanced, and now 
 
 On Wycliffe's unrelenting brow. 
 
 She veil'd her face, and, with a voice 
 
 Scarce audible : — "I make my choice ! 
 
256 
 
 HOKE BY. 
 
 Canto VI, 
 
 Spare but their lives ! — for, aught beside, 
 Let Wilfrid's doom my fate decide. 
 He once was generous ! " — as she spoke, 
 Dark Wycliffe's joy in triumph broke : — 
 "Wilfrid, where loiter'd ye so late? 
 Why upon Basil rest thy weight? — 
 Art spell-bound by enchanter's wand? — 
 Kneel, kneel, and take her yielded hand; 
 Thank her with raptures, simple boy ! 
 Should tears and trembling speak thy 
 
 joy?".— 
 " O'hush, my sire ! To prayer and tear 
 Of mine thou hast refused thine ear; 
 But now the awful hour draws on. 
 When truth must speak in loftier tone." 
 
 He took Matilda's hand: — " Dear maid, 
 Couldst tliou so injure me," he said, 
 " Of thy poor friend so basely deem, 
 As blend with him this barbarous scheme? 
 Alas ! my efforts, made in vain, 
 Might well have saved this added pain. 
 But now, bear witness earth and heaven. 
 That ne'er was hope to mortal given. 
 So twisted with the strings of life. 
 As this — -to call Matilda wife! 
 I bid it now for ever part, 
 And with the effort bursts my heart ! " 
 His feeble frame was worn so low. 
 With wounds, with watching, and with 
 
 woe. 
 That nature could no more sustain 
 The agony of mental pain. 
 He kneel'd — his lip her hand had 
 
 press'd, — 
 Just then he felt the stern arrest. 
 Lower and lower sunk his head. — 
 They raised him, — liut the life was fled! 
 Then, first alarm'd, his sire and train 
 Tried every aid, but tried in vain. 
 The soul, too soft its ills to bear. 
 Had left our mortal hemisphere. 
 And sought in better world the meed. 
 To Ijlameless life by Heaven decreed. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The wretched sire beheld, aghast. 
 With Wilfrid all his projects past. 
 All turn'd and centred on his son. 
 On Wilfrid all — and he was gone. 
 " And I am childless now," he said, 
 " Childless, through that relentless maid ! 
 
 A lifetime's arts, in vain essay'd, 
 Are bursting on their artist's head ! 
 Here lies my Wilfrid dead — and there 
 Comes hated Mortham for his heir. 
 Eager to knit in happy band 
 With Rokeby's heiress Redmond's hand. 
 And shall their triumph soar o'er all 
 The schemes deep-laid to work their 
 
 f.ill? 
 No ! — deeds, which prudence might not 
 
 dare, 
 Appal not vengeance and despair. 
 The murderess weeps upon his bier — 
 I'll change to real that feigned tear! 
 Tiieyallshallshare destruction's shock; — 
 Ho ! lead the captives to the block ! " 
 But ill his Provost could divine 
 His feelings, and forbore the sign. 
 " Slave ! to the block ! — or I, or they. 
 Shall face the judgment-seat this day !" 
 
 The outmost crowd have heard a sound. 
 Like horse's hoof on harden'd ground: 
 Nearer it came, and yet more near, — 
 The very death's-men paused to hear. 
 'Tis in the ehurch-yard now — the tread 
 Hath waked the dwelling of the dead ! 
 Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone. 
 Return the tramp in varied tone. 
 All eyes upon the gateway hung. 
 When through the Gothic arch there 
 
 sprung 
 A horseman arm'd, at headlong speed — 
 Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. ^'' 
 Fire from the flinty ffoor was spurn'd. 
 The vaults unwonted clang return'd ! — 
 One instant's glance around he threw. 
 From saddlebow his pistol drew. 
 Grimly determined was his look ! 
 His charger with the spurs he strook — 
 All scatter'd backward as he came, 
 For all knew Bertram Risingham ! 
 Three bounds that noble courser gave; 
 The first has reach'd the central nave, 
 The second clear'd the chancel wide. 
 The third — he was at Wycliffe's side. 
 Full ievell'd 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. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 ROKEBY. 
 
 257 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 While yet the smoke the deed conceals, 
 Bertram his ready charger wheels; 
 But flounder'd on the pavement floor 
 The steed, and down the rider bore, 
 And, bursting in the headlong sway. 
 The faithless saddle-girths gave way. 
 'Twas while he toil'd him to be freed. 
 And with the rein to raise the steed. 
 That from amazement's iron trance 
 AH Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once. 
 Sword, halbert, musket-butt, their blows 
 Ilail'd upon Bertram as he rose; 
 A score of pikes, with each a wound, 
 Bore down and pinn'd him to the ground; 
 But still his struggling force he rears, 
 "Gainst hacking brands and stabbing 
 
 spears; 
 Thrice from assailants shook him free. 
 Once gain'd his feet, and twice his knee. 
 By tenfold odds oppress'd at length. 
 Despite his struggles and his strength, 
 lie 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 Ix-'nd their weapons on the slain. 
 Lest the grim king should rouse again ! 
 Then blow and insult some renew'd. 
 And from the trunk, the head had hew'd. 
 But Basil's voice the deed forbade; 
 A mantle o'er the corse 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. 
 No more of trump and bugle clang, 
 Tho' thro' the sounding woods there come 
 Banner and Vjugle, trump and drum. 
 Arm'd with such powers as well had freed 
 Young Redmond at his utmost need, 
 
 And back'd with such a band of horse. 
 As might less ample powers enforce; 
 Possess'd of every proof and sign 
 That gave an heir to Mortham's line, 
 And yielded to a father's arms 
 An image of his Edith's cftrms, — 
 Mortham is come, to hear and see 
 Of this strange morn the history. 
 What saw he? — not the church's floor, 
 Cumber'd with dead and . stain'd with 
 
 gore; 
 What heard he? — not the clamorous 
 
 crowd. 
 That shout their gratulations loud : 
 Redmond he saw and heard alone, 
 Clasp'd him, and sobb'd, "My son! 
 
 my son ! " — 
 
 This chanced upon a summer morn. 
 When yellow waved the heavy corn : 
 But when brown August o'er the land 
 Call'd forth the reaper's busy band, 
 A gladsome sight the sylvan road 
 From Egliston to Mortham show'd. 
 A while the hardy rustic leaves 
 The task to bind and pile the sheaves. 
 And maids their sickles fling aside. 
 To gaze on bridegroom and on bride. 
 And childhood's wondering group draws 
 
 near, 
 And from the gleaner's hands the ear 
 Drops, while she folds them for a prayer 
 And blessing on the lovely pair. 
 'Twas 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 lengthen'd life of peace and love. 
 
 Time and Tide had thus their sway. 
 Yielding, like an April day, 
 Smiling noon for sullen morrow. 
 Years of joy for hours of sorrow ! 
 
THE 
 
 BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE VALE OF ST. JOHN. 
 A LOVER'S TALE. 
 
 PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. 
 
 In the Edinburgh Annual Register for the year i8og, Tliree Fragments were inserted, 
 written in imitation of Living Poets. It must have been apparent, that by these prolusions, 
 nothing burlesque, or disrespectful to the authors, was intended, but that tliey were offered 
 to the public as serious, though certainly very imperfect, imitations of that style of compo- 
 sition, by which each of the writers is supposed to be distinguished. As these exercises 
 attracted a greater degree of attention than the author anticipated, he has been induced to 
 complete one of them, and present it as a separate 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 introduced ; since his general acquiescence in 
 the favorable suffrage of the public nmst necessarily be inferred from the attempt he has 
 now made. He is induced, by the nature of his subject, to offer a few remarks tm what 
 has been called romantic i-oetry ; the popularity of which has been revived in the pres- 
 ent day, under the auspices, and by the unparalleled success, of one individual. 
 
 The original purpose of poetry is either religious or historical, or, as must frequently 
 happen, a mixture of lx)th. To modern readers, the poems of Homer have many of the 
 features of pure romance ; but in the estimation of his contemporaries, they probably de- 
 rived their chief value from their supposed historical authenticity. 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 numloer or extravagance the figments of the histo- 
 rians 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 historians of all 
 nations. Their intention is to relate the events they have witnessed, or the traditions 
 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 historiaJi 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 becomes 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 
 circumstances which the authors themselves adopted, only because their art involved the 
 
 • Scott himself. The poem was published anonymously, the author being desirous to entrap 
 Jeffrey and his other critics. It was for some time supposed to be the work of William Erskine, 
 Lord tCinnedder. 
 
 258 
 
PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. 259 
 
 duties of the historian as well as the poet. It cannot be telieved, for example, that Homer 
 selected the siege of Troy as the most appropriate 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 tra- 
 ditionary and genealogical anecdotes extremely interesting to those who were to listen to 
 him; and this he has adorned by the exertions 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 purpose in composing it, was brought into ques- 
 tion. AoKci TrpMTOs [6 'Ai'tt^ayopas] (Ko-ff a. i/>r)<ri ^a^opifo? iv iravToSaTr^ 'IcrTopia) Trji' 'Ofij^pov 
 Troirjtriv a.iro<(>riva(r9aL elfai Trepi aperqi (cat SiKaiocrvvr)':.* But whatever theories might be 
 
 framed by speculative men, his work was of an historical, not of an allegorical nature. 
 
 Ei'auTiAAtTO n-exd tow MeVrtw Kai oirou «a<TTOTe d</>iKoi.TO, irdvTa to firi)(iapia SieptuTaTo Kal 
 icTTopeMV envvOdveTO- ciicb? St pnv riv K<ii /i.>'r)p.o<ru>'a navruv Ypdc/)e<rSat.f Instead of recom- 
 mending 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 teen 
 inculcated by almost all the writers upon the £/>o/a:ia ; with what success, the fate of 
 Homer's numerous imitators may best show. Tlie ultimuni siipplicium of criticism was 
 indicted on the author if he did not choose a subject which at once deprived him of all 
 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 appeared 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 in- 
 teresting in proportion to tlieir simplicity. Two or three figures, well grouped, suit the 
 artist better than a crowd, for whatever purpose assembled. For the same reason, a scene 
 immediately 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 teing 
 distinctly understood, 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 tlie grand event of a generaPaction ; with the happiness of two lovers raised from mis- 
 ery 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 considera- 
 tion. 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 their affections and conduct 
 are regulated, not by aspiring to a universal good, but by exerting their power of making 
 themselves and otliers happy within the limited scale allotted to each individual, so long 
 will individual history 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 accessible, inasmuch as it affords an example capable 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 ; beginning and ending as he may judge best ; which neither exacts nor refuses 
 the use of supernatural machinery; which is free from the technical rules of the Efcc ; 
 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 te 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. 
 
 * Diogenes Laertius : lib. it., Anax. Segtn. ii. 
 
 t Homeri Vita, in Herod, Henr. Steph. 1670, p. 356. 
 
 X Written by Alexander Pope. 
 
26o PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. 
 
 excepting to be heavy or prosaic, from 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 en- 
 courages 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 infe- 
 riority 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 nov- 
 elty, and which thus prevents them from adding insipidity to their other more insuperable 
 defects. 
 
THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Come, Lucy ! while 'tis morning hour, 
 
 The woodland brook we needs must 
 pass; 
 So, ere the sun assume his power. 
 We shelter in our poplar bower. 
 Where the dew lies long upon the flower, 
 
 Though vanish'd from the velvet grass. 
 Curbing the stream, the stony ridge 
 May serve us for a sylvan bridge; 
 
 For here compell'd to disunite, 
 
 Round petty isles the runnels glide. 
 And chafing off their puny spite, 
 The shallow murmurs 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, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 And now we reach the favorite glade. 
 Paled in by copse wood, cliff, and 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; 
 
 Moss'd is the stone, the turf is green, 
 A place where lovers best may meet, 
 Who would not that their love be 
 seen. 
 The boughs, that dim the summer sky. 
 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. 
 
 How deep that blush ! — how deep that 
 
 sigh ! 
 And why does Lucy shun mine eye? 
 Is it because that crimson draws 
 Its color from some secret cause. 
 Some hidden movement of the breast 
 She would not that her Arthur guess'd? 
 O ! quicker far is lover's ken 
 Than the dull glance of common men, 
 And, by strange sympathy, can spell 
 The thoughts the loved one will not 
 
 tell? 
 And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met 
 The hues of pleasure and regret; 
 Pride mingled in the sigh her voice. 
 And shared with Love the crimson 
 
 glow; 
 261 
 
262 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 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 breeze's cooling; 
 Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak, 
 For Love, too, has his hours of 
 schooling. 
 
 Too oft the anxious eye has spied 
 That secret grief thou fain wouldst hide, 
 The passing pang of huml)]ed pride; 
 Too oft, when through the splendid 
 hall, 
 The load-star of each heart and eye. 
 My fair one leads the glittering hall. 
 Will her stol'n glance on Arthur fall 
 With such a blush and such a sigh ! 
 Thou would'st not yield, for wealth or 
 rank, 
 The heart thy worth and beauty won. 
 Nor leave me on this mossy bank. 
 
 To meet a rival on a throne : 
 Why, then, should vain repinings rise, 
 That to thy lover fate denies 
 A nobler name, a wide domain, 
 A Baron's birth, a menial train. 
 Since Heaven assign'd him, for his 
 
 part, 
 A lyre, a falchion, and a heart? 
 
 My sword — its master must be dumb; 
 But, when a soldier names my name, 
 Approach, my Lucy ! fearless come, 
 
 Nor dread to hear of Arthur's shame. 
 My heart — mid all yon courtly crew. 
 
 Of lordly rank and lofty line. 
 Is there to love and honor true, 
 
 That boasts a pulse so warm as mine ? 
 They praised thy diamonds' lustre rare — 
 Match'd with thine eyes, I thought it 
 faded; 
 They praised the pearls that bound thy 
 hair — 
 I only saw the locks they braided; 
 They talk of wealthy dower and land, 
 
 And titles of high birth the token — 
 I thought of Lucy's heart and hand. 
 Nor knew the sense of what was 
 spoken. 
 
 And yet, if rank'd in Fortune's roll, 
 I might have learn'd their choice un- 
 wise. 
 
 Who rate the dower above the soul. 
 And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes. 
 
 My lyre — it is an idle toy, 
 
 That borrows accents not its own, 
 
 Like warbler of Cohmd>ian sky. 
 That sings but in a mimic tone.* 
 
 Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well. 
 
 Nor lioasts it aught of Border Spell; 
 Its strings no feudal slogan pour. 
 Its heroes draw no broad claymore; 
 No shouting clans applauses raise. 
 Because it sung their father's praise; 
 On Scottish moor, or English down, 
 It ne'er was graced by fair renown; 
 Nor won, — best meed to minstrel 
 
 true, — 
 One favoring smile from fair Buc- 
 
 CLEUCH ! 
 By one poor streamlet sounds its tone. 
 And heard by one dear maid alone. 
 
 But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall 
 
 tell 
 Of errant knight, and damozelle; 
 Of the dread knot a Wizard tied, 
 In punishment of maiden's pride, 
 In notes of marvel and of fear. 
 That best may charm romantic ear. 
 For Lucy loves, — like Collins, ill- 
 
 star'd name ! 
 Whose lay's requital was that tardy fame. 
 Who bound no laurel round his living 
 
 head, 
 Should hang it o'er his monument when 
 
 dead, — 
 For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand. 
 And thread, like him, the maze of Fairy- 
 land; 
 Of golden battlements, to view the 
 
 glejim, 
 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 ? 
 
 * The Mocking Bird. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 263 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 I. 
 Where is the Maiden of mortal strain. 
 That may match with the Baron of Tri*- 
 
 niain ? ^ 
 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 of 
 
 blood — 
 Lovely as the sun's first ray, 
 When it breaks the clouds of an April 
 
 day; 
 Constant and true as the widow'd dove. 
 Kind as a minstrel that sings of love; 
 Pure as the fountain in rocky cave. 
 Where never sunbeam kiss'd the wave; 
 Humble as maiden that loves in vain. 
 Holy as hermit's vesper strain; 
 Gentle as breeze that but whispers and 
 
 dies. 
 Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance 
 
 in its sighs; 
 Courteous as monarch the morn he is 
 
 crown'd. 
 Generous as spring-dews that bless the 
 
 glad ground; 
 Noble her blood as the currents that met 
 In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet — 
 Such must her form be, her mood, and 
 
 her strain. 
 That shall match with Sir Roland of 
 
 Triermain. 
 
 Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to 
 
 sleep. 
 His blood it was fever'd, 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, 
 With the slow soft tunes he loves the best. 
 Till sleep sink down upon his breast, 
 
 Like the dew on a summer hill. 
 
 It was the dawn of an autumn day; 
 The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray. 
 
 That like a silvery cape was spread 
 Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head. 
 And faintly gleam'd each painted pane 
 Of the lordly halls of Triermain, 
 
 When that Baron bold awoke. 
 Starting he woke, and loudly did call. 
 Rousing his menials in bower and 
 hall. 
 
 While hastily he spoke : — 
 
 " Hearken, my minstrels ! Which of ye 
 
 all 
 Touch'd his harp with that dying fall. 
 
 So sweet, so soft, so faint. 
 It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call 
 
 To an expiring saint ? 
 And hearken, my merry-men ! What 
 time or where 
 Did she pass, that maid with hei 
 heavenly brow. 
 With her look so sweet and her eyes so 
 
 fair. 
 And her graceful step and her angel air, 
 And the eagle plume in her dark-browif 
 hair. 
 That pass'd from my bower e'en 
 now ? ' ' 
 
 Answer'd him Richard de Bretville; he 
 Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy, — 
 " Silent, noble chieftain, we 
 
 Have sat since midnight close, i 
 When such lulling sounds as the brooklef 
 
 sings, 
 
 Murmur'd from our melting strings. 
 
 And hush'd you to repose. 
 
 Had a harp-note sounded here. 
 
 It had caught my watchful ear. 
 
 Although it fell as faint and shy 
 
 As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh, 
 
 When she thinks her lover near." — 
 Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall. 
 He kept guard in the outer-hall : — 
 " Since at eve our watch took post, 
 Not a foot has thy portal cross'd; 
 
 Else had I heard the steps, though 
 low 
 And light they fell, as when earth je- 
 
 ceives. 
 In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves. 
 That drop when no winds blow." — 
 
264 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 " Then come thou hither, Henry my page, 
 Whom I saved from the sack of Hermit- 
 age, 
 When that dark castle, tower, and spire, 
 Rose to the skies a pile of fire, 
 
 And redden 'd all the Nine-stane 
 Hill, 
 And the shrieks of death, that wildly 
 
 broke 
 Through devouring flame and smother- 
 ing 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, 
 And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise. • 
 Gifted like his gifted race. 
 He the characters can trace. 
 Graven deep in elder time 
 Upon Helvellyn'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 
 To that enchanting shape gave birth, 
 Or if 'twas but an airy thing, 
 Such as fantastic slumbers bring, 
 Framed from the rainbow's varying dyes. 
 Or fading tints of western skies. 
 For, by the blessed Rood I swear, 
 If that fair form breathe vital air. 
 No other maiden by my side 
 Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride ! " 
 
 The faithful Page he mounts his steed, 
 And soon he cross'd green Irthing's 
 
 mead, 
 Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain, 
 And Eden barr'd his course in vain. 
 He pass'd red Penrith's Table Round,^ 
 For feats of chivalry renown'd, 
 
 • Dunmailraise is one of the grand passes 
 from Cumberland into Westmoreland. There is 
 a cairn on it said to be the monument of Dun- 
 mail, the last King of Cumberland. 
 
 Left Mayburgh's mound ^ and stones of 
 
 power, 
 By Druids raised in magic hour, 
 And traced the Eamont's winding way, 
 Till Ulfo'st lake beneath him lay. 
 
 Onward he rode, the pathway still 
 Winding betwixt the lake and hill; 
 Till, on the fragment of a rock, 
 Struck from its base by lightning shock, 
 
 He saw the hoary Sage: 
 The silver moss and lichen twined. 
 With fern and deer-hair check'd and lined, 
 
 A cushion fit for age; 
 And o'er him shook the aspen-tree, 
 A restless, rustling canopy. 
 Then sprung young Henry from hisselle, 
 
 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 
 
 Five hundred years and one. 
 But where's the Knight in all the north, 
 That dare the adventure follow forth, 
 So perilous to knightly worth. 
 
 In the valley of St. John? 
 Listen, youth, to 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, 
 Is handed down from Merlin's age. 
 
 lyulph's tale. 
 '• King Arthur has ridden from merry 
 Carlisle 
 When Pentecost was o'er : 
 He journey'd like errant-knight the while, 
 And sweetly the summer sun did smile 
 On mountain, moss, and moor. 
 
 t U Is water. _ 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 265 
 
 Above his solitary track 
 Rose Glaraniara's ridgy back, 
 Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun 
 Cast unii)er'd radiance red and dun, 
 Though never sunlieam 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, 
 Joia'd the rude river that brawl'd on, 
 Recoiling now from crag and stone. 
 Now diving deep from human ken, 
 And raving down its darksome glen. 
 The Monarch judged this desert wild. 
 With such romantic ruin piled. 
 Was theatre by Nature's hand 
 For feat of high achievement plann'd. 
 
 "O rather he chose, that Monarch bold. 
 
 On vent'rous quest to ride. 
 In plate and mail, by wood and wold, 
 Than, with ermine trapp'd and cloth of 
 gold. 
 In princely bower to bide; 
 The bursting crash of a foeman's spear 
 
 As it shiver 'd against his mail. 
 Was merrier music to his ear 
 
 Than courtier's whisper'd tale; 
 And the clash of Caliburn* more dear. 
 When on the hostile casque it rung. 
 Than all the lays 
 To their monarch's praise 
 That the harpers of Reged sung. 
 He loved better to rest by wood or river, 
 Than in bower of his bride. Dame 
 
 Guenever, 
 For he left that lady, so lovely of cheer. 
 To follow adventures of danger and fear; 
 And the frank-hearted Monarch full little 
 
 did wot, I 
 That she smiled, in his absence, on brave 
 Lancelot. 
 
 " He rode, till over down and dell 
 The shade more broad and deeper fell; 
 
 * King Arthur's sword, called by Tennyson 
 Excalibur. 
 
 And though around the mountain's head 
 Flow'd streams of purple, and gold, 
 
 and red. 
 Dark at the base, unblest by beam, 
 Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd the 
 
 stream. 
 With toil the King his way pursued 
 By lonely Threlkeld's waste anti 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; 
 With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight, 
 As dazzled with the level light. 
 And, from beneath his glove of mail, 
 Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale. 
 While 'gainst the sun his armor bright 
 Gleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light. 
 
 "Paled in by many a lofty hill. 
 The narrow dale lay smooth and still. 
 And, down its verdant Ixwom led, 
 A winding brooklet found its bed. 
 But, midmost of the vale, a mound 
 Arose with airy turrets crown'd, 
 Buttress, and rampire's circling Iwund, 
 
 And mighty keep and tower; 
 Seem'd some primeval giant's hand 
 The castle's massive walls had plann'd, 
 A ponderous bulwark to withstand 
 
 Ambitious Nimrod's power. 
 Above the moated entrance slung, 
 The balanced drawbridge trembling hung, 
 
 As jealous of a foe; 
 Wicket of oak, as iron hard, 
 Wfth iron studded, clench'd and barr'd. 
 And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guard 
 
 The gloomy pass below. 
 But the giay walls no banners crown'd. 
 Upon the watch-tower's airy round 
 No warder stood his horn to sound. 
 No guard beside the bridge was found. 
 And where the Gothic gateway frown'd, 
 
 Glanced neither bill nor bow. 
 
 " Beneath the castle's gloomy pride 
 In ample round did Arthur ride 
 Three times; nor living thing he spied, 
 Nor heard a living sound. 
 
266 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Save that, awakening from her dream, 
 The owlet now began to scream. 
 In concert with the rushing stream, 
 
 That wash'd the battled mound. 
 He lighted from his goodly steed. 
 And he left him to graze on bank and mead ; 
 And slowly he climb'd the narrow way, 
 That reach'd 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 guess'd the hold 
 Of wizard stern, or goblin grim. 
 Or pagan of gigantic limb. 
 
 The tyrant of the wold. 
 
 " The ivory bugle's golden tip 
 
 Twice touch'd the monarch's manly lip. 
 
 And twice his hand withdrew. 
 — Think not but Arthur's heart was good ! 
 His shield was cross'd by the blessed rood, 
 Had a pagan host before him stood. 
 
 He had charged them through and 
 through ; 
 Yet the silence of that ancient place 
 Sunk on his heart, and he paused a 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 obey'd the blast. 
 And down the trembling drawl iridge cast ; 
 The vaulted arch before him lay. 
 With naught to b.ar the gloomy way. 
 And onward Arthur paced, with hand 
 On Caliburn's resistless brand. 
 
 " A hundred torches, flashing bright, 
 Dispell'd at once the gloomy night 
 
 That lour'd along the walls, 
 And show'd the King's astonish'd sight 
 
 The inmates of the halls. 
 Nor wizard stern, nor goblin grim, 
 Nor giant huge of form and limb, 
 
 Nor heathen knight, was there : 
 But the cressets, which odors flung aloft, 
 Show'd by their yellow light and soft, 
 
 A band of damsels fair. 
 
 Onward they came, like summer wave 
 That dances to the shore; 
 
 A hundred voices welcome gave, 
 And welcome o'er and o'er ! 
 
 A hundred lovely hands assail 
 
 The bucklers of the monarch's mail. 
 
 And busy labor'd to unhasp 
 
 Rivet of steel and iron clasp. 
 
 One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair. 
 
 And one flung odors on his hair; 
 
 His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd 
 down, 
 
 One wreathed them with a myrtle crown. 
 
 A bride upon her wedding-day, 
 
 Was tended ne'er by troop so gay. 
 
 " Loud laugh'd they all, — the King, in 
 
 vain. 
 With questions task'd the giddy train; 
 Let him entreat, or crave, or call, 
 'Twas one reply — loud laugh'd they all. 
 Then o'er him mimic chains they fling, 
 ]"~ramed 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 
 The terrors of Tintadgel's spear;^ 
 Two, laughing at their lack of strength, 
 Dragg'd Caliburn in cumbrous length; 
 One, while she aped a martial stritle. 
 Placed on her brows the helmet's pride; 
 Then scream'd, 'twixt laughter and sur- 
 prise, 
 To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes. 
 With revel-shout, and triumph-song. 
 Thus gaylymarch'd the giddy throng. 
 
 " Through many a gallery and hall 
 They led, I ween, their royal thrall; 
 At length, beneath a fair arcade 
 Their march and song at once they staid. 
 The eldest maiden of the band, 
 
 (The lovely maid was scarce eigh- 
 - teen,) 
 Raised, with imposing air her hand. 
 And reverent silence did command; 
 
 On entrance of their Queen, 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 267 
 
 And they were mute. — But as a glance 
 They steal on Arthur's countenance, 
 
 Bewikler'd with surprise, 
 Their sniother'd mirth again 'gan speak, 
 In archly dimpled chin and cheek, 
 
 And laughter-lighted eyes. 
 
 " 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 soar'd beyond the sky. 
 And beauty had such matchless beam 
 As lights not now a lover's dream. 
 Yet e'en in that romantic age. 
 
 Ne'er were such charms by 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 pass'd, 
 Her dark eye on the King she cast. 
 
 That flash'd expression strong; 
 The longer dwelt that lingering look, 
 Her cheek the livelier 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, 
 Bar the fell dragon's blighted way. 
 
 But shun that lovely snare ! ' — 
 
 " At once that inward strife suppress'd. 
 The dame approach'd her warlike guest, 
 With greeting in that fair degree, 
 Where female pride and courtesy 
 Are blended with such passing art 
 As awes at once and charms the heart. 
 A courtly welcome first she gave. 
 Then of his goodness 'gan to crave 
 
 Construction fair and true 
 Of her light mai-lens' idle mirth, 
 Who drew from lonely glens their birth. 
 Nor knew to pay to stranger worth 
 
 And dignity their due; 
 
 And then she pray'd that he would rest 
 That night her castle's honor'd guest. 
 The Monarch meekly thanks express'd; 
 The banquet rose at her behest. 
 With lay and tale, and laugh and jest, 
 Apace the evening flew. 
 
 "The lady sate the Monarch by. 
 Now in her turn abash'd and shy. 
 And with indifference seem'd to hear 
 The toys he whisper'd in her ear. 
 Her bearing modest was and fair. 
 Yet shadows of constraint were there, 
 That show'd an over-cautious care 
 
 Some inward thought to hide; 
 Oft did she pause in full reply. 
 And oft cast down her large dark eye, 
 Oft check'd the soft voluptuous sigh. 
 
 That heaved her bosom's pride. 
 Slight symptoms these, but shepherds 
 
 know 
 How hot the mid-day sun shall glow. 
 
 From the mist of morning sky; 
 And so the wily Monarch guess'd, 
 That this assumed restraint express'd 
 More ardent passions in the breast. 
 
 Than ventured to the eye. 
 Closer he press'd, while beakers rang, 
 While maidens laugh'd 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 whereforelrace from what slight cause 
 Its source one tyrant passion draws. 
 
 Till, mastering all within, 
 Where lives the men that has not tried. 
 How mirth can into folly glide. 
 
 And folly into sin ? " 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 Hewer, 
 Lies loitering in a lady's bower; 
 
268 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 Canto II, 
 
 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. 
 
 " Another day, another day. 
 
 And yet another glides away ! 
 
 Heroic j)lans in pleasure drown'd, 
 
 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 Ixjsom of his paramour, 
 
 Than from a Saxon knight to wrest 
 
 The honors of his heathen crest! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 " Much force have mortal charms to 
 
 stay 
 Our peace in Virtue's toilsome way; 
 But Guendolen's might far outshine 
 Each maid of merely mortal line. 
 Her mother was of human birth. 
 Her sire a Genie of the earth, 
 In days of old deem'd to preside 
 O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride. 
 By youths and virgins worshipp'd long. 
 With festive dance and choral song, 
 Till, when the cross to Britain came, 
 On heathen altars died the flame. 
 Now, deep in Wastdale solitude. 
 The downfall of his rights he rued. 
 And, born of his resentment heir. 
 He train'd to guile that lady fair. 
 To sink in slothful sin and shame 
 The champions of the Christian name. 
 Well skill'd to keep vain thoughts alive. 
 And all to promise, naught to give, — 
 The timid youth had hope in store. 
 The bold and pressing gain'd no more. 
 As wilder'd children leave their home. 
 After the rainbow's arch to roam, 
 Her lovers barter 'd fair esteem. 
 Faith, fame, and honor, for a dream. 
 
 " Her sire's soft arts the soul to tame 
 She practised thus — till Arthur came; 
 Then, frail humanity had ))art, 
 And all the mother claim'd her heart. 
 Forgot each rule her father gave. 
 Sunk from a princess to a slave. 
 Too late must Guendolen deplore, 
 He, that has all, can hope no more ! 
 Now must she see her lover strain 
 At every turn her feeble chain; 
 Watch, to new-bind each knot, and shrink 
 To view each fast-decaying link. 
 Art she invokes to Nature's aid. 
 Her vest to zone, her locks to braid; 
 Each varied pleasure heard her call. 
 The feast, the tourney, and the ball: 
 Her storied lore she next applies. 
 Taxing her mind to aid her eyes; 
 Now more than mortal wise, and then 
 In female softness sunk again : 
 Now, raptured, with each wish complying. 
 With feign'd reluctance now denying; 
 Pvach charm she varied, to retain 
 A varying heart — and all in vain ! 
 
 "Thus in the garden's narrow bound, 
 Flank'd by some castle's Gothic round. 
 Fain would the artist's skill provide. 
 The limits of his realms to hide. 
 The walks and labyrinths he twines. 
 Shade after shade with skill combines. 
 With many a varied flowery knot. 
 And copse, and arbor, decks the spot, 
 Tenijiting the hasty foot to stay, 
 
 And linger on the lovely way 
 
 Vain art ! vain hope ! 'tis fruitless all ! 
 At length we reach the bounding wall, 
 And, sick of flower and trim-dress'd tree, 
 Long for rough glades and forest free. 
 
 "Three summer months had scantly 
 
 flown, 
 When Arthur, in embarrass'd tone. 
 Spoke of his liegemen and his throne; 
 Said, all too long had been his stay. 
 And duties, which a Monarch sway, 
 Duties, unknown to humbler men. 
 Must tear her knight from Guendolen. — ■ 
 She listen'd silently the while. 
 Her mood express'd in bitter smile; 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 269 
 
 Beneath her eye must Arthur quail, 
 And oft resume the unfinish'd tale, 
 Confessing, by his downcast eye, 
 The wrong he sought to justify. 
 He ceased. A moment mute she gazed. 
 And then her looks to heaven she raised; 
 One palm her temples veil'd, to hide 
 The tear that sprung in spite of pride ! 
 The other for an instant press'd 
 nie foldings of her silken vest ! 
 
 I " At her reproachful sign and look. 
 
 The hint the Monarch's conscience 
 
 took. 
 Eager he spoke : — - ' No, lady, no ! 
 
 I Deem not of British Arthur so, 
 
 I Nor think he can deserter prove 
 To the dear pledge of mutual love. 
 I swear by sceptre and by sword, 
 
 I As belted knight and Britain's lord, 
 That if a boy shall claim my care. 
 That boy is born a kingdom's heir; 
 But, if a maiden Fate allows, 
 
 ' To choose that maid a fitting spouse, 
 A summer-day in lists shall strive 
 My knights, — thebravest knights alive, — 
 And he, the best and bravest tried, 
 Shall Arthur'sdaughter claim for bride.' — 
 He spoke, with voice resolved and high — 
 The lady deign'd him not reply. 
 
 " At dawn of morn, ere on the brake 
 His matins did a warbler make. 
 Or stirr'd his wing to brush away 
 A single dew-drop from the spray. 
 Ere yet a sunl>eam through the mist. 
 The castle-battlements had kiss'd. 
 The gates revolve, the drawbridge falls, 
 And Arthur sallies from the walls. 
 1 )off 'd his soft garb of Persia's loom. 
 And steel from spur to helmet-plume. 
 His Libyan steed full proudly trode. 
 And joyful neigh'd beneath his load. 
 The Monarch gave a passing sigh 
 To penitence and pleasures by, 
 When, lo ! to his astonish '/I ken 
 Appear'd the form of Guendolen. 
 
 " Beyond the outmost wall she stood, 
 Attir'd like huntress of the wood: 
 
 Sandall'd her feet, her ankles bare. 
 And eagle-plumage deck'd her hair; 
 Firm was her look, her bearing bold. 
 And in her hand a cup of gold. 
 ' Thou goest,' she said, ' and ne'er again 
 Must we two meet, in joy or pain. 
 Full fain would I this hour delay. 
 Though weak the wish — yet wilt thou 
 
 stay? 
 — No ! thou look'st forward. Still 
 
 attend, — 
 Part we like lover and like friend.' 
 She raised the cup — ' Not this the juice 
 The sluggish vines of earth produce; 
 Pledge we, at parting, in the draught 
 Which Genii love ! ' — shesaid, andquaff'd, 
 And strange unwonted lustres fly 
 From her flush'd cheek and sparkling eye. 
 
 "The courteous Monarch bent him 
 
 low. 
 And, stooping down from saddle-bow, 
 Lifted the cup, in act to drink. 
 A drop escaped the goblet's brink — 
 Intense as liquid fire from hell. 
 Upon the charger's neck it fell. 
 Screaming with agony and fright, 
 He bolted twenty feet upright ! — 
 — The peasant still can show the dint. 
 Where his hoofs lighted on the flint. — 
 From Arthur's hand the goblet flew, 
 Scattering a shower of fiery dew,^ 
 That burn'd and blighted where it fell ! 
 The frantic steed rush'd up the dell. 
 As whistles from the bow the reed; 
 Nor bit nor reign could check his speed. 
 
 Until he gain'd the hill; 
 Then breath and sinew fail'd apace, 
 And, reeling from the desperate race. 
 
 He stood, exhausted, still. 
 The Monarch, breathless and amazed. 
 Back on the fatal castle gazed — 
 Nor tower nor donjon could he spy. 
 Darkening against the morning sky;^ 
 But, on the spot where once they frown'd, 
 The lonely streamlet brawl'd around 
 A tufted knoll, where dimly shone 
 Fragments of rocks and rifted stone. 
 Musing on this strange hap the while, 
 The king wends back to fair Carlisle : 
 And cares, that cumber royal sway. 
 Wore memory of the past away. 
 
270 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 " Full fifteen years, and more, were sped. 
 Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's 
 
 head. 
 Twelve Vjloody fields, with glory fought,* 
 The Saxons to subjection brought : 
 Rython, the mighty giant, slain 
 By his good brand, relieved Bretagne: 
 The Pictish Gillamore in fight, 
 And Roman Lucius own'd his might; 
 And wide were through the world re- 
 
 nown'd 
 The glories of his Table Round. 
 Each knight who sought adventurous 
 
 fame, 
 To the bold court of Britain came. 
 And all who suffer'd causeless wrong. 
 From tyrant proud, or faitour strong, 
 Sought Arthur's presence to complain. 
 Nor there for aid implored in vain. 
 
 " For this the King, with pompand pride. 
 Held solemn court at Whitsuntide, 
 
 And summon'd I'rince and Peer, 
 All who owed homage for their land, 
 Or who craved knighthood from his hand. 
 Or who had succor to demand, 
 
 To come from far and near. 
 At such high tide were glee and game 
 Mingled with feats of martial fame. 
 For many a stranger champion came. 
 
 In lists to break a spear; 
 And not a knight of Arthur's host. 
 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 crown'd. 
 There was a theme for bards to sound 
 
 In triumph to their string ! 
 Five hundred years are past and gone, 
 But time shall draw his dying groan. 
 Ere he behold the British throne 
 
 Begirt with such a ring; 
 
 " The heralds named the appointed spot. 
 As Caerlon or Camelot, 
 
 Or Carlisle fair and free. 
 At Penrith, now, the feast was set. 
 And in fair Eamont's vale were met 
 
 The flower of Chivalry, 
 
 There Galaad sate with manly grace, 
 Yet maiden meekness in his face ; 
 There Morolt of the iron mace. 
 
 And love-lorn Tristrem there;^ 
 And Dinadam with lively glance. 
 And Lanval with the fairy lance. 
 And Mordred with his look askance, 
 
 Brunor and Bevidere. 
 Why should I tell of meml>ers more? 
 Sir Cay, Sir Banier, and Sir Bore, 
 
 Sir Carodac the keen. 
 The Gentle Gawain's courteous lore. 
 Hector de Mares and Pellinore, 
 And Lancelot, that evermore 
 Look'd stol'n-wise on the Queen. ^'^ 
 
 " When wine and mirth did most abound, 
 And harpers play'd their blithest round, 
 A shrilly trumpet shook the ground, 
 
 And marshals clear'd the ring; 
 A maiden, on a palfrey white, 
 Heading a band of damsels bright, 
 Paced through the circle, to alight 
 
 And kneel before the King. 
 Arthur, with strong emotion, saw 
 Her graceful boldness check'd by awe. 
 Her dress, like huntress of the wold, 
 Her bow and baldric trapp'd with gold. 
 Her sandall'd feet, her ankles bare. 
 And the eagle-plume that deck'd her hair. 
 Graceful her veil she backward flung — • 
 The King, as from his scat he sprung, 
 
 Almost cried ' Guendolen ! ' 
 But 'twas a face more frank and wild. 
 Betwixt the woman and the child. 
 Where less of magic beauty smiled 
 
 Than of the race of men; 
 And in the forehead's haughty grace 
 The lines of Britain's royal race, 
 
 Pendragon's you might ken. 
 
 " Faltering, yet gracefully, she said: — 
 ' Great Prince ! behold an orphan maid, 
 In her departed mother's name, 
 A father's vow'd protection claim ! 
 The vow was sworn in desert lone, 
 In the deep valley of St. John.' 
 At once the King the suppliant raised. 
 And kiss'd her brow, her beauty praised; 
 His vow, he said, should well be kept, 
 Ere in the sea the sun was dipp'd, — 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRtERMAlN. 
 
 271 
 
 Then, conscious, glanced upon his 
 
 queen; 
 But she, unruffled at the scene 
 Of human frailty, construed mild, 
 Look'd upon Lancelot and smiled. 
 
 " ' Up ! up I each knight of gallant crest 
 
 Take buckler, spear, and brand ! 
 lie that to-day shall bear him best, 
 
 Shall win my Gyncth's hand. 
 And Arthur's daughter, when a bride, 
 
 Shall bring a noble dower; 
 Botii fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide. 
 
 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 ! 
 'Tis 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. 
 Small care had they of their peaceful 
 array. 
 
 They might gather it that wolde; 
 For brake and bramble glitter'd gay. 
 
 With pearls and cloth of gold. 
 
 " 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. 
 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. 
 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, .ind Reged 
 wide. 
 
 And Carlisle tower and town; 
 She is the loveliest maid, beside. 
 
 That ever heir'd a crown.' 
 So in haste their coursers they bestride, 
 
 And strike their visors down. 
 
 " The champions, arm'd in martial sort. 
 
 Have throng'd into the list. 
 And but three knights of Arthur's court 
 
 Are from the tourney miss'd. 
 And still these lovers' fame survives 
 
 For faith so constant shown — 
 There were two who loved their neigh- 
 lx)r's wives. 
 
 And one who loved his own.^^* 
 The first was Lancelot de Lac, 
 
 The second Tristrem bold, 
 The third was valiant Carodac, 
 
 Who won the cup of gold,*'^ 
 What time, of all King Arthur's crew, 
 
 (Thereof came jeer and laugh,) 
 He, as the mate of lady true. 
 
 Alone the cup could quaff. 
 Though envy's tongue would fain surmise, 
 
 That but for very shame. 
 Sir Carodac, to fight that prize. 
 
 Had given both cup and dame; 
 Vet, 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. 
 
 " Now caracoled the steeds in air, 
 
 Now plumes and pennons wanton'd 
 
 fair. 
 As all around the lists so wide 
 In panoply the champions ride. 
 King Arthur saw with startled eye. 
 The flower of chivalry march by. 
 The bulwark of the Christian creed. 
 The kingdom's shield in hour of need. 
 Too late he thought him of the woe 
 Might from their civil conflict flow; 
 For well he knew they would not part 
 Till cold was many a gallant heart. 
 His hasty vow he 'gan to rue, 
 And Gyneth then apart he drew; 
 To her his leafling-staff resign'd, 
 But added caution grave and kind : — 
 
272 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIM. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 " ' Thou seest, my child, as promise- 
 bound, 
 I bid the trump for lourney 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; 
 And Beauty's eyes should ever be 
 Like the twin stars that soothe the sea. 
 And Beauty 'sbreath should whisperpeace. 
 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. 
 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 l)e it said, through Gyneth's pride 
 A rose of Arthur's chaplet died." 
 
 " A proud and discontented glow 
 O'ershadow'd Gyneth's brow of snow; 
 
 She put the warder by : - — 
 ' Reserve thy boon, my liege,' she said, 
 ' Thus chaffer'd down and limited, 
 Debased and narrow, for a maid 
 
 Of less degree than I. 
 No petty chief but holds his heir 
 At a more honor'd price and rare 
 
 Than Britain's King holds me ! 
 Although the sun-burn'd maid, for dower. 
 Has but her fatlier's rugged tower. 
 
 His barren hill and lee.' — 
 King Arthur swore, ' By crown and sword, 
 As belted knight and Britain's lord. 
 That a whole summer's day should strive 
 His knights, the bravest knights alive ! ' 
 ' Recall thine oath ! and to her glen 
 Poor Gyneth can return aj^en ! 
 Not on thy daughter will the stain. 
 That soils thy sword and crown remain. 
 
 But think not she will e'er be bride 
 Save to the bravest, proved and tried; 
 Pendragon's daughter will not fear 
 For clashing sword or splinter'd 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.' — 
 
 '* He frown'd and sigh'd, the Monarch 
 
 bold: — 
 ' I give — what I may not withhold; 
 For, not for danger, dread, or death, 
 Must British Arthur break his faith. 
 Too la,te I mark, thy mother's art 
 Hath taught thee this relentless part. 
 I blame her not, for she had wrong. 
 But not to these my faults belong. 
 Use, then, the warder as thou wilt; 
 But trust me, that if life be spilt. 
 In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace, 
 Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place.' 
 With that he turn'd his head aside, 
 Nor brook'd to gaze upon her pride. 
 As, with the truncheon raised, she sate 
 The arbitress of mortal fate: 
 Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks disposed, 
 How the lx)ld 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. 
 
 " But Gyneth heard the clangor high. 
 As hears the hawk the partridge cry. 
 Oh, blame her not ! the blood was 
 
 hers. 
 That at the trumpet's summons stirs ! — 
 And e'en the gentlest female eye 
 Might the brave strife of chivalry 
 
 A while untroubled view; 
 So well accomplish'd was each knight. 
 To strike and to defend in fight. 
 Their meeting was a goodly sight. 
 
 While plate and mail held true. 
 The lists with painted plumes were strewn. 
 Upon the wind at random thrown. 
 But helm and breastplate bloodless shone. 
 It seem'd their feather'd crests alone 
 
 Should this encounter rue. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 273 
 
 And ever, as the combat grows. 
 The trumpet's cheery voice arose, 
 Like lark's shrill song the flourish flows, 
 Heard while the gale of April blows 
 The merry greenwood through. 
 
 " 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 stream'd with gore. 
 Gone, too, were fence and fair array. 
 And desperate strength made deadly way 
 At random through the bloody fray. 
 And blows were dealt with headlong 
 sway. 
 
 Unheeding where they fell; 
 And now the trumpet's clamors seem 
 Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream. 
 Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream, 
 
 The sinking seaman's knell ! 
 
 " Seem'd in this dismal hour, that Fate 
 Would Camlan's ruin antedate, 
 
 And spare dark Mordred's crime; 
 Already gasping on the ground 
 Lie twenty of the Table 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 deem'd her mother's shade 
 Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade 
 The sign that had the slaughter staid. 
 
 And chid the rising tear. 
 Then Brunor, Taulas, 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 press'd 
 Even to the confines of the list. 
 Young Vanoc of the beardless face, 
 (Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race,) 
 
 O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled. 
 His heart's-blood dyed her sandals red. 
 But then the sky was overcast. 
 Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's blast, 
 
 And, rent by sudden throes, 
 Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth. 
 And from the gulf, — tremendous 
 birth ! — 
 
 The form of Merlin rose. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyed 
 
 The dreary lists with slaughter dyed. 
 And sternly raised his hand: — 
 
 ' Madmen,' he said, 'your strife forbear; 
 
 And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear 
 The doom thy fates demand ! 
 Long shall close in stony sleep 
 Eyes for ruth that would not weep; 
 Iron lethargy shall seal 
 Heart that pity scorn'd to feel. 
 Yet because thy mother's art 
 Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart. 
 And for love of Arthur's race. 
 Punishment is blent with grace. 
 Thou shall 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 or arms as far renown 'd 
 As warrior of the Table Round. 
 Long endurance of thy slumber 
 Well may teach the world to number 
 All their wo^s 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; 
 Twice her strength in vain she tries. 
 From the fatal chair to rise; 
 Merlin's magic doom is spoken, 
 Vanoc's death must now be wroken. 
 Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall. 
 Curtaining each azure ball. 
 Slowly as on summer eves 
 Violets fold their dusky leaves. 
 
 * Doom. 
 
274 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 The weighty baton of command 
 Now bears down her sinking hand, 
 On her shoulder droops her head; 
 Net of pearl and golden thread, 
 Bursting, gave her locks to flow 
 O'er her arm and breast of snow. 
 And so lovely seem'd she there, 
 Spell-bound in her ivory chair, 
 That her angry sire, repenting. 
 Craved stern Merlin for relenting. 
 And the champions, for her sake. 
 Would again the contest wake; 
 Till, in necromantic night, 
 Gyneth vanish'd from their sight. 
 
 " 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. 
 Of the persevering few. 
 Some from hopeless task withdrew. 
 When they read the dismal threat 
 Graved upon the gloomy gate. 
 Few have braved the yawning door, 
 And those few return'd no more. 
 In the lapse of time forgot, 
 Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot; 
 Sound her sleep as in the tomVj, 
 Till waken'd by the trump of doom." 
 
 END OF LYULPH'S TALE. 
 
 Here pause my tale; for all too soon. 
 My Lucy, comes the hour of noon. 
 Already from thy lofty dome 
 Its courtly inmates 'gin to roam. 
 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 naught to do. 
 
 Here is no longer place for me; 
 
 For, Lucy, thou wouldst blush to see 
 Some phantom, fashionably thin. 
 With limb of lath and kerchief 'd chin. 
 And lounging gape, or sneering grin. 
 
 Steal sudden on our privacy. 
 
 And how should I, so humbly born. 
 
 Endure the graceful spectre's scorn? 
 
 Faith ! ill, I fear, while conjuring wand 
 
 Of English oak is hard at hand. 
 
 Or grant the hour be all too soon 
 For Hessian boot and pantaloon. 
 And grant the lounger seldom strays 
 Beyond the smooth and gravell'd maze. 
 Laud we the gods, that Fashion's train 
 Holds hearts of more adventurous strain. 
 Artists are hers, who scorn to trace 
 Their rules from Nature's boundless 
 
 grace. 
 But their right paramount assert 
 To limit her by pedant art. 
 Damning whate'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 drown'd. 
 While the chasse-cnfe glides around; 
 And such may hither secret stray. 
 To labor an extempore: 
 Or sportsman, with his boisterous hollo, 
 May here his wiser spaniel follow. 
 Or stage-struck Juliet may presume 
 To choose this bower for tiring-room; 
 And 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. 
 
 But oh, my Lucy, say how long 
 We still must dread this trifling throng. 
 And stoop to hide, with coward art, j 
 The genuine feelings of the heart ! 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRtERMAIN. 
 
 475 
 
 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, trimm'd cap-a-pie, 
 Who loves in the saloon to show 
 The arms that never knew a foe; 
 Whose sabre trails along the ground. 
 Whose legs in shapeless bootsaredrown'd; 
 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, 
 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 train'd 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 ; ^^ 
 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 reckon'd 
 A motion, you should gladly second ? 
 
 What, neither ! Can there be a third. 
 To such resistless swains preferr'd? — 
 O why, my Lucy, turn aside. 
 With that quick glance of injured pride? 
 Forgive mc, love, I cannot bear 
 That alter'd and resentful air. 
 Were all the wealth of Russell mine. 
 And all the rank of Howard's line, 
 All would I give for leave to dry 
 That dewdrop trembling in thine eye. 
 Think not I fear such fops can wile 
 From Lucy more than careless smile; 
 But yet if wealth and high degree 
 Give gilded counters currency. 
 
 Must I not fear, when rank and birth 
 Stamp the pure ore of genuine worth? 
 Nobles there are, whose martial fires 
 Rival the fame that raised their sires, 
 And patriots, skill'd through storms of fate 
 To guide and guard the reeling state. 
 Such, such there are — if such should 
 
 come, 
 Arthur must tremble and l^ 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? 
 Oh, 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 would'st thou bid the demons fly 
 Like mist tefore the dawning sky, 
 There is but one resistless spell — 
 Say, wilt thou guess, or must I tell ? 
 'Twere hard to name, in minstrel phrase, 
 A landaulet and four blood-bays, 
 But bards agree this wizard band 
 Can but l>e bound in Northern land. 
 'Tis there — nay, draw not back thy hand ! 
 'Tis there this slender finger round 
 Must golden amulet be bound. 
 Which, bless'd with many a holy prayer. 
 Can change to rapture lover's care. 
 And doubt and jealousy shall die. 
 And fears give place to ecstasy. 
 
 VIII. 
 Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long 
 Has l>een thy lover's tale and 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 ! 
 
276 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I. 
 
 Long loved, long woo'd, and lately won. 
 
 My life's best hope, and now mine 
 
 own ! 
 Doth not this rude and Alpine glen 
 Recall our 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 cross'd. 
 While round Ben-Cruach's mighty base 
 Wheel the slow steed and lingering chaise. 
 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. 
 But when old Allan would expound 
 Of Beal-na-paish * the Celtic sound. 
 His bonnet doff'd, and bow, applied 
 His legend to my bonny bride; 
 While Lucy blush 'd beneath his eye. 
 Courteous and cautious, shrewd and sly. 
 
 Enough of him. — Now, ere we lose. 
 Plunged in the vale, the distant views. 
 Turn thee, my love ! look back once more 
 To the blue lake's retiring shore. 
 On its smooth breast the shadows seem 
 Like objects in a morning dream, 
 What time the slumberer is aware 
 He sleeps, and all the vision's air: 
 Even so, on yonder liquid lawn, 
 In hues of bright reflection drawn. 
 Distinct the shaggy mountains lie. 
 Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky; ' 
 The summer-clouds so plain we note. 
 That we might count each dappled spot: 
 We gaze and we admire, yet know 
 The scene is all delusive show. 
 Such dreams of bliss would Arthur draw. 
 When first his Lucy's form he saw; 
 
 * Beal-na-paish, in English the Vale of the 
 Bridal. 
 
 Yet sigh'd and sicken'd as he drew, 
 Despairing they could e'er prove true ! 
 
 But, Lucy, turn thee now, to view 
 
 Up the fair glen, our destined 
 way: 
 The fairy path that we pursue. 
 Distinguish 'd but by greener hue. 
 
 Winds round the purple brae, 
 While Alpine flowers of varied dye 
 For carpet serve, or tapestry. 
 See how the little runnels leap. 
 In threads of silver, down the steep, 
 
 To swell the brooklet's moan ! 
 Seems that the Highland Naiad grieves. 
 Fantastic while her crown she weaves. 
 Of rowan, birch, and alder-leaves. 
 
 So lovely, and so lone. 
 There's no illusion there; these flowers. 
 That wailing brook, these lovely bowers, 
 
 Are, Lucy, all our own; 
 And, since thine Arthur call'd thee 
 
 wife, 
 Such seems the prospect of his life, 
 A lovely path, on-winding still, 
 By gurgling brook and sloping hill. 
 'Tis true, that mortals cannot tell 
 What waits them in the distant dell; 
 But be it hap, or be it harm, 
 We tread the pathway arm in arm. 
 
 And now, my Lucy, wot'st thou why 
 
 I could thy bidding twice deny, 
 
 W'hen twice you pray'd I would again 
 
 Resume the legendary strain 
 
 Of the bold knight of Triermain? 
 
 At length yon peevish vow you swore. 
 
 That you would sue to me no more. 
 
 Until the minstrel fit drew near, 
 
 And made me prize a listening ear. 
 
 But, loveliest, when thou first didst 
 
 pray 
 Continuance of the knightly lay. 
 Was it not on the happy day 
 
 That made thy hand mine own? 
 When, dizzied with mine ecstasy. 
 Naught 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. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 277 
 
 Again the summons I denied 
 In yon (air 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), 
 My Muse, then — seldom will she wake. 
 Save by dim wood and silent lake; 
 She is the wild and rustic Maid, 
 Whose foot unsandall'd loves to tread 
 Where the soft greensward is inlaid 
 
 With varied moss and thyme; 
 And, lest the simple lily-braid, 
 That coronets her temples, fade, 
 She hides her still in greenwood shade. 
 
 To meditate her rhyme. 
 
 And now she comes ! The murmur dear 
 Of the wild brook hath ciught her ear, 
 
 The glades hath won her eye; 
 She longs to join with each blithe rill 
 That dances down the Highland hill, 
 
 Her blither melody. 
 And now, my Lucy's way to cheer, 
 She bids Ben-Cruach's echoes hear 
 How closed the tale, my love whilere 
 
 Loved for its chivalry. 
 List how she tells, in notes of flame, 
 " Child Roland to the dark tower came." 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 I. 
 
 Bewcastlk now must keep the Hold, 
 
 Speir- Adam's steeds must bide in stall, 
 Of Hartley-burn the Ixjwmen Ixild 
 
 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 plunder'd flocks 
 
 The Borderers bootless may complain; 
 They lack the sword of brave de Vaux, 
 
 There comes no aid from Trierniain. 
 That lord, on high adventure bound. 
 
 Hath wander'd forth alone, 
 And day and night keeps watchful round 
 
 In the valley of Saint John. 
 
 When first began his vigil lx)ld, 
 
 The moon twelve summer nights was old. 
 
 And shone both fair and full; 
 High in the vault of cloudless hue, 
 O'er streamlet, dale, and rock she threw 
 
 Her light composed and cool. 
 Stretch'd on the brownhill's heathy breast, 
 
 Sir Roland eyed the vale; 
 Chief where, distinguish'd from the rest. 
 Those clustering rocks uprear'd their crest. 
 The dwelling of the fair distress'd. 
 
 As told 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. 
 
 Ever he watch'd, and oft he deem'd. 
 While on the mound the moonlight 
 stream'd, 
 
 It alter'd to his eyes; 
 Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan change 
 To buttress'd walls their shapeless range. 
 Fain think, by transmutation strange, 
 
 He saw gray turrets rise. 
 But scarce his heart with hope throbb'd 
 
 high, 
 Before the wild illusions fly. 
 
 Which fancy had conceived. 
 Abetted by an anxious eye 
 
 That long'd to be deceived. 
 It was a fond deception all. 
 Such as, in solitary hall, 
 
 Beguiles the musing eye. 
 When, gazing on the sinking fire. 
 Bulwarks, 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 remain'd the same. 
 
 IV. 
 Oft has he traced the charmed mound, 
 Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it round, 
 Yet nothing might explore, 
 
278 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 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 l)y day he walks the hill. 
 And when the evening gale is chill, 
 
 He seeks a rocky cell. 
 Like hermit poor to bid his bead. 
 And tell his Ave and his Creed, 
 Invoking every saint at need. 
 
 For aid to burst his spell. 
 
 And now the moon her orb has hid, 
 And dwindled to a silver thread, 
 
 Dim seen in middle heaven, 
 While o'er its curve careering fast. 
 Before the fury of the blast 
 
 The midnight clouds are driven. 
 The brooklet raved, for on the hills, 
 The upland showers had swoln the rills. 
 
 And down the torrents came; 
 Mutter'd the distant thunder dread, 
 And frequent o'er the vale was spread 
 
 A sheet of lightning flame. 
 De Vaux, within his mountain cave, 
 (No human step the storm durst brave,) 
 To moody meditation gave 
 
 Each faculty of soul. 
 Till, lull'd by distant torrent soimd. 
 And the sad winds that whistled round, 
 Upon his thoughts, in musing drown'd, 
 
 A broken slumber stole. 
 
 'Twas then was heard a heavy sound, 
 (Sound, strange and fearful there to 
 hear, 
 'Mongst desert hills, where, leagues 
 around. 
 Dwelt but the gor-cock and the deer : ) 
 As, starting from his couch of fern, 
 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 loth, 
 Vet must I hold my minstrel troth, — 
 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 burn'd to do and dare. 
 Forth from the cave the Warrior 
 
 rush'd. 
 Long ere the mountain-voice was 
 hush'd, 
 
 That answer'd to the knell; 
 For long and far the unwonted sound, 
 Eddying in echoes round and round, 
 
 Was toss'd from fell to fell; 
 And Glaraniara answer flung. 
 And Grisdale-pike responsive rung. 
 And Legbert heights their echoes 
 swung. 
 
 As far as Derwent's dell. 
 
 Forth upon trackless darkness gazed 
 The Knight, bedeafen'd and amazed, 
 
 Till all was hush'd and still, 
 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 controll'd, 
 A mighty meteor slowly roll'd 
 
 Its orb of fiery red; 
 Thou wouldst have thought some demon 
 
 dire 
 Came mounted on that car of fire, 
 
 To do his errand dread. 
 Far on the sloping valley's course. 
 On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse, 
 .Siiingle and scrae,* and fell and force,t 
 
 A dusky light arose : 
 Display 'd, yet alter'd was the scene; 
 Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen. 
 Even the gay thicket's summer green. 
 
 In bloody. tincture glows. 
 
 * Bank of loose stones, 
 t WaterfaU. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 279 
 
 De Vaux had niark'd the sunbeams set, 
 At eve, upon the coronet 
 
 Of that enchanted mound, 
 And seen but crags at random flung, 
 I'hat, o'er the brawhng torrent hung, 
 
 In desolation frown'd. 
 W'liat sees he by that meteor's lour? — 
 A banner'd Castle, keep, and tower. 
 
 Return the lurid gleam, 
 \\ ith battled walls and buttress fast, 
 And barbican * and balliura t vast. 
 And airy flanking towers, that cast 
 
 Their shadows on the stream. 
 'Tis no deceit ! — distinctly clear 
 ("■renell X and parapet appear. 
 While o'er the pile that meteor drear 
 
 Makes momentary pause; 
 Then forth its solemn path it drew. 
 And fainter yet and fainter grew 
 Those gloomy towers upon the view, 
 
 As its wild light withdraws. 
 
 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, 
 A wild and lonely trumpet-note, — 
 In middle air it seem'd to float 
 
 High o'er the battled mound; 
 And sounds were heard, as when a guard 
 Of some proud castle, holding ward. 
 
 Pace forth their nightly round. 
 The valiant Knight of Triermain 
 Rung forth his challenge-blast again, 
 
 But answer came there none; 
 And mid the mingled wind and rain. 
 Darkling he sought the vale in vain, 
 
 Until the dawning shone; 
 And when it dawn'd, that wondrous sight, 
 Distinctly seen by meteor light, 
 
 It all had pass'd away ! 
 
 * The outer defence of a castle gate. 
 
 t A fortified court. 
 
 t Apertures for shooting arrows, 
 
 And that enchanted mount once more 
 A pile of granite fragments bore. 
 As at the close of day. 
 
 Steel'd for the deed, De Vaux's heart 
 Scorn'd from his venturous quest to part. 
 
 He walks the vale once more; 
 But only sees, by night or day. 
 That shatter'd pile of rocks so gray, 
 
 Hears but the torrent's roar. 
 Till when, through hills of azure borne. 
 The moon renew'd her silver horn. 
 Just at the time her waning ray 
 Had faded in the dawning day, 
 
 A summer mist arose; 
 Adown the vale the vapors float. 
 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 kock's majestic isle; 
 It seem'd a veil of filmy lawn. 
 By some fantastic fairy drawn 
 
 Around enchanted pile. 
 
 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 
 
 Renew'd 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. 
 And Gothic battlements between 
 
 Their gloomy length unroll'd. 
 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 rivall'd archer's shaft; 
 But ere the mound he could attain. 
 The rocks their shapeless form regain. 
 And, mocking loud his labor vain. 
 
 The mountain spirits laugh'd. 
 
28o 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TKIERMAIN. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Far up the echoing dell was borne 
 Their wild unearthly shout of scorn. 
 
 Wroth wax'd the Warrior. — "Am I 
 
 then 
 Fool'd by the enemies of men, 
 Like a poor hind, whose homeward way 
 Is haunted by malicious fay ! 
 Is Triermain become your taunt, 
 De Vaux your scorn? False fiends, 
 
 avaunt ! " 
 A weighty curtal-axe he bare; 
 The baleful blade so bright and square, 
 And the tough shaft of heben wood. 
 Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued. 
 Backward his stately form he drew, 
 And at the rocks the weapon threw, 
 Just where one crag's projected crest 
 Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest. 
 Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's 
 
 shock 
 Rent a huge fragment of the rock. 
 If by mere strength, 'twere 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, 
 Crush'd lay the copse, the earth was torn. 
 Till staid at length, the ruin dread 
 Cumber'd the torrent's rocky bed. 
 And bade the water's high-swoln tide 
 Seek other passage for its pride. 
 
 When ceased that thunder, Triermain 
 Survey'd the mound's rude front again; 
 And lo ! the ruin had laid bare. 
 Hewn in the stone, a winding stair, 
 Whose moss'd and fractured steps might 
 
 lend 
 The means the summit to ascend; 
 And by whose aid the brave De Vaux 
 BegJin to scale these magic rocks, 
 
 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-blazon'd show was there; 
 In morning splendor, full and fair, 
 
 The massive fortress shone. 
 
 Embattled high and proudly tower 'd, 
 Shaded V)y pond'rous flankers, lower'd 
 
 The portal's gloomy way. 
 Though for six hundred years and more. 
 Its strength had brook'd the tempest's 
 
 roar. 
 The scutcheon'd emblems which it bore 
 
 Had suffer'd no decay: 
 But from the eastern battlement 
 A turret had made sheer descent, 
 And, down in recent ruin rent. 
 
 In the mid torrent lay. 
 Else, o'er the Castle's brow sublime. 
 Insults of violence or of time 
 
 Unfelt had pass'd away. 
 In shapeless characters of yore, 
 The gate this stern inscription bore: — 
 
 INSCRIPTION. 
 " Patience waits the destined day, 
 Strength can clear the cumber'd way. 
 Warrior, who hast waited long. 
 Firm of soul, of sinew strong, 
 It is given to thee to gaze 
 On the pile of ancient days. 
 Never mortal builder's hand 
 This enduring fabric plann'd; 
 Sigh 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." 
 
 "That would I," said the Warrior bold, 
 " If that my frame were bent and old, 
 And my thin blood dropp'd slow and cold 
 
 As icicle in thaw; 
 But while my heart can feel it dance, 
 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, 
 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, 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 281 
 
 All unseen arm, with force amain, 
 The ponderous gate flun^ close again. 
 
 And rusted Ixilt and bar 
 Spontaneous took their place once more, 
 While the deep arch with sullen roar 
 
 Return'd their surly jar. 
 " Now closed is the gin and the prey 
 within 
 
 By the rood of Lanercost ! 
 But he that would win the war-wolf 'sskin. 
 
 May rue him of his lioast." 
 Thus muttering, on the Warrior went, 
 By dubious light down deep descent. 
 
 Unbarr'd, unlock'd, unwatch'd, a port 
 Led to the Castle's outer court: 
 There the main fortress, broad and tall. 
 Spread its long range of bower and hall, 
 
 And towers of varied size. 
 Wrought with each ornament extreme, 
 That Gothic art, in wildest dream 
 
 Of fancy, could devise; 
 But full between the Warrior's way 
 And the main portal arch, there lay 
 
 An inner moat; 
 
 Nor bridge nor boat 
 Affords De Vaux the means to cross 
 The clear, profound, and silent fosse. 
 I lis 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 
 His keen dark eye, and close curl'd hair, 
 When, all unarm'd, save that the brand 
 Of well-proved metal graced his hand. 
 With naught to fence his dauntless breast 
 But the close gipon's* under-vest. 
 Whose sullied huff the salile stains 
 Of haulierk and of mail retains, — 
 Roland De Vaux upon the brim 
 Of the broad moat stood prompt to swim. 
 
 Accoutred thus he dared the tide, 
 And soon he reach'd the farther side. 
 
 And cnter'd soon the Hold, 
 And paced a hall, whose walls so wide 
 Were blazon'd all with feats of pride, 
 
 By warriors done of old. 
 
 * A sort of doublet, worn beneath the armor. 
 
 In middle lists they counter'd here. 
 
 While trumpets seem'd 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 seem'd of ancient race. 
 Whose deeds of arms, and race, and name. 
 Forgotten long by later fame. 
 
 Were here depicted, to appal 
 Those of an age degenerate. 
 Whose lx>ld intrusion braved their fate. 
 
 In this enchanted hall. 
 For some short space the venturous Knight 
 With these high marvels fed his sight. 
 Then sought the chamber's upper end. 
 Where three broad easy steps ascend 
 
 To an arch'd portal door. 
 In whose broad folding leaves of state 
 Was framed a wicket window-grate. 
 
 And, ere he ventured more. 
 The gallant Knight took earnest view 
 The grated wicket-window through. 
 
 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 
 There stood array'd in sable band 
 
 Four Maids whom Afric bore: 
 And each a Libyan tiger led. 
 Held by as bright and frail a thread 
 
 As Lucy's golden hair, — 
 For the leash that bound these monsters 
 dread 
 
 Was but of gossamer. 
 Each Maiden's short barbaric vest 
 Left all unclosed the knee and breast. 
 
 And limbs of shapely jet; 
 White was their vest and turl)an'd fold, 
 On arms and ankles rings of gold 
 
 In savage pomp were set; 
 A quiver on their shoulders lay, 
 And in their hand an assagay. 
 Such and so silent stood they there, 
 
 That Roland wellnigh hoped 
 He saw a band of statues rare, 
 Station'd the gazer's soul to scare: 
 
 But when the wicket oped, 
 
282 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Each grisly beast 'gaii upward draw, 
 Koll'd his grim eye, and spread his claw, 
 Scented the air, and lick'd his jaw; 
 While these weird maids, in Moorish 
 
 tongue, 
 A wild and dismal warning sung: — 
 
 " 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 wheel- 
 ing. 
 
 Ours it is the dance to braid ; 
 Zarah's sands in pillars reeling. 
 
 Join the measure that we tread. 
 When the moon has donn'd her cloak. 
 
 And the stars are red to see, 
 Shrill when pipes the sad Siroc, 
 
 Music meet for such as we. 
 
 "Where the shatter'd columns lie, 
 
 Showing Carthage once had been, 
 If the wandering Santon's eye 
 
 Our mysterious rites hath seen, — 
 Oft he cons the prayer of death. 
 
 To the nations preaches doom, 
 ' Azrael's brand hath left the sheath ! 
 
 Moslems, think upon the tomb ! ' 
 
 " Ours the scorpion, ours the snake, 
 
 Ours the hydra of the fen. 
 Ours the tiger of the brake, 
 
 All that plagues the sons of men. 
 Ours the tempest's midnight wrack, 
 
 Pestilence that wastes by day — 
 Dread the race of Zaharak ! 
 
 Fear the spell of Dahomay ! " 
 
 Uncouth and strange the accents shrill 
 
 Rung those vaulted roofs among, 
 I.'tng it was ere, faint and still, 
 1 )iod the far resounding song. 
 While yet the distant echoes roll, 
 The Warrior communed with his soul : — 
 " When first I took this venturous quest, 
 
 I swore upon the rood. 
 Neither to stop, nor turn, nor rest, 
 
 For evil or for good. 
 
 * The Arab name of the great desert. 
 
 My forward path too well I ween, 
 Lies yonder fearful ranks between ! 
 For man unarmVl, 'tis bootless hope 
 With tigers and with fiends to cope — 
 Yet, if I turn, what waits me there. 
 Save famine dire and fell despair? — 
 Other conclusion let me try, 
 Since, choose howe'er I list, I die. 
 Forward, lies faith and knightly fame; 
 Behind, are perjury and shame, 
 In life or death I hold my word ! " 
 With that he drew his trusty sword, 
 Caught down a b.inner from the wall. 
 And enter'd thus the fearful hall. 
 
 On high each wayward Maiden threw 
 Her swarthy arm, with wild halloo! 
 On either side a tiger sprung — 
 Against the leftward foe he flung 
 The ready banner, to engage 
 With tangling folds the brutal rage; 
 The right-hand monster in mid-air 
 He struck so fiercely and so fair, 
 Through gullet and through spinal bone, 
 The trenchant blade had sheerly gone. 
 His grisly brethren ramp'd and yell'd. 
 But the slight leash their rage withheld. 
 Whilst, 'twixt their ranks, the dangerous 
 
 road 
 Firmly, though swift, the champion strode. 
 Safe to the gallery's bound he drew, 
 Safe pass'd an open portal through; 
 And when against pursuit he flung 
 The gate, judge if the echoes rung ! 
 Onward his daring course he bore. 
 While mix'd with dying growl and roar, 
 Wild jubilee and loud hurra 
 Pursued him on his venturous way. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Hurra, hurra! Our watch is done! 
 We hail once more the tropic sun. 
 Pallid beams of northern day. 
 Farewell, farewell! Hurra, hurra! 
 
 " Five hundred years o'er this cold glen 
 Hath the pale sun come round agen; 
 Foot of man, till now, hath ne'er 
 Dared to cross the Hall of Fear. 
 
 " Warrior! thou, whose dauntless heart 
 Gives us from our ward lo part, 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 283 
 
 I 
 
 Be as strong in future trial, 
 Where resistance is denial. 
 
 • Now for Afric's glowing sky, 
 /wenga wide and Atlas high, 
 /aharak and Dahoniay ! — 
 Mount the winds! Hurra, hurra! " 
 
 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. 
 Pill to a lofty dome he came. 
 That flash'd with such a brilliant flame. 
 As if the wealth of all the world 
 Were there in rich confusion hurl'd. 
 P or here the gold, in sandy heajis. 
 With duller earth, incorporate, sleeps, 
 Was there in ingots piled, and there 
 Coin'd badge of empery it bare: 
 Yonder, huge bars of silver lay, 
 Dininvd by the diamond's neighboring 
 
 ray, 
 Like the pale moon in morning day; 
 And in the midst four Maidens stand, 
 The daughters of some distant land. 
 Their hue was of the dark-red dye, 
 Thai 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 kneel 'd. 
 And thus their proffer'd gifts reveal'd. 
 
 XXVI. 
 CHORUS. 
 
 " See the treasures Merlin piled. 
 Portion meet for Arthur's child. 
 Bathe in Wealth's unlxjunded stream. 
 Wealth that Avarice ne'er could dream ! " 
 
 FIRST MAIDEN. 
 
 " See these clots of virgin gold ! 
 Sever'd from the sparry mould. 
 Nature's mystic alchemy 
 In the mine thus bade them lie; 
 And their orient smile can win 
 Kings to stoop, and saints to sin." — 
 
 SECOND MAIDEN. 
 
 " 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." — 
 
 THIRD MAIDEN. 
 
 " Does a livelier hue delight? 
 Here are rubies blazing bright. 
 Here the emerald's fairy green, 
 And the topaz glows between; 
 Here their varied hues unite. 
 In the changeful chrysolite." — 
 
 FOURTH MAIDEN. 
 
 " Leave these gems of poorer shine, 
 Leave them all and look on mine ! 
 While their glories I expand. 
 Shade thine eye-brows with thy hand. 
 Mid-day sun and diamond's blaze 
 Blind the rash beholder's gaze." 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 " Warrior, seize the splendid store; 
 Would 'twere all our mountains bore ! 
 We should ne'er in future story, 
 Read, Peru, thy perish'd glory! " 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Calmly and unconcern'd, 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. 
 De Vaux of wealth saw never need. 
 Save to purvey him arms and steed. 
 And all the ore he deign'd 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 
 Some frolic water-run; 
 
284 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 And soon he reach 'd a court-yard square; 
 Where, dancing in the suhry air, 
 Toss'd high aloft, a fountain fair 
 
 Was sparkhng in the sun. 
 On right and left, a fair arcade, 
 In long perspective view display'd 
 Alleys and bowers, for sun or shade: 
 
 But, full in front, a door, 
 Low-brow'd and dark, seeni'd as it led 
 To the lone dwelling of the dead. 
 
 Whose memory was no more. 
 
 Here stopp'd De Vaux an instant's space. 
 To bathe his parched lips and face. 
 
 And mark'd 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Seen distant down the fair arcade. 
 These Maids enlink'd 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." 
 Their hue was of the golden glow 
 That suns of Candahar bestow. 
 O'er which in slight suffusion flows 
 A frequent tinge of paly rose; 
 Their limbs were fashion'd fair and free, 
 In nature's justest symmetry; 
 And, wreath'd with flowers, with odors 
 
 graced. 
 Their raven ringlets reach'd the waist, 
 
 In eastern pomp, its gilding pale 
 The hennah lent each shapely nail, 
 And the dark sumah gave the eye 
 More liquid and more lustrous dye. 
 The spotless veil of misty lawn, 
 In studied disarrangement, drawn 
 
 The form and bosom o'er. 
 To win the eye, or tempt the touch, 
 For modesty show'd all too much — 
 
 Too much — yet promised more : 
 
 " Gentle Knight, a while delay," 
 Thus they sung, " thy toilsome way, 
 While we pay the duty due 
 To our Master and to you. 
 Over Avarice, over Fear, 
 Ix)ve 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. 
 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, 
 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.' 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 O, do not hold it for a crime 
 In the bold hero of my rhyme. 
 
 For Stoic look 
 
 And meet rebuke, 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 ,285 
 
 He lack'd the heart or time; 
 As round the band of sirens trip. 
 He kiss'd one damsel's laughing lip, 
 And press'd another's proffer'd hand. 
 Spoke to them all in accents bland, 
 But broke their magic circle through : — 
 " Kind Maids," he said, " adieu, adieu! 
 My fate, my fortune, forward lies." 
 lie said, and vanish'd from their eyes; 
 Hut, as he dared that darksome way, 
 Still heard behind their lovely lay: — 
 " Fair F'lower of Courtesy, depart! 
 Cio, where the feelings of the heart 
 With the warm pulse in concord move; 
 Go, where Virtue sanctions Love! " 
 
 Downward De Vaux through dark- 
 some ways 
 
 And ruin'd vaults has gone. 
 Till issue from their wildcr'd maze, 
 
 Or safe retreat, seem'd 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 show'd, 
 Tliat dogg'd him on that dreadful road; 
 Deep pits, and lakes of waters dun. 
 They show'd, but show'd not how to 
 
 shun. 
 These scenes of desolate despair. 
 These smothering clouds of poison'd 
 
 air. 
 How gladly had De Vaux exchanged. 
 Though 'twere to face yon tigers ranged ! 
 
 Nay, soothful bards have said. 
 So perilous his state seem'd now 
 He wish'd him under arbor bough 
 
 With Asia's willing maid. 
 When, joyful sound! at distance near, 
 A trumpet flourish'd loud and clear, 
 And as it ceased, a lofty lay 
 Seem'd thus to chide his lagging way: — 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " Son of Honor, theme of story. 
 Think on the reward before ye ! 
 Danger, darkness, toil, despise; 
 'Tis Ambition bids thee rise. 
 
 " He that would her heights ascend. 
 Many a weary step must wend? 
 
 Hand and foot and knee he tries; 
 Thus Ambition's minions rise. 
 
 " Lag not now, though rough the way. 
 Fortune's mood brooks no delay; 
 Grasp the boon that's spread before 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 climb'd he far its steepy round 
 
 Till fresher blew the air. 
 And next a welcome glimpse was given, 
 That cheer'd him with the light of heaven. 
 
 At length his toil had won 
 A lofty hall with trophies dress'd. 
 Where, as to greet imperial guest. 
 Four Maidens stood, whose crimson vest 
 
 Was bound with golden zone. 
 
 Of Europe seem'd the damsels all; 
 The first a nymph of lively Gaul, 
 Whose easy step and laughing eye 
 Her borrow'd air of awe belie; 
 
 The next a maid of Spain, 
 Dark-eyed, dark-hair'd, sedate, yet lx)ld : 
 White ivory skin and tress of gold. 
 Her shy and bashful comrade told 
 
 For daughter of Almaine. 
 These njaidens bore a royal robe. 
 With crown, with sceptre, and with 
 globe, 
 
 Emblems of empery; 
 The fourth a space behind them stood, 
 And leant upon a harp, in mood 
 
 Of minstrel ecstasy. 
 Of merry England she, in dress 
 Like ancient British Druidess. 
 Her hair an azure fillet bound. 
 Her graceful vesture swept the ground. 
 
 And, in her hand display'd, 
 A crown did that fourth Maiden hold. 
 But unadorn'd with gems and gold, 
 
 Of glossy laurel made. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 At once to brave De Vaux knelt down 
 These foremost Maidens three. 
 
 And proffer'd sceptre, robe, and crown, 
 Liegedom and seignorie, 
 
286 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 Canto IIT. 
 
 O'er many a region wide and fair, 
 Destined, they said, for Arthur's heir; 
 
 But homage would he none : — 
 "Rather," he said, " De Vaux would 
 
 ride, 
 A Warden of the Border-side, 
 In plate and mail, than, robed in pride, 
 
 A monarch's empire own; 
 Rather, far rather, would he be 
 A free-born knight of England free. 
 
 Than sit on Despot's throne." 
 So pass'd he on, when that fourth Maid, 
 
 As starting from a trance. 
 Upon the liarp her finger laid; 
 Her magic touch the chords obey'd, 
 
 Their soul awaked at once ! 
 
 SONG OF THE FOURTH MAIDEN. 
 
 " Quake to your foundations deep, 
 Stately Towers, and Bannerd 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 dusty wings abroad, 
 Boune ye for your homeward road ! 
 
 •'It is His, the first who e'er 
 Dared the dismal Hall of Fear; 
 His, who hath the snares defied 
 Spread by Pleasure, Wealth and Pride. 
 
 " Quake to your foundations deep. 
 Bastion huge, and Turret steep ! 
 Tremble, Keep, and totter. Tower ! 
 This is Gyneth's waking hour." 
 
 Thus while she sung, the venturous 
 
 Knight 
 Has reach'd a bower, where milder light 
 
 Through crimson curtains fell; 
 Such soften 'd shade the hill receives. 
 Her purple veil when twilight leaves 
 
 Upon its western swell. 
 That bower, the gazer to bewitch. 
 Hath wondrous store of rare and rich 
 
 As e'er was seen with eye; 
 For there by magic skill, I wis. 
 Form of each thing that living is 
 
 Was limn'd in proper dye. 
 All seem'd to sleep — the timid hare 
 On form, the stag upon his lair, 
 
 The eagle in her eyry fair 
 
 Between the earth and sky. 
 But what of pictured rich and rare 
 Could win De Vaux's eye-glance, 
 
 where. 
 Deep slumbering in the fatal chair. 
 
 He saw King Arthur's child ! 
 Doubt, and anger, and dismay. 
 From her brow had pass'd away. 
 Forgot was that fell tourney-day. 
 
 For, as she slept, she smiled: 
 It seem'd, that the repentant Seer 
 Her sleep of many a hundred year 
 
 With gentle dreams beguiled. 
 
 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 
 Cumber'd still her sleeping hand; 
 Still her dark locks dishevell'd flow 
 From net of pearl o'er breast of snow 5 
 And so fair the slumberer seems. 
 That De Vaux impeach'd his dreams. 
 Vapid all and void of might. 
 Hiding half her charms from sight. 
 Motionless a while he stands. 
 Folds his arms and clasps his hands, 
 Trembling in his fitful joy. 
 Doubtful how he should destroy 
 
 Ivong-enduring spell; 
 Doulitful, too, when slowly rise 
 Dark-fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes, 
 
 What these eyes shall tell. — 
 "St. George ! St. Mary ! can it be, 
 That they will kindly look on me ! " 
 
 Gently, lo ! the Warrior kneels. 
 Soft that lovely hand he steals. 
 Soft to kiss, and soft lo clasp — 
 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; 
 
ANTO III. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 287 
 
 But beneath their mystic rocks, 
 
 III the arms of bold De Vaux, 
 
 Safe the princess lay; 
 Safe and free from magic power. 
 Blushing like the rose's flower 
 
 Opening to the day; 
 And round the champion's brows were 
 
 bound 
 The crown that Druidess had wound, 
 
 Of the green laurel-bay. 
 And this was what remain'd of all 
 The wealth of that 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,thouknow'st, is done; 
 
 And to require of bard 
 That to his dregs the tale should run, 
 
 Were ordinance too hard. 
 Our lovers, briefly be it said. 
 Wedded as lovers wont to wed. 
 
 When tale or play is o'er; 
 Lived long and blest, loved fond and true. 
 And saw a numerous race renew 
 
 The 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 St. John; 
 
 But never man since brave De Vaux 
 The charmed portal won. 
 
 "Tis now a vain illusive show. 
 
 That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow 
 Or the fresh breeze hath blown. 
 
 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 whira can 
 
 stay 
 Our steps, when eve is sinking gray. 
 
 On this gigantic hill. 
 So think the vulgar — Life and time 
 Ring all their joys in one dull chime 
 
 Of luxury and ease: 
 And, O ! lieside 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; 
 And love the more, that of their maze 
 Adventure high of other days 
 
 By ancient b.ards is told, 
 Bringing, perchance, like my poor tale. 
 Some moral truth in fiction's veil : 
 Nor love them less, that o'er the hill 
 The evening breeze, as now, comes 
 chill; — 
 
 My love shall wrap her warm. 
 And, fearless of the slippery way. 
 While safe she trips the heathy brae. 
 
 Shall hang on Arthur's arm. 
 
THE 
 
 LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 IN SIX CANTOS, 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 The scene of this foem lies, at first, in the Castle of Artornish, on the coast of Argyle- 
 shire ; 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 front the Island of Rachrin, on the coast of Ireland, again 
 to assert his claims to the Scottish crvwn. Many of the personages and incidents intro- 
 duced are of historical celebrity. 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 re- 
 storer of Scottish monarchy ; and of Archdeacon Barbour, a correct edition of whose Met- 
 rical History * of Robert Bruce will soon, I trust, appear under the care of my learned 
 friend, the Rev. Dr. Jamieson. 
 
 Abbotsford, \oth December, 1814. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 
 
 I roiji.n hardly have chosen a subject more popular in Scotland than anything con- 
 nected with the Rruce's history, unless I had attempted that of Wallace. lUit I am decidedly 
 of opinion, that a popular, or what is called a taking title, though well qualified to ensure 
 the publishers against loss, and clear their shelves of the original impression, is rather 
 apt to be hazardous than otherwise to the reputation of the author. He who attempts a 
 subject of distinguished popularity, has not the privilege of awakening the enthusiasm of 
 his audience ; on the contrary, it is already awakened, and glows, it may !«, 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 addresses, who has. therefore, little chance of being, 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; 
 
 * " The Bruce and Wallace." 2 vols., 4to, 1820- 
 288 
 
^ 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 289 
 
 but, 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 1 have tried to com 
 memorate in the Introduction to the new edition of the " Pirate," 1 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 otiier 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," and to whom 1 pro- 
 posed to inscribe what I already suspected might be the close of my poetical labors, was 
 unexpectedly removed 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 tiie com- 
 position 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, un- 
 willingly and in haste, under the painful feeling of one who has a task which must be fin- 
 ished, 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 public, 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 1 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 appetite for applause than I have at any time possessed.! 
 
 I may as well add in this place, that, being much urged by my intimate friend, now un 
 happily no more, William Erskine (a Scottish judge, by the title of Lord Kinnedder), 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 1 
 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 Kinnedder became unwilling to aid any longer a de- 
 ception which was going further than he expected or desired, and the real author's name 
 was given. Upon another occasion, I sent up another of these trifles, which, like school- 
 boys' kites, served to show how the wind of popular taste was setting. The manner was 
 supposed to be that of a rude minstrel or Scald, in opposition to the " Bridal of Triermain," 
 which was designed to belong rather to the Italian school. 
 
 This new fugitive piece was called " Harold the Dauntless ; " and I am still astonished 
 at my having committed the gross error of selecting the very name which Lord Byron had 
 made so famous. It encountered rather an odd fate. My ingenious friend, Mr. James 
 Hogg, had published about the same time, a work called the " Poetic Mirror," containing 
 imitations of the principal living poets. There was in it a very good imitation of my own 
 style, which bore such a resemblance to " Harold the Dauntless," that there was no dis- 
 covering the original from the imitation ; and I believe that many who took the trouble of 
 thinking upon the subject, were rather of the opinion that my ingenious friend was the 
 true, and not the fictitious Simon Pure. Since this period, which was in the year 1817, 
 the author has not been an intruder on the public by any poetical work of importance. 
 
 Abbotsford, April, 1830. W. S. 
 
 * Harriet, Duchess of Buccleuch, died Aug. 24, 1814- 
 t The first edition of Waverley appeared in July, 1814. 
 
THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 Autumn departs — but still his mantle's 
 
 fold 
 Rests on the groves of noble Somer- 
 
 ville,* 
 Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd 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 red- 
 breast 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 t 
 
 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 
 
 oar ear, 
 
 * Tlie Pavilion was a frequent residence of 
 Lord Somerville, who was the intimate friend 
 and almost daily companion of the poet. He 
 died in 1819. It was situated on the Tweed, over 
 against Melrose, and in sight of Abbotsford. 
 
 t The river Gala, famous in song, flows into 
 the Tweed a few hundred yards below Abbots- 
 ford ; but probably the word Gala here stands 
 for the poet's neighbor and kinsman, John Scott, 
 Esq., of Gala. 
 
 And harvest-home hath hush'd the 
 clanging wain, 
 
 On the waste hill no forms of life 
 appear. 
 
 Save where, sad laggard of the autum- 
 nal train. 
 Some age-struck wanderer gleans few 
 ears of scatter'd grain. 
 
 Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes 
 
 have pleasure still, 
 Lovest thou through Autumn's fading 
 
 realms to stray, 
 To sec the heath-flower wither'd on 
 
 the hill. 
 To listen to the wood's expiring lay. 
 To note the red leaf shivering on the 
 
 spray, 
 To mark the last bright tints the moun- 
 tain stain. 
 On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's 
 
 way, 
 And moralize on mortal joy and 
 
 pain? — 
 O ! if such scenes thou lovest, 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. 
 
 290 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 291 
 
 When wild November hath his bugle 
 
 wound; 
 Nor mock my toil — a lonely gleaner I 
 Through fields time-wasted, on sad in- 
 quest bound, 
 Where happier bards of yore have richer 
 harvest found. 
 
 So shall thou list, and haply not un- 
 moved, 
 
 To a wild tale of Albyn's warrior day; 
 
 In distant lands, by the rough West 
 reproved, 
 
 Still lives some relics of the ancient lay. 
 
 For, when on Coolin's hills the lights 
 decay, 
 
 With such the Seer of Skye the eve 
 beguiles; 
 
 'Tis known amidst the pathless wastes 
 of Keay, 
 
 In Harries known, and in Zona's piles. 
 Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty 
 of the Isles. 
 
 " 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 
 The diapason of the Deep. 
 Lull'd were the winds of Inninmore, 
 And green Loch-Alline'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, Hay, and Argyle, 
 Each minstrel's tributary lay 
 Paid homage to the festal day. 
 Dull and dishonor'd 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 
 Were silent in Artornish hall. 
 
 " Wake, Maid of Lorn ! " 'twas thus they 
 
 sung. 
 And yet more proud the descant rung. 
 
 "Wake, Maid of Lorn ! high right is ours, 
 To charm dull sleep from Beauty's lx)wers. 
 Earth, Ocean, Air, have naught 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 ! 
 
 " 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 Ije tried. 
 Those notes prolong'd, that soothing 
 
 theme 
 Which best may mix with Beauty's dream. 
 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 
 The lay of love he bade them tell. 
 
 " Wake, Maid of Lorn ! the momenis 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 Iwnds of rest. 
 
 And wake thee at the call of Love ! 
 
 " Wake, Edith, wake! in yonder bay 
 Lies many a galley gayly mann'd, 
 
 We hear the merry pibrochs play. 
 We see the streamers' silken ban<l. 
 
 What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs 
 swell. 
 What crest is on these banners wove, 
 
292 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 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, 
 
 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 P'lattery 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 array'd, 
 
 Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid; 
 
 Young Eva with meet reverence drew 
 
 On the light foot the silken shoe. 
 
 While on the ankle's slender round 
 
 Those strings of pearl fair Kertha wound. 
 
 That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths within, 
 
 Seem'd 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 seem'd to hide. 
 
 Till on the floor descending roH'd 
 
 Its waves of crimson blent with gold. 
 
 O ! lives there now so cold a maid. 
 Who thus in beauty's pomp array'd, 
 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 
 A tell-tale consciousness bespeak? 
 Lives still such maid? — Fair damsels, say, 
 P'or further vouches not my lay. 
 Save that such lived in Britain's isle. 
 When Lorn's bright Edith scorn'd to 
 smile. 
 
 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 — 
 
 Inviolate in Highland hall) — 
 
 Gray Morag sate a space apart. 
 In Edith's eyes to read her heart. 
 In vain the attendants' fond appeal 
 To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal; 
 She mark'd her child receive their care, 
 Cold as the image sculptured fair, 
 (Form of some sainted patroness,) 
 Which cloister'd maids combine to dress; 
 She mark'd — and knew her nursling's 
 
 heart 
 In the vain pomp took little part. 
 Wistful a while she gazed — then press'd 
 The maiden to her anxif)us breast 
 In finish'd loveliness — and led 
 To where a turret's airy head. 
 Slender and steep, and battled round, 
 O'erlook'd, dark Mull ! thy mighty 
 
 Sound, ** 
 Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar. 
 Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore. 
 
 "Daughter," she said, "these seas be- 
 hold. 
 Round twice a hundred islands roll'd. 
 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, 
 To where Dunstaffnagc hears the raging 
 Of Connal with his rocks engaging. 
 Think'st thou, amid this ample round, 
 A single V)row but thine has frown'd. 
 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. 
 Lord of the Islks, whose lofty name ^ 
 A thousand bards have given to fame, 
 
 • St. Kilda is the most northerly of the two 
 luindred or more Western Islands. It was an- 
 ciently called Hirth or Hirt, probably meaning 
 F.arth ; l)eing, in fact, the whole earth to its in- 
 habitants. Green Hay is, if not the largest, yet 
 the most fertile and important, of the Hebrides, 
 and was originally the principal abode of the 
 Lords of the Isles. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 293 
 
 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 Ixiltane fire, 
 Joy, joy ! each warder's horn hath sung, 
 Joy, joy ! each matin bell hath rung; 
 The holy priest says grateful mass. 
 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 claim'd 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 check'd the struggling sigh. 
 Her hurrying hand indignant dried 
 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, 
 O 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, 
 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 ! 
 
 " DeVjate it not — too long I strove 
 To call his cold observance love, 
 .Ml blinded by the league that styled 
 Edith of Lorn — while yet a child, 
 She tripp'd the heath by Morag's side, — 
 The brave Lord Ronald s destined bride. 
 Ere yet I saw him, while afar 
 His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war, 
 Train'd 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 touch'd the harp to heroes' praise. 
 But his achievements swell'd 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 seem'd poor and cold. 
 Tame, lifeless, void of energy. 
 Unjust to Ronald and to me ! 
 
 " Since then, what thought had Edith's 
 
 heart 
 And gave not plighted love its part ! — 
 And what requital ? cold delay — 
 Excuse that shunn'd 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 doubtr 
 
 remove, 
 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. 
 Through whistling breeze and foaming 
 
 deep. 
 And mark the headmost, seaward cast, 
 Stoop to the freshening gale her mast. 
 As if she veil'd its banner'd 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 
 
 sigh'd, 
 Blushed, sadly smiled, and thus replied : — 
 
 " Sweet thought, but vain ! — No, Morag, 
 
 mark. 
 Type of his course, yon lonely bark. 
 
394 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 That oft hath shifted helm and sail, 
 To win its way against the gale. 
 Since peep of morn, my vacant eyes 
 Have view'd 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 
 They strive her shivering sail to bind, 
 Still nearer to the shelves' dread verge 
 At every tack their course they urge, 
 As if they fear'd Artonish more 
 Than adverse winds and breakers' roar. 
 
 Sooth spoke the maid. • — • Amid the tide 
 The skiff she mark'd lay tossing sore. 
 And shifted oft her stooping side. 
 In weary tack from shore to shore. 
 Yet on her destined course no more 
 
 She gain'd, 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 bowsprit kiss'd the broken waves, 
 Where in white foam the ocean raves 
 
 Upon the shelving shore. 
 Yet, to their destined purpose true. 
 Undaunted toil'd her hardy crew. 
 
 Nor look'd where shelter lay, 
 Nor for Artornish Castle drew, 
 
 Nor steer'd for Aros bay. 
 
 Thus while they strove with wind and seas. 
 Borne onward by the willing breeze, 
 
 Lord Ronald's fleet swept by, 
 Streamer'd with silk, and trick'd with 
 
 gold, 
 Mann'd with the noble and the bold 
 
 Of Island chivalry. 
 Around their prows the ocean roars. 
 And chafes beneath their thousand oars, 
 
 Vet l)ears 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, 
 
 Hut, foaming, must obey. 
 On each gay deck they might behold 
 Lances of steel and crests of cold. 
 
 And hauberks with their burnish 'd fold, 
 
 That shimmer'd fair and free; 
 And each proud galley, as she pass'd, 
 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 answer'd well, 
 And Duart heard the distant swell 
 
 Come down the darksome Sound. 
 
 So bore they on with mirth and pride. 
 And if that laboring bark they spied, 
 
 'Twas 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 famish 'd wolf, that prowls the wold, 
 Had scatheless 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 badst thou known who sail'd sc 
 
 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 
 Of bridegroom when the bride is near ! 
 
 Yes, sweep they on ! — We will not leavf., 
 For them that triumjih, those who grieve. 
 
 With that armada gay 
 Be laughter loud and jocund shout, 
 An<l 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 stupify and stun its smart, 
 
 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. 
 
Canto I, 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 295 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 All day with fruitless strife they toil'd. 
 With eve the ebbing currents boil'd 
 
 More fierce from strait and lake; 
 And midway through the channel met 
 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 strain'd the mast, 
 And many a leak was gaping fast. 
 And the pale steersman stood aghast. 
 
 And gave the conflict o'er 
 
 'Twas then that One, whose lofty Iook 
 Nor labor duH'd nor terror shook. 
 
 Thus to the Leader spoke: — 
 " Brother, how hopest thou to abide 
 The fury of this wilder'd tide. 
 Or how avoid the rock's rude side. 
 
 Until the day has broke? 
 Didst thou not mark the vessel reel, 
 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. 
 On 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; 
 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." 
 
 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 shatter'd sail. 
 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, 
 Tis on the sacred name of guest. 
 Who seeks for shelter, storm-distress d. 
 
 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 consign'd, 
 Gave the reef'd sail to meet the wind, 
 
 And on her alter'd way. 
 Fierce bounding, forward sprung the ship. 
 Like greyhound starting from the slip 
 
 To seize his flying prey. 
 Awaked before the rushing prow. 
 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 elvish 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. 
 
 Nor lack'd they steadier light to keep 
 Their course upon the darken'd 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 stecr'd. 
 
 Whose lustre mingled well 
 With the pale beam that now appear'd. 
 As the cold moon her head uprear'd 
 
 Above the eastern fell. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Thus guided, on their course they bore. 
 Until they near'd the mainland shore. 
 When frequent on the hollow blast 
 Wild shouts of merriment were cast. 
 And wind and wave and sea-birds' cry 
 With wassail sounds in concert vie. 
 
296 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Like funeral shrieks with revelry. 
 
 Or like the battle-shout 
 By peasants heard from cliffs on high, 
 When Triumph, Rage, and Agony, 
 
 Madden the fight and rout. 
 Now nearer yet, through mist and storm 
 Dimly arose the Castle's form, 
 
 And deepen'd shadow made, 
 Far lengthen'd on the main below, 
 Where, dancing in reflected glow, 
 
 A hundred torches play'd, 
 Spangling the wave with lights as vain 
 As pleasures in this vale of pain, 
 
 That dazzle as they fade. 
 
 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, 
 With peasant's staff one valiant hand 
 Might well the dizzy pass have mann'd, 
 'Gainst hundreds arm'd with spear and 
 brand. 
 
 And plunged them in the deep. 
 His bugle then the helmsman wound; 
 Loud answer'd 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, 
 
 To light the upward way. 
 " Thrice welcome, holy Sire ! " he said; 
 " Full long the spousal train have staid. 
 
 And, vex'd at thy delay, 
 Fear'd lest, amidst these wildering seas, 
 The darksome night and freshening breeze 
 
 Had driven thy bark astray." 
 
 " Warder," the younger strangtT said, 
 ' ' Thine erring guess some mirth had made 
 In mirthful hour; but nights like these. 
 When the rough winds wake western seas. 
 Brook not of glee. We crave some aid 
 And needful shelter for this maid 
 
 Until the Vjreak of day; 
 For, to ourselves, the deck's rude plank 
 Is easy as the mossy bank 
 
 That's breath'd upon by May. 
 And for our storm-toss'd skiff we seek 
 Short shelter in this leeward creek. 
 
 Prompt when the dawn the east shall 
 streak 
 
 Again to bear away." — 
 Answer'd the Warder : — " In what namo 
 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? " — 
 
 " Warriors— for other title none 
 For some brief space we list to own, 
 Bound by a vow — warriors are we; 
 In strife by land, and storm Vjy sea, 
 
 We have been known to fame; 
 And these brief words have import 
 
 dear, 
 When sounded in a noble ear. 
 To harl)or 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; 
 Deny — and Ije your niggard Hold 
 Scorn'd by the noble and the bold, 
 Shunn'd by the pilgrim on the wold. 
 
 And wanderer on the lea! " — 
 
 " Bold stranger, no — 'gainst claim like 
 
 thine, 
 No bolt revolves by hand of mine, 
 Though urged in tone that more express'd 
 A monarch than a suppliant guest. 
 Be what ye will, Artornish Hall 
 On this glad eve is free to all. 
 Though ye had drawn a hostile sword 
 'Gainst our ally, great England's Lord, 
 Or mail upon your shoulders borne, 
 To battle with the I^jrd of Lorn, 
 Or, outlaw'd, 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, t 
 This night had been a term of truce. — 
 Ho, vassals ! give these guests your care, 
 And show the narrow postern stair." 
 
 • Sir William Wallace, 
 t See Note 12. 
 
Canto II, 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 297 
 
 XXVIH. 
 
 To land these two bold brethren leapt, 
 (The weary crew their vessel kept,) 
 And, lijjhted 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 lean'd her head, 
 And down her long dark tresses shed. 
 As the wild vines in tendrils spread. 
 
 Droops from the mountain oak. 
 Him follow'd close that elder Lord, 
 And in his hand a sheathed sword. 
 
 Such as few arms could wield; 
 Rut when he boun'tl him to such task. 
 Well could it cleave the strongest casque, 
 
 And rend the surest shield. 
 
 XXI.X. 
 
 The raised portcullis' arch they pass. 
 The wicket with its bars of brass. 
 
 The entrance long and low, 
 I'lank'd 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 unbarr'd, 
 
 And all the passage free 
 To one low-brow'd and vaulted room. 
 Where squire and yeoman, page and 
 groom. 
 
 Plied their loud revelry. 
 
 ye 
 
 XXX. 
 
 here," 
 
 the Warder 
 
 And " Rest 
 
 bade, 
 
 " Till to our L«ird 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 I'Kjaring martial mien." 
 But not for Eachin's reproof 
 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 checker'd plaid, and in its shroud, 
 To hide her from the vulgar crowd. 
 
 Involved his sister fair. 
 
 His brother, as the clansman l^ent 
 His sullen brow in discontent. 
 
 Made brief and stern excuse : — 
 " Vassal, were thine the cloak of pall 
 That decks thy lord in bridal hall, 
 
 'Twere honor'd by her use." 
 
 Proud wa?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; 
 Upon each other back they bore. 
 
 And gazed like startled deer. 
 But now appear'd the Seneschal, 
 Commission'd 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 l>old brother by hei side. 
 And many a chief, the flower and pride 
 
 Of Western land and sea. 
 
 Here pause we, gentles, for a space; 
 And if our tale hath won your grace, 
 Grant us V>rief patience, and again 
 We will renew the minstrel strain. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 I. 
 Fill the bright goblet, spread the fes- 
 tive board ! 
 Summon the gay, the noble, and the 
 
 fair! 
 Through the loud hall in joyous concert 
 
 pour'd, 
 IvCt 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. 
 
298 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 With beakers' clang, with harpers' lay, 
 With all that olden time deem'd gay, 
 The Island Chieftain feasted high; 
 But there was in his troubled eye 
 A gloomy fire, and on his brow. 
 Now sudden flush'd, 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 
 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, 
 And, for brief space, of all the crowd, 
 As he was loudest of the loud, 
 
 Seem gayest of the gay. 
 
 Yet naught amiss the bridal throng 
 Mark'd in brief mirth, or musing long; 
 The vacant brow, the unlistening ear. 
 They gave to thoughts of raptures near. 
 And his fierce starts of sudden glee 
 Seem'd bursts of bridegroom's ecstasy. 
 Nor thus alone misjudged the crowd, 
 Since lofty Lorn, suspicious, proud. 
 And jealous of his honor'd line, 
 And that keen knight, De Argentine,* 
 (From England sent on errand high, 
 The western league more firm to tie,) 
 Both deem*^ in Ronald's mood to find 
 A lover's transport-troubled mind. 
 But one sad heart, one tearful eye. 
 Pierced deeper through the mystery, 
 And watch'd, with agony and fear. 
 Her wayward bridegroom's varied cheer. 
 
 She watch'd — yet fear'd to meet his 
 
 glance, 
 Andheshunn'dhers; — till whenby chance 
 They met, the point of foeman's lance 
 
 Had given a milder pang! 
 Beneath the intolerable smart 
 He writhed; — then sternly mann'd his 
 
 heart 
 To play his hard but destined part, 
 
 And from the table sprang. 
 " Fill me the mighty cup! " he said, 
 *' Erst own'd by royal Somerled : ® 
 
 Fill it, tiH 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. 
 
 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. 
 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 ! — - 
 L<3rd of two hundred isles, he seems 
 
 As glad of brief delay. 
 As some poor criminal might feel. 
 When, from the gibbet or (he wheel, 
 
 Respited for a day. 
 
 " Brother of Lorn," with hurried voice 
 He said, " 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 scann'd 
 Of these strange guests; and well he knew 
 How to assign their rank its due; 
 
 For though the costly furs 
 That erst had deck'd their caps were torn, 
 And their gay robes were over-worn, 
 
 And soil'd 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; 
 
 * Dais — the great hall-table — elevated a steji 
 or two above the rest of the room. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 299 
 
 And there he inarshall'd 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 : — 
 •' I'or forty years a seneschal, 
 To marshal guests in bower and hall 
 
 Mas been my honor'd trade. 
 Worship and birth to me are known, 
 Uy look, by bearing, and V>y tone. 
 Not by furr'd robe or broider'd zone; 
 
 Anil 'gainst an oaken lx>ugh 
 111 gage my silver wand of state. 
 That these three strangers oft have sate 
 
 In higher place than now." — 
 
 "I, too," the aged Ferrand said, 
 " Am qualified by minstrel trade 
 
 (Jf rank and place to tell; — 
 .Mark'd yc 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 
 
 Scann'd 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 motion's grace it could not hide. 
 Nor cloud Rer form's fair symmetry." 
 
 Suspicious doubt and lordly scorn 
 Lour'd on the haughty front of Lorn. 
 From underneath his brows of pride. 
 The stranger guests he sternly eyed, 
 And whisper'd closely what the ear 
 Of Argentine alone might hear; 
 Then question'd, 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 outlaw'd Chief ! >'J 
 And if, their winter's exile o'er. 
 They harbor'd still by Ulster's shore. 
 Or launch'd their galleys on the main, 
 To vex their native land again? 
 
 That younger stranger, fierce ar^d high. 
 At once confronts the Chieftain's eye 
 
 With look of equal scorn : — • 
 " Of rebels have we naught to show; 
 But if of Royal Bruce thou'dst know, 
 
 I warn thee he has sworn. 
 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 quench'd 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 whisper'd 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 silenct all. 
 Until the minstrel waked the hall. 
 
 THE BROOCH OF I.ORN.'* 
 " Whence the brooch of burning gold, 
 That clasps the Chieftain's mantle-fold. 
 Wrought and chased with rare device. 
 Studded fair with gems of price. 
 On the varied tartans beaming. 
 As, through night's pale rainbow gleam- 
 ing, 
 Fainter now, now seen afar, 
 Fitful shines the northern star? 
 
 "Gem! ne'er wrought on Highland 
 
 mountain. 
 Did the fairy of the fountain, 
 Or the mermaid of the wave. 
 Frame thee in some coral cave? 
 
3O0 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto IL 
 
 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 
 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 toss'd ! 
 Rung aloud Bendourish Fell, 
 Answer'd Douchart's sounding dell, 
 Fled the deer from wild Teyndrum, 
 When the homicide, o'crcome, 
 Hardly 'scaped with scathe and scorn. 
 Left the pledge with conquering Lorn ! 
 
 xin. 
 
 SONG CONCLUED. 
 •' Vain was then the Douglas' brand,* 
 Vain the Campbell's vaunted hand, 
 Vain Kirkpatrick's bloody dirk, 
 Making sure of murderer's work: ^'^ 
 Barendown fled fast away, 
 P'led the fiery De la Hayc,i^ 
 When this brooch, triumphant borne, 
 Beam'd 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, 
 Dogg'd by Comyn's vengeful ghost. 
 While his spoils, in triumph worn, 
 Long shall grace victorious Lorn! " 
 
 XIV. 
 
 As glares the tiger on his foes, 
 Hemm'd in by hunters, spears, and bows, 
 
 * Sir James, called the good Lord Douglas, 
 who was wounded at the battle of Dairy, and 
 Sir Nigel or Niel Campbell, who married Mar- 
 jorie, sister to Robert Bruce, were among his 
 most faitliful adherents. 
 
 And, ere he bounds upon the ring. 
 Selects the object of his spring, — 
 Now on the Bard, now on his Lord, 
 So EdwHrd glared and grasp'd 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 
 Of Lorn's three vassals, true and tx>ld. 
 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 clench'd within their dying grasp. 
 What time a hundred foemen more 
 Rush'd in, and back the victor bore. 
 Long after Lorn had left the strife, 
 Full glad to 'scape with limb and life. — 
 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." 
 
 " Now, by Columba's shrine, I swear, 
 And every saint that's buried there, 
 'Tis 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, 
 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 distress'd. 
 No slaughter-house for shipwreck'd 
 
 guest." — 
 "Talk not to me," fierce .Lorn replied, 
 " Of odds or match ! — when Comyn died, 
 Three daggers clash'd within his side ! 
 Talk not to me of sheltering hall, 
 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 outlaw'd felons low ! " 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 301 
 
 Then up sprang many a niainlantl Lord, 
 Obedient to their Chieftain's word. 
 Barcaldine's arm is high in air, 
 And KinUich-AUine's blade is bare, 
 Black Murthok's dirk has left its sheath. 
 And clench'd is Dermid's hand of deatii. 
 Their nuitter'd tlireats of vengeance swell 
 Into a wild and warlike yell; 
 Onward they press with weapons high. 
 The affrighted females shriek and (ly. 
 And, Scotland, then thy brightest ray 
 Had darken'd ere its noon of day, — 
 Hut every chief of birth and fame, 
 That from the Isles of Ocean came, 
 At Ronald's side that hour withstood 
 Fierce Lorn's relentless thirst for blood. 
 
 Hrave Torquil from Dunvegan high, 
 Lord of the misty hills of Skye, 
 Mac-Niel, wild Hara's ancient thane, 
 Duart, of bold Clan-Gillian's strain, 
 Fergus of Canna's castled bay, 
 Mac-Daflith, Lord of Colonsay, 
 Soon as they saw the broadswords glance. 
 With ready weapons rose at once. 
 More prompt, that many an ancient feud. 
 Full oft suppress'd, full oft renew'd, 
 Glow'd 'twixt the chieftains of Argyle, 
 And many a lortl of ocean's isle. 
 Wild was thescene — eachsword was bare. 
 Back stream'd each chieftain's shaggy 
 
 hair. 
 In gloomy opposition set. 
 Eyes, hands, and brandish'd weapons 
 
 met; 
 Blue gleaming o'er the social board, 
 Flash'd to the torches many a sword; 
 And soon those bridal lights may shine 
 On purple blood for rosy wine. 
 
 While thus for VjIows 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 
 Is he who brawls mid song and wine,) 
 And, match'd in numbers and in might, 
 Doubtful and desperate seem'd the fight, i 
 
 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 
 Show'd like the Sworder's form of old, 
 As wanting still the torch of life, 
 To wake the marble into strife. 
 
 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 stream'd her eyes, wide flow'd her 
 
 hair: — 
 " O thou, of knighthood once the flower. 
 Sure refuge in distressful hour. 
 Thou, who in Judah well hast fought 
 For our dear faith, and oft hast sought 
 Renown in knightly exercise. 
 When this poor hand h.is dealt the prize. 
 Say, can thy soul of honor brook 
 On the unequal strife to look. 
 When, butcher'd thus in peaceful hall. 
 Those once thy friends, my brethren, 
 
 fall!" 
 To Argentine she turn'd her word, 
 But her eye sought the Island Lord. 
 A flush like evening's setting flame 
 Glow'd 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. 
 
 Now rose De Argentine, to claim 
 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 spurr'd a steed) — - 
 And Ronald, who his meaning guess'd, 
 Seem'd half to sanction the request. 
 
302 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES, 
 
 Canto II 
 
 This purpose fiery Torquil broke : — 
 "Somewhat we've heard of England's 
 
 yoke," 
 He said, " and, in our islands. Fame 
 Hath whisper'd of a lawful claim. 
 That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's 
 
 Lord, 
 Though dispossess'd 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, 
 Midst Scottish Chieftains summon'd 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 banish'd Knight." 
 
 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 Ijugle-clang 
 From the dark ocean upward rang. 
 
 " The Abbot comes ! " they cry at once, 
 
 "The holy man, whose favor'd glance 
 Hath sainted visions known; 
 
 Angels have met him on the way, 
 
 Beside the blessed martyrs' 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, 
 
 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 — 
 He comes our feuds to reconcile, 
 A sainted man from sainted isle; 
 We will his holy doom abide, 
 The Abbot shall our strife decide." 
 
 Scarcely this fair accord was o'er. 
 When through the wide revolving door 
 
 The black-stoled brethren wind; 
 Twelve sandall'd 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 
 
 Dropp'd swiftly at the sight; 
 They vanish'd from the Churchman's eye, 
 As shooting stars, that glance and die. 
 
 Dart from the vault of night. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The Abbot on the threshold stood. 
 
 And in his hand the holy rood; 
 
 Back on his shoulders tlow'd his hood,/ 
 
 The torch's glaring ray 
 Show'd, in its red and flashing light. 
 His wither'd cheek and amice white. 
 His blue eye glistening cold and bright. 
 
 His tresses scant and gray. 
 " Fair Lords," he said, " our Lady's 
 
 love, 
 And peace be with you from above. 
 
 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 summon'd to unite 
 
 Betrothed hearts and hands? " 
 
 Then cloaking hate with fiery zeal. 
 Proud Lorn first answer'd the appeal: — 
 
 "Thou comest, O holy Man, 
 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 mayest 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. 
 The 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 pray'rs and tears to back her 
 
 plea; 
 And Edith lent her generous aid. 
 And wept, and Lorn for mercy pray'd. 
 Hence," he exclaim'd, "degenerate maid ! 
 Was't not enough to Ronald's bower 
 
Canto II. 
 
 JHh LUkD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 l^l 
 
 I brought thee, like a paramour, ** 
 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 shall be — Nay, no reply! 
 Hence ! till those rebel eyes be dry." 
 With grief the Abbot heard and saw. 
 Yet naught relax'd his brow of awe. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Then Argentine, in England's name. 
 So highly urged his sovereign's claim. 
 He waked a spark, that, long suppress'd, 
 Hadsmoulder'd inl^^rd Ronald's breast; 
 And now, as from the flint the fire, 
 Flash'd forth at once his generous ire: — 
 " Enough of noble blood," he said, 
 " By English Edward had been shed. 
 Since matchless Wallace first had lieen 
 In mock'ry crown'd with wreaths of 
 
 green, 1* 
 And done to death by felon hand. 
 For guarding well his father's land. 
 Where's Nigel Bruce? and De la Haye, 
 And valiant Seton — where are they? 
 Where Somerville, the kind and free? 
 And Eraser, flower of chivalry? 
 Have they not been on gibbet lx)und. 
 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 ? 
 Was not the life of Athole shed. 
 To soothe the tyrant's sicken'd bed? ^^ 
 And must his word, till dying day, 
 Be naught l>ut 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 shall brave alone the fight ! 
 By saints of isle and mainland lx)th. 
 By Woden wild (my grandsire's oath),* 
 Let Rome and England do their worst, 
 Howe'er attainted or accursed, 
 
 * The Macleods and most other distinguished 
 Hebridean families were of Scandinavian descent. 
 The family names, Torquil, Thormod, etc., are 
 all Norwegian. 
 
 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 lie to lack. 
 With twice a thousand at his back. — 
 Nay, chafe not at my bearing bold. 
 Good Abbot ! for thou know'st of old, 
 Torquil's rude thought and stublx)rn will 
 Smack of the wild Norwegian still : 
 Nor will I barter Freedom's cause 
 For England's wealth, or Rome's ap- 
 plause." 
 
 The Abbot seem'd with eye severe 
 The hardy Chieftain's speech to hear; 
 Then on King Robert turn'd the Monk, 
 But twice his courage came and sunk. 
 Confronted with the hero's look; 
 Twice fell his eye, his accents shook; 
 At length, resolved in tone and brow. 
 Sternly he question'd 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; 
 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; 
 Hauntsthee while living — and,whendead. 
 Dwells on thy yet devoted head. 
 Rends Honor's scutcheon from thy 
 
 hearse. 
 Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse. 
 And spurns thy corpse from hallow "d 
 
 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 unhallow'd, ruthless deed." 
 
 "Abbot !" the Bruce replied," thy charge 
 It boots not to dispute at large. 
 
304 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 This much, howe'er, I bid thee know, 
 No selfish vengeance dealt the blow, 
 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 
 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. 
 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 sjieak no 
 
 more. 
 Do what thou wilt; my shrift is o'er." 
 
 Like man Vjy prodigy amazed. 
 Upon the King the Al>bot gazed; 
 Then o'er hLs pallid features glance 
 Convulsions of ecstatic trance. 
 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 in silver white, 
 Flush'd is his brow, through every vein 
 In azure tide the currents strain, 
 And undistinguish'd accents broke 
 1 he awful stillness ere he spoke: — 
 
 " De Bruce \ I rose with pnirpose dread 
 To speak my curse upon thy head,^* 
 And give thee as an outcast o'er 
 To him who burns to shod thy gore; 
 But, like the Midianitc of old. 
 Who stood on Zophim, heaven-con- 
 troU'd, 
 
 I feel within mine aged breast 
 
 A power that will not l>e repress'd. 
 
 It prompts my voice, it swells my veins, 
 
 It burns, it maddens, it constrains ! — 
 
 De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow 
 
 Hath at God's altar slain thy foe: 
 
 ()'crmaster'd yet by high Ix-hest, 
 
 I bless thee, and thou shalt l)e bless'd,' 
 
 He spoke, and o'er the astonish'd throng 
 
 Was silence, awful, deep, and long. 
 
 Again that light has fired his eye. 
 Again his form swells bold and high. 
 The broken vftice of age is gone, 
 'Tis vigorous manhood's lofty tone: — 
 " Thrice vanquish'd on the battle-plain, 
 Thy followers slaughter'd, fled, orta'en, 
 A hunted wanderer on the wild. 
 On foreign shores a man exiled,*® 
 Disown'd, deserted, and distress'd, 
 I bless thee, and thou shalt Ik- bless'd ! 
 Bless'd in the hall and in the field. 
 Under the mantle as the shield. 
 Avenger of thy country's shame. 
 Restorer of her injured fame, 
 Bless'd in thy sceptre and thy sword, 
 De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful Lord, 
 Bless'd in thy deeds and in thy fame, 
 What lengthen'd honors wait thy name ! 
 In distant ages, sire to son 
 Shall tell thy talc 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 bless'd thee, and thou shalt be 
 
 bless'd ! — 
 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, un- 
 moor ! " 
 His priests received the exhausted Monk, 
 As breathless in their arms he sunk. 
 Punctual his orders to obey, 
 I The train refused all longer stay, 
 1 Embark'd, raised sail, and bore away. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 305 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 I. 
 Hast thou not mark'd, when o'er thy 
 
 startled head 
 Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has 
 
 roird, 
 How, when its echoes fell, a silence 
 
 dead 
 Sunk on the wood, the raeadow, 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 ruin'd 
 
 hold. 
 Till, murmuring distant first, then near 
 
 and shrill. 
 The savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps 
 
 the groaning hill. 
 
 Artornish ! such a silence sunk 
 Upon thy h.ills, when that gray Monk 
 
 His prophet speech had spoke; 
 And his obedient brethren's sail 
 Was stretch'd to meet the southern gale 
 
 Before a whisper woke. 
 Then murmuring sounds of doubt and 
 
 fear. 
 Close pour'd in many an anxious ear. 
 
 The solemn stillness broke; 
 And still they gazed with eager guess. 
 Where, in an oriel's deep recess. 
 The Island Prince seem'd bent to press 
 What Lorn, by his impatient cheer. 
 And gesture fierce, scarce deign'd to hear. 
 
 Starting at length, with frowning look, 
 His hand he clench'd, his head he shook, 
 
 And sternly flung apart : — 
 " And deem'st thou me so mean of mood, 
 -Vs to forget the mortal feud. 
 And clasp the hand with blood imbrued 
 
 From my dear Kinsman's heart.? 
 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 ! — 
 We nor ally nor brother know. 
 In Bruce's friend, or England's foe." 
 
 But who the Chieftain's rage can tell. 
 When, sought from lowest dungeon cell 
 To highest tower the castle round. 
 No Lady Edith was there found ! 
 He shouted : — " Falsehood ! — treach- 
 ery ! — 
 Revenge and blood ! — a lordly meed 
 To him that will avenge the deed ! 
 A Baron's lands ! " — His frantic mood 
 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! 
 .'\y, and the time shall quickly come. 
 When we shall hear the thanks that Rome 
 Will pay his feigned prophecy ! " 
 Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry; 
 And Cormac Doil in haste obey'd. 
 Hoisted his sail, his anchor weigh'd, 
 (For, glad of each pretext for spoil, ' 
 A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil.) 
 But others, lingering, spoke apart : — 
 " The Maid has given her maiden heart 
 
 To Ronald of the Isles, 
 .\nd, fearful lest her brother's word 
 Bestow her on that English Lord, 
 
 She seeks lona'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 
 
 Echo'd to Lorn's impatient call, 
 
 " My horse, my mantle, and my train ! 
 
 Let none who honors Lorn remain ! " — 
 
 Courteous, but stern, a bold request 
 
 To Bruce De Argentine express'd : — 
 
 "Lord Earl," he said, — "I cannot 
 
 chuse 
 But yield such title to the Bruce, 
 
3o6 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Though name and earldom Ixjth arc gone, 
 Since he braced rebel's armor on — 
 But, Earl or Serf — rude phrase was thine 
 Of late, and launch"d at Argentine; 
 Such as compels me to demand 
 Redress of honor at thy hand. 
 We need not to each other tell. 
 That both can wield their weapons well; 
 Then do me but the soldier grace, 
 This glove uj)on thy helm to place 
 
 Where we may meet in fight; 
 .\nd I will say, as still I've said. 
 Though by ambition far misled, 
 Thou art a noble knight." — 
 
 " And I," the princely Bruce replied, 
 " Might terra it stain on knighthood's 
 
 pride 
 That the bright sword of Argentine 
 Should in a tyrant's quarrel shine; 
 
 But, for your brave request. 
 Be sure the honor 'd 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 redress'd. 
 Not dearer to my soul was glove, 
 Bestow'd in youth by lady's love, 
 
 llian this which thou hast given ! 
 Thus, then, my noble foe I greet; 
 Health and high fortune till we meet. 
 
 And then — what pleases Heaven." 
 
 Thus parted they — for now, with sound 
 Like waves roll'd back from rocky 
 ground. 
 
 The friends of Lorn retire; 
 Each mainland chieftain, with his train, 
 Draws to his mountain towers again. 
 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 barr'd. 
 
 By beam and bolt and chain; 
 Then of the guests, in courteous sort. 
 He pray'd excuse for mirth broke short. 
 And bade them in Artonish fort 
 
 lu confidence remain. 
 
 Now torch and menial tendance led 
 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. 
 
 But soon uproused, the Monarch cried 
 To Edward slumbering by his side : — 
 
 " Awake, or sleep for aye ! 
 Even now there jarr'd a secret door — 
 A taper-light gleams on the floor — 
 
 Up, Edward, up, I say ! 
 Some one glides in like midnight ghost — 
 Nay, strike not ! 'tis our noble Host.' 
 Advancing then his taper's flame, 
 Ronald stept forth, and with him came 
 
 Dunvegan's chief-^each bent the knee 
 
 To Bruce in sign of fealty. 
 And proffer'd him his sword. 
 
 And hail'd him in a monarch's style. 
 
 As king of mainland and of isle. 
 And Scotland's rightful lord. 
 "And O," said Ronald, " Own'd 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," 
 Answer'd 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 V>reast he press'd. 
 And in a sigh conceal'd the rest. 
 
 They proffer'd aid, by arms and -ght. 
 To repossess him in his right ; 
 But well their counsels must be weigh'd, 
 Ere banners raised and musters made. 
 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. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 307 
 
 I long'd for Carrick's kindred shore. 
 I tliought upon my native Ayr, 
 Ami long'd to see the burly fare 
 That Clifford makes, whose lordly call 
 Now echoes through my father's hall. 
 But first my course to Arran led. 
 Where valiant Lennox gathers head, 
 And on the sea, by tempest toss'd, 
 Our barks dispersed, our purpose cross'd, 
 Mine own, a hostile sail to shun, 
 Far from her destined course had run. 
 When that wise will, which masters 
 
 ours, 
 CompcU'd us to your friendly towers." 
 
 Then Torquil spoke : — " The timecraves 
 
 speed ! 
 We must not linger in our deed. 
 Hut 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-arm'd vessels ride. 
 Not distant far, the waves of Qyde, 
 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 
 In the far Ixjunds 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, renown'd where chiefs de- 
 bate, 
 Shalt sway their souls by counsel sage. 
 And awe them by thy locks of age." 
 — " And if my words in weight shall fail. 
 This ponderous sword shall turn the scale." 
 
 "The scheme," said Bruce, "contents 
 
 me well; 
 Meantime, 'twere best that Isaliel, 
 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 scatter'd friend." — 
 Here seem'd it as Lord Ronald's ear 
 Would other counsel gladlier hear; 
 
 But, all achieved as soon as plann'd. 
 Both barks, in secret arm'd and mann'd. 
 
 From out the haven bore; 
 On different voyage forth they ply, 
 This for the coast of winged Skye, 
 
 And that for Erin's shore. 
 
 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. 
 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 shiver'd crest 
 
 The sun's arising gleam; 
 But such the labor and delay. 
 Ere they were moor'd in Scavigh bay, 
 (For calmer heaven compell'd to stay,) 
 
 He shot a western beam. 
 Then Ronald said : — "If true mine eye, 
 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. 
 
 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 lx)lts in hand. 
 Their row-boat launch'd and leapt to land. 
 
 And left their skiff and train. 
 Where awild stream, withheadlongshock, 
 Came brawling down its bed of rock. 
 
 To mingle with the main. 
 
 A while their route they silent made. 
 As men who stalk for mountain-deer, 
 
 Till the good Bruce to Ronald said : — 
 "St. M.ary ! what a scene is here ! 
 
 I've traversed many a mountain-strand. 
 Abroad and in my native land. 
 
3o8 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 And it has lieen my lot to tread 
 Where safety more than pleasure led; 
 Thus, many a waste I've wander'd o'er, 
 Clomb many a crag, cross'd 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 happ'd to roam." 
 
 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. 
 Seems that primeval earthquake's sway 
 Hath rent a strange and shatter'd 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, 
 
 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 
 The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew. 
 That clothe with many a varied hue 
 
 The bleakest mountain-side. 
 
 And wilder, forward as they wound, 
 Were the proud cliffs and lake profound. 
 Huge terraces of granite black 
 Afforded rude and cumber'd track; 
 
 For from the mountain hoar, 
 Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear, 
 When yell'd the wolf and fled the deer. 
 
 Loose crags had toppled o'er; 
 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, 
 And round the skirts their mantle furl'd, 
 Or on the sable waters curl'd, 
 Or on the eddying breezes whirl'd. 
 
 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 V)eams, 
 Whiten'd with foam a thousand streams 
 
 Leap from the mountain's crown. 
 
 "This lake," said Bruce, " whose bar- 
 riers 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 grisly gulfs and slaty rifts, 
 
 Which seam its shiver'd head? " — 
 " 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 
 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 ! 
 (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 whiten'd hood — 
 'Tis thus our islesnien's fancy frames, 
 For scenes so stern, fantastic names." 
 
 Answer'dtheBruce:— "Andmusinj mind 
 Might here a graver moral find. 
 
Canto lit. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 309 
 
 These mighty cliffs, that heave on high 
 Their naked brows to middle sky, 
 Indifferent to the sun or snow, 
 Where naught can fade, and naught 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 
 Are hunters and a slaughter'd stag. 
 Who may they be ? But late you said 
 No steps these desert regions tread." — 
 
 " 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; 
 I've faced worse odds than five to three — 
 — But the poor page can little aid; 
 Then be our battle thus array'd. 
 If our free passage they contest; 
 Cope thou with two, I'll 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 islemen soon to soldiers grow, 
 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 spill'd — we soon shall know. 
 Whether they come as friend or foe." 
 
 Nigh came the strangers, and more 
 
 nigh; — 
 Still less they pleased the Monarch's eye. 
 Men were they all of evil mien, 
 J )own-look'd, unwilling to be seen; 
 They moved with half-resolved pace. 
 And bent on earth each gloomy face. 
 
 The foremost two were fair array'd. 
 With brogue and bonnet, trews and plaid, 
 And bore the arms of mountaineers. 
 Daggers and broadswords, bows and 
 
 spears. 
 The three, that lagg'd small space behind, 
 Seem'd serfs of more degraded kind; 
 Goat-skins or deer-hides o'er them cast. 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 And proffer'd greeting brief and rude. 
 But acted courtesy so ill. 
 As seem'd 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 ! 
 Wreck'd yesternight : but we are men, 
 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 
 
 glow'd? " — 
 " It was." — " Then spare your needless 
 
 pain, 
 There she will now be sought in vain. 
 We saw her from the mountain-head. 
 When, with St. 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; 
 
THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 ' Nor rests there light enough to show 
 If this their tale be true or no. 
 Tlie men seem bred of churlish kind, 
 Yet mellow nuts have hardest rind; 
 We will go with them — food and fire 
 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'll 
 
 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 reach'd the dreary cabin, made 
 Of sails against a rock display'd. 
 
 And there, on entering, found 
 A slender boy, whose form and mien 
 III suited with such savage scene, 
 In cap and cloak of velvet green. 
 
 Low seated on the ground. 
 Jlis garb was such as minstrels wear. 
 Dark was his hue, and dark his hair. 
 His youthful cheek was marr'd by care, 
 
 His eyes in sorrow drown'd. 
 " Whence this poor boy? " — As Ron- 
 ald spoke, 
 The voice his trance of anguish broke; 
 As if awaked from ghastly dream, 
 I le raised his head with start and scream, 
 
 And wildly g.azed around; 
 Then to the wall his face he turn'd, 
 And his dark neck with blushes burn'd. 
 
 xxm. 
 
 " Whose is the boy?" again .he said. — 
 " By chance of war our captive made; 
 He may be yours, if you should hold 
 Tiiat 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, 
 A crone in our late shipwreck drown'd, 
 
 And hence the silly stripling's woe. 
 More of the youth I cannot say, 
 Our captive but since yesterday; 
 W^hen wind and weather wax'd 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 turn'd his head. 
 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 re- 
 quire 
 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 f.ast. 
 Long as this hallow'd task shall last, 
 We never doff the plaid or sword. 
 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'll hold this hut's remoter end." — 
 " A churlish vow,'' the eldest said, 
 " And hard, methinks, to be obey'd. 
 How say you, if, to wreak the scorn 
 That pays our kindness harsh return, 
 We should refuse to share our meal ? " 
 " Then say we, that our swords are steel ! 
 And our vow binds us not to fast. 
 Where gold or force may buy repast." — 
 Their host's dark brow grew keen and 
 
 fell. 
 His teeth are clench'd, 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 constrain'd, — "Let every 
 
 man 
 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 HI. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 3" 
 
 For evil .seem'd 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. 
 
 By doubt and cunning mark'd at once, 
 
 Which shot a mischief-boding ray. 
 
 From under eyebrows shagg'd and gray. 
 
 The younger, too, who seemed his son, 
 
 Had that dark look the timid shun; 
 
 rho half-clad serfs behind them sate. 
 
 And scowl'd a glare 'twixt fear and hate — 
 
 Till all, as darkness onward crept, 
 
 ( 'i)Uch'ddown,andseem'dtosleeporslept. 
 
 -\or he, that boy, whose powerless tongue 
 
 Must trust his eyes to wail his wrong, 
 
 A longer watch of sorrow made. 
 
 But stretch'd his limbs to slumber laid. 
 
 Not in his dangerous host confides 
 The King, but wary watch provides. 
 Roland keeps ward till midnight past. 
 Then wakes the King, young Allan last; 
 Thus rank'd, to give the youthful page 
 The rest required by tender age. 
 What is Lord Ronald's wakeful thought. 
 To chase the languor toil had brought ? — 
 ( P'or deem not that he deign'd 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. 
 Must she alone engross his care. 
 His thoughts to his l)etrothed 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 'tis his to keep. 
 For seldom lovers long for sleep. 
 Till sung his midnight hymn the owl, 
 Answer'd the dog-fox with his howl. 
 Then waked the King; — at his request, 
 Lxjrd Ronald stretch'd 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 batlle bravely fought, 
 Of castles storm'd, 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, — 
 As heroes think, so thought the Bruce. 
 No marvel, mid such musings high. 
 Sleep shuiin'd the Monarch's thoughtful 
 
 eye. 
 Now over Coolin's eastern head 
 The grayish light begins to spread, 
 The otter to his cavern drew, 
 And clamor'd shrill the wakening mew; 
 Then watch'd the page; — to needful rest 
 The King resign'd his anxious breast. 
 
 To Allan's eyes was harder task, 
 The weary watch their safeties ask. 
 He trimm'd the fire, and gave to shine 
 With bickering light the splinter'd 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. 
 His little sisters' greenwood bower. 
 How there the Easter-gambols pass, 
 And of Dan Joseph's lengthen'd mass. 
 But still before his weary eye 
 In rays prolong' d the blazes die. — 
 Again he roused him ; — on the lake 
 Look'd forth, where now the twilight 
 
 flake 
 Of pale cold dawn began to wake. 
 On Coolin's cliffs the mists lay furl'd, 
 The morning breeze the lake had curl'd. 
 The short dark waves, heaved to the land, 
 With ceaseless splash kiss'd cliff or sand; 
 It was a slumbrous sound; — he turn'd 
 To tales at which his youth had burn'd, 
 Of pilgrim's path by demon cross'd, 
 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.** 
 Thither in fancy wrapt he flies. 
 And on his sight the vaults arise; 
 
THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 That hut's dark walls he sees no more. 
 
 His foot is on the marble floor. 
 
 And o'er his head the dazzling spars 
 
 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. 
 As from the ground he strives to start, 
 A ruffian's dagger finds his heart ! 
 Upward he casts his dizzy eyes, . . . 
 Murmurs his master's name, . . . and 
 
 dies ! 
 
 Not so awoke the King ! his hand 
 Snatch'd from the flame a knotted brand, 
 The nearest weapon of his wrath; 
 With this he cross'd the murderer's path, 
 
 And venged young Allan well ! 
 The spatter'd brain and bubbling blood 
 Hiss'd on the half-extinguish'd wood, 
 
 The miscreant gasp'd 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 ! 
 
 — 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 gain'd — the captive sprung 
 On the raised arm, and closely clung. 
 
 And, ere he shook him loose. 
 The master'd felon press'd the ground. 
 And gasp'd beneath the mortal wound, 
 
 While o'er him stands the Bruce. 
 
 " Miscreant ! while lasts thy flitting 
 
 spark. 
 Give me to know the purpose dark. 
 That arm'd thy hand with murderous 
 
 knife, 
 Against offenceless stranger's life? " — 
 "No stranger thou! " with accent fell, 
 Murmur'd 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 ? 
 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. 
 
 Then resting on his bloody blade, 
 The valiant Bruce to Roland said: — 
 " 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 un- 
 said ! ' ' 
 He raised the youth with kindly word. 
 But mark'd him shudder at the sword: 
 He cleansed it from its hue of death. 
 And plunged the weapon in its sheath. 
 '■ Alas, poor child ! unfitting part 
 Fate doom'd, 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, 
 But he'll 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 talc," 
 He said, " in halls of Donagaile ! 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 313 
 
 Oh, who his widow'd 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 
 < )n the dark laka threw lustre red; 
 Bright gleams of gold and purple streak 
 Kavinc and precipice and peak — ■' 
 (So earthly power at distance shows; 
 Reveals his splendor, hides his woes.) 
 O'er sheets of granite dark and l)road, 
 Rent and unequal, lay the road. 
 In sad discourse the warriors wind. 
 And the mute captive moves behind. 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 I. 
 Stranger ! if e'er thine ardent step 
 
 hath traced 
 The northern realms of ancient Cal- 
 
 edon, 
 Where the proud Queen of Wilderness 
 
 hath placed. 
 By lake and cataract, her lonely throne; 
 Sublime Init sad delight thy. soul hath 
 
 known, 
 Gazing on pathless glen and mountain 
 
 high. 
 Listing where from the cliffs the tor- 
 rents thrown 
 Mingle their echoes with the eagle's 
 
 cry, 
 And with the sounding lake, and with 
 
 the moaning sky. 
 
 Yes ! 'twas sublime , but sad. — The 
 loneliness 
 
 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 wish'd some wood- 
 man's cottage nigh, 
 
 Something that show'd of life, though 
 low and mean : 
 
 Glad sight, its curling wreath of smoke 
 to spy, 
 
 Glad sound, its cock's blithe carol 
 would have Ijeen, 
 Or children whooping wild beneath the 
 willows green. 
 
 Such are the scenes, where savage 
 
 grandeur wakes 
 An awful thrill that softens into sighs; 
 Such feelings rouse them Ijy dim Ran- 
 
 noch's lakes. 
 In dark Glencoe such gloomy raptures 
 
 rise; 
 Or farther, where, beneath the north- 
 ern 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 
 
 Coriskin roar. 
 
 Through such wild scenes the champiop 
 
 pass'd. 
 When bold halloo and bugle blast 
 Upon the breeze came loud and fast. 
 "There," said the Bruce, "rung Ed- 
 ward'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." 
 
 Loud Edward shouts: — " Wh-it make 
 
 ye here. 
 Warring upon the mountain-deer. 
 
 When Scotland wants her king? 
 A bark from Lennox cross'd 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-toss'd fleet hath won its 
 
 way 
 With little loss to Brodick-Bay, 
 And Lennox, with a gallant band, 
 Waits but thy coming and command 
 To waft them o'er to Carrick strand. 
 
3U 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 There are blithe news! — but mark the 
 
 close ! 
 Edward, the deadliest of our foes, 
 As with his host he northward pass'd. 
 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, 
 
 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 ruin'd in his rage. 
 You read a monarch brave and sage, 
 
 And to his people dear." — 
 " Let London's burghers mourn her 
 
 Lord, 
 And Croydon monks his praise record," 
 
 The eager Edward said: — 
 " 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 clench 'd his palsied 
 
 hand. 
 That pointed yet to Scotland's land, 
 
 As his last accents pray'd 
 Disgrace and curse upon his heir. 
 If he one Scottish head should spare. 
 Till stretch'd 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 
 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 galleys' pendants stretch 
 Their fluttering length down favoring gale ! 
 Aboard, alward ! 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'sside,' 
 Replied the Chief, " will Ronald bide. 
 And since two galleys yonder ride. 
 Be mine, so please my liege, dismiss'd 
 To wake tr irms the clans of Uist, 
 And all who hear the Minch'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. 
 If aught avails their Chieftain's best 
 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 pass'd slow, — 
 F'it scene for such a sight of woe. 
 The sorrowing islesmen, as they Ixjre 
 The murder'd Allan to the shore. 
 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, 
 Mourn'd the young heir of Donagaile. 
 Roimd and around, from cliff and cave, 
 His answer stern old Coolin gave. 
 Till high upon his misty side 
 Languish'd the mournful notes, and died; 
 For never sounds, by mortal made, 
 Attain'd his high and haggard head. 
 That echoes but the tempest's moan. 
 Or the deep thunder's rending groan. 
 
 Merrily, merrily bounds the bark. 
 She bounds before the gale. 
 
Ca.nto IV. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 315 
 
 Tlie mountain breeze from Ben-na-darch 
 
 Is joyous in her siiil ! 
 SN'ith fluttering sound likelaugliter hoarse. 
 
 The cords and canvas strain. 
 The waves, divided by her force. 
 In rippling eddies chased her course, 
 
 As if they laugh'd again. 
 \ot down the breeze more blithely 
 
 Hew, 
 Skimming the wave, the light sea-mew. 
 
 Than the gay galley bore 
 Her course upon that favoring wind, 
 •\nd Coolin's crest has sunk behind, 
 
 And Slapin's cavern'd shore. 
 ■ Fwas then that warlike signals wake 
 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 Skat and Strath. 
 
 And, ready at the sight. 
 Each warrior to his weapons sprung. 
 And targe upon his shoulder Hung, 
 
 Impatient for the fight. 
 Mac-Kinnon's chief, in warfare gray. 
 Had charge to muster their array, 
 And guide their barks to Brodick-lJay. 
 
 Signal of Ronald's high command, 
 A beacon gleam'd 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. 
 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. 
 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 turn'd her eye to southern climes. 
 And thought perchance of happier times. 
 And touch'd her lute by fits, and sung 
 Wild ditties in her native tongue. 
 And still, when on the cliff and bay. 
 Placid and pale the moonbeams play. 
 
 And every breeze is mute, 
 Upon the lone Hebridean's ear 
 Steals a strange pleasure mix'd 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 — 
 
 Yet who may pass them by. 
 That crag and tower in ruins gray. 
 Nor to their hapless tenant pay 
 
 The tribute of a sigh ! 
 
 Merily, 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, ^ 
 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 
 Summon'd her warriors to the fight; 
 A numerous race, ere stern MacLeod 
 O'er thdr bleak shores in vengeance 
 
 strode,'^ 
 When all in vain the ocean-cave 
 Its refuge to his victims gave. 
 The Chief, relentless in his wrath, 
 With blazing heath blockades the path ; 
 In dense and stifling volumes roll'd, 
 The vapor fiU'd the cavern'd 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. 
 
3i6 
 
 THE LOKD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 Merrily, merrily goes the bark 
 
 On a breeze from the northward free, 
 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 un<listurl>'d repose 
 
 The cormorant had found. 
 And the shy seal had quiet home. 
 And welter'd in that wondrous dome. 
 Where, as to shame the temples deck 'd 
 By skill of earthly architect, 
 Nature herself, it seem'd, would raise 
 A Minster to her ^Taker's praise ! 
 Not for a meaner use ascend 
 Her columns, or her arches bend; 
 Nor of a theme less solemn tells 
 That mighty surge that ebbs and swells. 
 And still, lietween each awful pause. 
 From the high vault an answer draws. 
 In varied tone prolong'd and high. 
 That mocks the organ's melody. 
 Nor doth its entrance front in vain 
 To old lona'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 
 Task'd high and hard — but witness 
 mine ! " 
 
 Merrily, merrily goes the liark, 
 
 Before the gale she bounds; 
 So darts the dolphin from the shark, 
 
 Or the deer Ijefore the hounds. 
 They left Locli-Tua on their lee. 
 And they waken'd the men of the wild 
 Tiree, 
 
 And the Chief of the sandy Coll; 
 They paused not at Columba's isle. 
 Though peal'd 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 tierce and warlike Lord 
 Their signal saw, and grasp'd his sword. 
 
 And verdant Islay call'd her host, 
 And the clans of Jura's rugged coast 
 
 Lord Ronald's call obey, 
 And Scarba's isle, whose tortured shore 
 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; 
 Quench'd 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. 
 But the galley ploughs no more the sea. 
 I^st, rounding wild Cantire, they meet 
 The southern foemen's watchful fleet, 
 
 They held unwonted way; — 
 Up Tarbat's western lake they bore, 
 Then dragg'd 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, 
 High raised above the greenwood tree, 
 As on dry land the galley moves. 
 By cliff and copse and alder groves. 
 Di-ep import from that selcouth sign, 
 Did irany a mountain Seer divine. 
 For ancient legends told the Gael, 
 That when a royal bark should sail 
 
 O'er Kilniaconnel moss, 
 Old Albyn should in fight prevail. 
 And every foe should faint and quail 
 
 Before her silver Cross. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Now launch'd 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 seem'd the isle her monarch knew. 
 So brilliant was the landward view. 
 
 The ocean so serene; 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 317 
 
 Each puny wave in diamonds roll'd 
 O'er the calm deep, where hues of gold 
 
 With azure strove and green. 
 The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower, 
 Glow'd with the tint of evening's hour, 
 
 The beach was silver sheen. 
 The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh, 
 And, oft renew'd, seem'd oft to die. 
 
 With breathless pause between. 
 () who, with speech of war and woes. 
 Would wish to break the soft repose 
 
 Of such enchanting scene ! 
 
 1> 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 hrowexpress'd. 
 He ponder'd o'er some high request. 
 
 As doubtful to approve; 
 Vet 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, 
 t )f Edith from Artornish fled. 
 Too hard her fate — I claim no right 
 To blame her for her hasty flight; 
 He joy and happiness her lot ! — 
 But she hath fled the bridal knot. 
 And Lorn recall'd his promised plight. 
 In the assembled chieftains' sight. — 
 When, to fulfil our fathers' band, 
 I proffer'd all I could — - my hand — 
 
 I was repulsed with scorn; 
 
 Mine honor I should ill assert. 
 
 And worse the feelings of my heart, 
 
 If I should play a suitor's part 
 
 Again, to pleasure Lorn." 
 
 " Young Lord," the royal Bruce replied, 
 " That question must the Church decide; 
 Vet 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? 
 
 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 ruin'd house and hapless state, 
 From worldly joys and hopes estranged. 
 Much is the hapless mourner changed. 
 Perchance," here smiled the noble King, 
 " This tale may other musings bring. 
 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." 
 
 As thus they talk'd in earnest mood. 
 That speechless boy beside them stood. 
 He stoop'd his head against the mast, 
 And bitter sobs came thick and fast, 
 A grief that would not be repress'd, 
 But seem'd to burst his youthful breast. 
 1 lis hands, against his forehead held. 
 As if by force his tears repell'd. 
 But through his fingers, long and slight, 
 Fast trill'd the drops of crystal bright. 
 Edward, who walk'd the deck apart. 
 First spied this conflict of the lieart. 
 Thoughtless as brave, with bluntness kind 
 He sought to cheer the sorrower's mind; 
 By force the slender hand he drew 
 From those poor eyes that stream'd with 
 
 dew. 
 As in his hold the stripling strove, — 
 ('Twas 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 unredress'd. 
 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." 
 
3i8 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 Bruce interposed: — "Gay Edward, no, 
 
 This is no youth to hold thy bow, 
 
 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 Augustin to share 
 
 The peaceful change of convent prayer. 
 
 Than wander wild adventures through, 
 
 With such a reckless guide as you." — 
 
 "Thanks, Vjrother ! " Edward answer'd 
 
 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. 
 
 And thrice aloud his bugle rung 
 
 With note prolong'd and varied strain, 
 
 Till bold Ben Ghoil replied again. 
 
 Good Douglas then, and De la Haye, 
 
 Had in a glen a hart at bay. 
 
 And Lennox cheer'd 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 
 Fling by hisbow, 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 ! 
 Each to Loch Ranza's margin spring; 
 That blast was winded by the King ! " 29 
 
 Fast to their mates the tidings spread, 
 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 clasp'd his hands, and wept aloud. 
 Veterans of early fields were there, 
 Whose helmets press'd their hoary hair, 
 Whose swords and axes bore a stain 
 From life-blood of the red-hair"d Dane; 
 And boys, whose hands scarce brook'd 
 
 to wield 
 The heavy sword or Ixissy shield. 
 Men too were there, that bore the scars 
 Impress'd in Albyn's woeful 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 murder'd De la Haye, 
 And Boyd the grave, and Seton gay. 
 Around their King regain'd they press'd, 
 Wept, shouted, clasp'd 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 ! 
 
 Oh, War ! thou hast thy fierce delight, 
 Thy gleams of joy, intensely bright ! 
 Such gleams, as from thy polish'd 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 ! — 
 Warriors ! — and where are warriorsifound. 
 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 heart-strings 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 hail'd at Scone his early reign, 
 
;anto I\'. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 319 
 
 This patriot band around him hung. 
 And to his knees and bosom clung? — 
 Blame ye the Bruce ? — his brother 
 
 blamed, 
 But shared the weakness, while ashamed. 
 With haughty laugh his head he turn'd, 
 And dash'd away the tear he scorn 'd.-* 
 
 'Tis morning, and the Convent bell 
 Long time had ceased its matin knell, ^ 
 
 Within thy walls. Saint Bride ! 
 An aged Sister sought the cell 
 Assign'd to Lady Isabel, 
 
 And hurriedly she cried: — 
 ■• Haste, gentle Lady, haste — there waits 
 A noble stranger at the gates; 
 Saint Bride's poor vot'ress 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 cross'd 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? 
 And art thou, like the worldly train. 
 Subdued by splendors light and vain ? " — 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " 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, 
 P.uilt like a castle's battled wall, 
 W't moulded in such just degrees, 
 I lis 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 
 Have left on that majestic face; — 
 But 'tis his dignity of eye ! 
 There, if a suppliant, would I fly. 
 
 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, 
 ' 'Tis Scotland's hope, her joy, her pride ! 
 To meaner front was ne'er assign'd 
 Such mastery o'er the common mind — 
 Bestow'd thy high designs to aid. 
 How long, O Heaven ! how long de- 
 
 lay'd ! — 
 Haste, Mona, haste, to introduce 
 My darling brother, royal Bruce ! " 
 
 They met like friends who part in pain. 
 And meet in doubtful hope again. 
 But when subdued that fitful swell. 
 The Bruce survey'd 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, 
 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 divide 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. 
 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 P'ortune 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, 
 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 fix'd on Heaven alone; 
 Nor e'er shall earthy prospects win 
 My heart to this vain world of sin." — 
 
320 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 " Nay, Isalx;!, for such stern choice, 
 First wilt thou wait thy brother's voice; 
 Then ponder if in convent scene 
 No softer thoughts might intervene — 
 Say they were of that unknown Knight, 
 Victor in Woo<lstock'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, 
 The princess made composed reply : — • 
 " I guess my brother's meaning well; 
 For not so silent is the cell, 
 Hut we have heard the islesmen all 
 Arm in tliy cause at Ronald's call, 
 And mine eyes prove that Knight un- 
 known 
 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,) 
 I know not. . . . But thy page so near? — - 
 This is no tale for menial's ear." 
 
 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 forhim : — in murderous strife," 
 Said Bruce, " his warning saved my 
 
 life; 
 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 Augustin 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. 
 'TIS a kind youth, but fanciful, 
 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 Ronajd tell." — 
 
 " This answer be to Ronald given — 
 The heart he asks is fix'd on heaven. 
 My love was like a summer flower. 
 That wither'd in the wintry hour. 
 Born but of vanity and pride. 
 And with these sunny visions died. 
 If further press his suit — then say. 
 He should his plighted troth oViey, 
 Troth plighted both with ring and word, 
 And sworn on crucifix and sword.- — 
 Oh, shame thee, Robert ! I have seen 
 Thou hast a woman's guardian been ! 
 Even in extremity's dread hour. 
 When press'd on thee the Southern power. 
 And safety, to all human sight. 
 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 
 To an oppress'd 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. 
 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 stoop'd, and bent his knee, 
 Kiss'd twice the hand of Isabel, 
 Arose, and sudden left the cell. — 
 The princess, loosen'd from his hold, 
 Blushed angry at his l)earing bold; 
 
 But good King Robert cried: — 
 " Chafe not — by signs he speaks his mind. 
 He heard the plan my care design'd. 
 
 Nor could his transports hide. — 
 
Can'iO v. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 32< 
 
 But, sister, now bethink thee well; 
 No easy chnice 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, 
 Tiiat 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. 
 Anil 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 !" — • 
 
 " Brother, I well l>elieve," she said, 
 
 " Even so would Edward's part be play'd. 
 
 Kindly in heart, in word severe, 
 
 A foe to thought, and grief, and fear. 
 
 He holds his humor uncontroll'd; 
 
 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 E^ith 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, 
 " Lost to the world by lot severe, 
 O what a gem lies buried here, 
 Nipp'd 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 
 
 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; 
 — 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 
 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 gravq ! " 
 Then down the hill he slowly went. 
 Oft pausing on the steep descent. 
 And reach'd the spot where his bold train 
 Held rustic camp upon the plain. 
 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 I. 
 
 On fairLoch-Ranzastream'd the eaxly 
 day. 
 
 Thin wreaths of cottage smoke are up- 
 ward curl'd 
 
 From the lone hamlet, which her in- 
 land bay 
 
 And circling mountains sever from the 
 world. 
 
 And there the fisherman his sail 
 unfurl'd. 
 
 The goat-herd drove his kids to steep 
 Ben-Ghoil, 
 
 Before the hut the dame her spindle 
 twirl'd, 
 
 Courting the sunbeam as she plied her 
 toil, — 
 For, wake where'er he may, Man wakes 
 to care and coil. 
 
 But other duties call'd each convent 
 maid. 
 
 Roused by the summons of the moss- 
 grown bell; 
 
 Sung were the matins, and the mass 
 was said, 
 
 Andevery sister sought herseparatecell. 
 
 Such was the rule, — her rosary to tell. 
 
 And Isaliel has knelt in lonely prayer: 
 
 The sunbeam, through the narrow lat- 
 tice, fell 
 
 Upon the snowy neck and long dark 
 hair. 
 As stoop 'd her gentle head in meek devo- 
 tion there. 
 
322 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 She raised her eyes, that duty done, 
 When glanced upon the pavement-stone, 
 Gemm'd and enchased, a golden ring. 
 Bound to a scroll with silken stiing, 
 With few brief words inscribed to tell, 
 " This for the Lady Isabel." 
 Within, the writing further bore : — 
 " 'Twas 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. 
 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 vanish'd 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 ! — 
 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. 
 
 Next rose the thought, — its owner far. 
 How came it here through bolt and bar ? — 
 But the dim lattice is ajar. — 
 She looks abroad, the morning dew 
 A light short step had brush'd anew. 
 
 And there were foot-prints seen 
 On the carved buttress rising still, 
 Till on the mossy window-sill. 
 
 Their track effaced the green. 
 The ivy twigs were torn and fray'd. 
 As if some climber's steps to aid. — 
 But who the hardy messenger. 
 Whose venturous path these signs infer ? — 
 "Strange doubts are mine! — Mona, 
 
 draw nigh; 
 — Naught 'scapesoldMona'scuriouseye — 
 What strangers, gentle mother, say. 
 Have sought these holy walls to-day ? " — 
 " None, Lady, none of note or name: 
 Only your brother's foot-page came. 
 
 At peep of dawn — I pray'd him pass 
 To chapel where they said the mass; 
 But like an arrow he shot by, 
 And tears seem'd bursting from his eye." 
 
 The truth at once on Isabel, 
 
 As darted by a sunbeam, fell: — 
 
 ' ' 'Tis 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." — 
 
 "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 couch'd in greenwood bower. 
 
 At dawn a bugle signal, made 
 
 By their bold Lord, their ranks array 'd; 
 
 Up sprung the spears through bush and 
 
 tree. 
 No time for benedicite ! 
 Like deer, that, rousing from their lair. 
 Just shake the dewdrops from their hair, 
 And toss their armed crests aloft, 
 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, 'tis 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 Augustin, good dame." 
 The nun obey'd, the Father came. 
 
 *' 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 — 
 
 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 stafi and sandall'd shoon« 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 323 
 
 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 was there lieside, whose care 
 Might such important message liear. 
 Through birchen copse he wander'd slow. 
 Stunted and sapless, thin and low; 
 Ky many a mountain stream he pass'd, 
 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 pass'd where fractures 
 
 wide 
 Craved wary eye and ample stride; ^ 
 I le cross'd his brow beside the stone 
 Where Druids erst heard victims groan, 
 .\nil at the cairns upon the wild, 
 ( )\tx many a heathen hero piled. 
 He breathed a timid prayer for those 
 Wlio died ere Shiloh's sun arose. 
 I'.side Macfarlane's Cross he staid, 
 There told his hours within the shade, 
 And at the stream his thirst allay'd. 
 Thence onward journeying, slowly still. 
 As evening closed he reach'd the hill. 
 Where, risingthrough 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. 
 
 But though the beams of light decay, 
 'Twas bustle all in Brodick-Bay. 
 The Bruce's followers crowd the shore. 
 And boats and barges some unmoor, 
 Some raise the sail, some seize the oar; 
 Their eyes oft turn'd where glimmer'd far 
 What might have seem'd 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, 
 Rivet and clasp their harness light. 
 And twinkling spears, and axes bright. 
 And helmets flashing high. 
 Oft, too, with unaccustom'd ears, 
 A language much unmeet he hears,** 
 
 While, hastening all on board. 
 As stormy as the swelling surge 
 Tiiat mix'd its roar, the leaders urge 
 Their followers to the ocean verge, 
 With many a haughty word. 
 
 Through that wild throng the Father 
 
 pass'd. 
 And reach'd the Royal Bruce at last. 
 He leant against a stranded boat. 
 That the approaching tide must float, 
 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 loosen 'd 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 approach 'd and homage paid; 
 " And art thou come," King Roljert said, 
 " 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 hest of Isabel. 
 
 — " 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 show'd. 
 But there, my Liege, made brief abode." 
 
 IX. 
 
 "'Twas I," said Edward, "found em- 
 ploy 
 Of nobler import for the boy. 
 Deep pondering in my anxious mind, 
 A fitting messenger to find. 
 To l>ear my written mandate o'er 
 To Cuthbert on the Carrick shore. 
 
324 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 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 
 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 obey'd; 
 For, see ! the ruddy signal made. 
 That Clifford, with his merry-men all, 
 Guards carelessly our father's hall."t — 
 
 " 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 perill'd thus the helpless child." — 
 — Offended half, and half submiss: — 
 " Brother and Liege, of blame like this," 
 Edward replied, " I little dream'd. 
 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'cn, his words no tale express — 
 Methinks, too, yonder beacon's shine 
 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 
 Can chalice raise or cross command. 
 While my old voice has accents' use. 
 Can Augustin forget the Bruce ! " 
 
 Then to his side Lord Ronald press'd, 
 And whisper'd: — "Bear thou this re- 
 quest, 
 That when by Bruce's side I fight. 
 For Scotland's crown and freedom's 
 
 right. 
 The princess grace her knight to bear 
 Some token of her favoring care; 
 It shall be shown where England's best 
 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." 
 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 
 The die for death or empire cast ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 Now on the darkening main afloat. 
 Ready and mann'd, rocks every boat; 
 Beneath their oars the ocean's might 
 Was dash'd 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; 
 " 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 turn'd his Ijlessings to renew. 
 Oft turn'd, till on the darken'd coast 
 All traces of their course were lost; 
 Then slowly bent to Brodick tower. 
 To shelter for the evening hour. 
 
 XIII. 
 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. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 32s 
 
 While hands that knightly lances bore 
 Impatient aid the laboring oar. 
 The half-faced moon shone dim and pale, 
 And glanced against the whiten'd 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 
 Warn'd them to crowd or slacken sail. 
 South and by west the armada bore. 
 And near at length the Carrick shore. 
 As less and less the distance grows. 
 High and more high the beacon rose; 
 The light, that seem'd a twinkling star, 
 Now blazed portentous, fierce, and far. 
 Dark-red the heaven alx>ve it glow'd, 
 Dark-red the sea beneath it flow'd. 
 Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim, 
 In blood-red light her islets swim; 
 Wild scream the dazzled sea-fowl ga.ve, 
 Dropp'd from their crags on plashing 
 
 wave. 
 The deer to distant covert drew. 
 The black-cock deem'd 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'll learn the truth whate'er betide; 
 Yet sure the beadsman and the child 
 Could ne'erhavewaked that beacon wild." 
 
 With that the boats approach'd the land. 
 Rut Edward's grounded on the sand; 
 The eager Knight leap'd 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, 
 Seem'd steady as the polar star. 
 Now, like a prophet's fiery chair, 
 Seem'd travelling the realms of air. 
 Wide o'er the sky the splendor glows. 
 As that portentous meteor rose; 
 Helm, ax, and falchion glitter'd bright. 
 And in the red and dusky light 
 His comrade's face each warrior saw, 
 Nor marvell'd it was pale with awe. 
 Then high in air the beams were lost. 
 And darkness sunk upon the coast. - 
 
 Ronald to Heaven a prayer address'd. 
 And Douglas cross'd his dauntless breast; 
 " Saint James protect us ! " Lennox cried, 
 But reckless Edward spoke aside : — 
 ' 'Deem'st thou, Kirkpatrick, in that flame, 
 Red Comyn'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. 
 The moon shines out — upon the sand 
 Let every leader rank his band." 
 
 Faintly the moon's pale beams supply 
 That ruddy light's unnatural dye; 
 The dubious cold reflection lay 
 On the wet sands and quiet bay. 
 Beneath the rocks King Roljert drew 
 His scatter'd files to order due, 
 Till shield compact and serried spear 
 In the cool light shone blue and clear. 
 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 bare, 
 The Clifford's force was strong and ware, 
 Augmented, too, that very morn. 
 By mountaineers who came with Lorn. 
 Long harrow'd 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 l>eacon-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. 
 
 As round the torch the leaders crowd, 
 Bruce read these chilling news aloud. 
 " What counsel, nobles, have we now ? — 
 To ambush us in greenwood bough. 
 And take the chance which fate n;ay send 
 To bring our enterprise to end. 
 
326 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 Or shall we turn us to the main 
 As exiles, and embark again? " — 
 Answer'd fierce Edward: — " Hap what 
 
 may, 
 In Carrick, Carrick's Lord must stay. 
 I would not minstrels told the tale, 
 Wildfire or meteor made us quail." — 
 Answer'd 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." — 
 Answer'd 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. 
 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." — 
 "Prove we our fate — the brunt we'll 
 
 bide! " 
 So Boyd and Haye and Lennox cried; 
 So said, so vow'd, the leaders all; 
 So Bruce resolved: — " And in my hall 
 Since the Bold Southern make their home, 
 The hour of payment soon shall come, 
 When with a rough and rugged host 
 Clifford may reckon to his cost. 
 Meantime, through well-known bosk and 
 
 dell, 
 I'll 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-hair'd 
 
 eld 
 A superstitious credence held. 
 That never did a mortal hand 
 Wake its broad glare on Carrick strand; 
 Nay, and that on the self-same night 
 When Bruce cross'd o'er, still gleams the 
 
 light. 
 Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor. 
 And glittering wave and crimson'd 
 
 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 a oft through midnight range, 
 
 Startling the traveller late and lone, 
 I know not — and it ne'er was known. 
 
 Now up the rocky pass they drew, 
 And Ronald, to his promise true, 
 Still made his arm the stripling's stay. 
 To aid liim 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 'tis the Changeling) gave — 
 " 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, tremliler, 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 ! 
 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 
 Was in that hour of agony. 
 As up the steepy pass he strove, 
 Fear, toil, and sorrow, lost in love '. 
 
 The barrier of that iron shore, 
 Therock'ssteepledge.is nowclimb'do'er; 
 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 gain'd the Chase, a wide domain 
 Left for the Castle's sylvan reign, 
 (Seek not the scene — the ax, the plough. 
 The boor's dull fence have marr'd it 
 
 now,) 
 But then, soft swept in velvet green 
 The plain with many a glade between. 
 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; 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 327 
 
 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, 
 And many an old oak, worn and bare, 
 With all its shiver'd boughs, was there. 
 Lovely between, the moonbeams fell 
 On lawn and hillock, glade and dell. 
 The gallant Monarch sigh'd 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, 
 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 lengthen'd pause, 
 His weary step the stripling draws. 
 " 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 em- 
 ploy. 
 Pass but this night, and pass thy care, 
 I'll place thee with a lady fair. 
 Where thou shalt tune thy lute to tell 
 How Ronald loves fair Isabel ! " 
 Worn out, dishearten'd, and dismay'd. 
 Here Amadine let go the plaid: 
 His trembling limbs their aid refuse. 
 He sunk among the midnight dews ! 
 
 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 ! 
 " See yonder oak, within whose trunk 
 Decay a darken'd cell hath sunk; 
 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 bestow'd. 
 He placed the page, and onward strode 
 With strength put forth, o'er moss and 
 
 brook, 
 And soon the marching band o'ertook. 
 
 Thus strangely left, long sobb'd and wept 
 The page, till, wearied out, he slept — 
 A rough voice waked his dream: — " Nay, 
 
 here. 
 Here by this thicket, pass'd 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 !— 
 What, silent? — Then I guess thee well. 
 The spy that sought old Cuthbert's cell. 
 Wafted from Arran ycster 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'll lead him, fear it not; 
 'Tis a fair stripling, though a Scot." 
 The hunters to the castle sped. 
 And there the hapless captive led. 
 
 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 paw'd the 
 
 ground. 
 And many a deer-dog howl'd around. 
 To Amadine, Lorn's well-known word 
 Replying to that Southern Lord, 
 Mix'd with this clanging din might seem 
 The phantasm of a fever 'd dream. 
 The tone upon his ringing ears 
 Came like the sound 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. 
 
?28 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 "And was she thus," said Clifford, " lost? 
 The priest should rue it to his cost ! 
 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 proffer'd ransom-gold to pay. 
 And they agreed; — but ere told o'er. 
 The winds l)low loud, the billows roar; 
 They sever'il, and they met no more. 
 He deems — such tempest vex'dthecoast — 
 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 ! " 
 
 Lord Clifford now the captive spied : — 
 " Whom, Herbert, hast thou there? " he 
 
 cried. 
 " A spy we seized within the Chase, 
 A hollow oak his lurking-place." — 
 " What tidings can the youth afford? " — 
 " He plays the mute." — " Then noose a 
 
 / cord — 
 Unless brave Lorn reverse the doom 
 For his plaid's sake." — " Clan-Colla's 
 
 loom," 
 Said Lorn, whose careless glances trace 
 Rather the vesture than the face, 
 " Clan-Colla's dames such tartans twine; 
 Wearer nor plaid claims care of mine. 
 Give him, if my advice you crave, 
 His own scathed oak; and let him wave 
 In air, unless, by terror wrung, 
 A frank confession find his tongue. — 
 Nor shall he die without his rite; 
 — Thou, Angus Roy, attend the sight. 
 And give Clan-Colla's dirge thj breath. 
 As they convey him to his death." — 
 " O brother ! cruel to the last ! " 
 Through the poor captive's bosom pass'd 
 The thought, but, to his purpose true. 
 He said not, though he sigh'd, " Adieu ! " 
 
 And will he keep his purpose still, 
 In sight of that last closing ill, 
 
 When one poor breath, one single word. 
 May freedom, safety, life afford? 
 Can he resist the instinctive call. 
 For life that bids us barter all?- — 
 Love, strong as death, his heart hath 
 
 steel'd, 
 I lis nerves hath strung — he will not yield ! 
 Since that poor breath, that little word, 
 May yield Lord Ronald to the sword. — 
 Clan-ColIa's dirge is pealing wide. 
 The grisly headsman's by his side; 
 Along the greenwood Chase they bend. 
 And now their march has ghastly end ! 
 That old and shatter'd oak beneath. 
 They destine for the place of death. 
 — What thoughts are his, while all in 
 
 vain 
 His eye for aid explores the plain ? 
 What thoughts, while, with a dizzy ear, 
 He hears the death-prayer mutter'd near? 
 And must he die such death accurst. 
 Or will that bosom-secret burst? 
 Cold on his brow breaks terror's dew. 
 His trembling lips are livid blue; 
 The agony of parting life 
 Has naught to match that moment's strife ! 
 
 But other witnesses are nigh. 
 
 Who mock at fear, and death defy ! 
 
 Soon as the dire lament was play'd, 
 
 It waked the lurking ambuscade. 
 
 The Island Lord look'd forth, and spied 
 
 The cause, and loud in fury cried : — 
 
 " By Heaven, they lead the page to die, 
 
 And mock me in his agony ! 
 
 They shall abye it ! " — On his arm 
 
 Bruce laid strong grasp : — " They shall 
 
 not harm 
 A ringlet of the stripling's hair; 
 But, till I give the word, forbear. 
 
 — Douglas, lead fifty of our force 
 Up yonder hollow water-course. 
 And couch thee midway on the wold. 
 Between the flyers and their hold: 
 
 A spear above the copse display'd. 
 Be signal of the ambush made. 
 
 — Edward, with forty spearmen, straight 
 Through yonder copse approach the gate, 
 And, when thou hear'st the battle-din. 
 Rush forward, and the passage win. 
 Secure the drawl )ridge — storm the ]iort. 
 And man and guard the castle-court. — 
 
Canto V. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 329 
 
 The rest move slowly forth with me, 
 III shelter of the forest-tree, 
 Till Douglas at his post I see." 
 
 Like war-dogs eager to rush on, 
 Conipell'd to wait the signal blown, 
 I lid, and scarce hid, by greenwood bough, 
 Tremliling with rage, stands Ronald now, 
 And in his grasp his sword gJeams blue, 
 Soon to be dyed with deadlier hue. — 
 Meanwhile the Bruce, with steady eye, 
 Sees the dark death-train moving by, 
 And, heedful, measures oft the space 
 The Douglas and his band must trace. 
 Ere they can reach their destined ground. 
 Now sinks the dirge's wailing sound. 
 Now cluster round the direful tree 
 That slow and solemn company. 
 While hymnmistuned and mutter'd prayer 
 The victim for his fate prepare. — ■ 
 What glances o'er the greenwood shade? 
 The spear that marks the ambuscade ! 
 " Now, noble Chief ! I leave thee loose; 
 Upon them, Ronald ! " said the Bruce. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 "The Bruce, the Bruce ! " to well-known 
 cry 
 
 His native rocks and woods reply. 
 
 " The Bruce, the Bruce ! " in that dread 
 
 word 
 The kuell of hundred deaths was heard. 
 The astonish'd Southern gazed at first. 
 Where the wild tempest was to Imrst, 
 That waked in that presaging name. 
 Before, behind, around it came! 
 Half-arm'd, surprised, on every side 
 1 lenmi'd in, hew'd down, they bled and 
 
 died. 
 Deep in the ring the Bruce engaged, 
 And fierce Clan-Colla's broadsword 
 
 raged ! 
 Full soon the few who fought were sped. 
 Nor better was their lot who fled, 
 And met, mid terror's wild career, 
 The Douglas's redoubted spear ! 
 'i'wo hundred yeomen on that morn 
 The castle left, and none returned. 
 
 Not on their flight press'd Ronald's brand, 
 A gentler duty claim'd his hand. 
 
 He raised the page, where on the plain 
 His fear had sunk him with the slain; 
 And twice, that morn, surprise well 
 
 near 
 Betray'd the secret kept by fear; 
 Once, when, with life returning, came 
 To the boy's lip Lord Ronald's name. 
 And. hardly recollection drown'd 
 The accents in a murmuring sound; 
 And once, when scarce he could resist 
 The Chieftain's care to loose the vest, 
 Drawn tightly o'er his laboring breast. 
 But then the Bruce's bugle blew, 
 F^or martial work was yet to do. 
 
 A harder task fierce Edward waits. 
 Ere signal given, the castle gates 
 
 His fury had assail 'd; 
 Such was his wonted reckless mood, 
 Yet desperate valor oft made good. 
 Even by its daring, venture rude. 
 
 Where prudence might have fail'd. 
 Upon the bridge his strength he threw. 
 And struck the iron chain in two. 
 
 By which its planks arose; 
 The warder next his ax's edge 
 Struck down upon the threshold ledge, 
 'Twixt door and post a ghastly wedge ! 
 
 The gate they may not close. 
 Well fought the Southern in the fray, 
 Clifford and Lorn fought well that day, 
 But stubborn Edward forced his way 
 
 Against a hundred foes. 
 Loud came the cry, "The Bruce, the 
 
 Bruce ! ' ' 
 No hope or in defence or truce, 
 
 Fresh combatants pour in; 
 Mad with success, and drunk with 
 
 gore, 
 They drive the struggling foe before. 
 
 And ward on ward they win. 
 Unsparing was the vengeful sword. 
 And limbs were lopp'd and life-blood 
 
 pour'd. 
 The cry of death and conflict roar'd, 
 
 And fearful was the din ! 
 The startling horses plunged and flung, 
 Clamor'd the dogs till turrets rung. 
 
 Nor sunk the fearful cry, 
 Till not a foeman was there found 
 Alive, save those who on the ground 
 
 Groan'd in their agony ! 
 
330 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 The valiant Clifford is no more: 
 
 On Ronald's broadsword stream'd his 
 
 gore, 
 But better hap had he of I^orn, 
 Who, by the foeman l)ackward borne, 
 Yet gain'd with slender train the port, 
 Where lay his bark beneath the fort. 
 
 And cut tlie cable loose. 
 Short were his shrift in that debate, 
 'I'liat hour of fury and of fate, 
 
 If Lorn encounter'd Bruce! 
 Then long and loud the victor shout 
 From turret and from tower rung out, 
 
 The rugged vaults replied; 
 And from the donjon tower on high, 
 'l"he men of Carrick may descry 
 Saint Andrew's cross, in blazonry 
 
 Of silver, waving wide ! 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The Bruce hath won his father's hall ! '"' 
 — " Welcome, brave friends and com- 
 rades all, 
 
 Welcome to mirth and joy ! 
 The first, the last, is welcome here. 
 From lord and chieftain, prince and peer. 
 
 To this poor speechless boy. 
 Great God ! once more my sire's abode 
 Is mine — behold the floor I trode 
 
 In tottering infancy ! 
 And there the vaulted arch, whose sound 
 Echoed my joyous shout and bound 
 In boyhood, and that rung around 
 
 To youth's unthinking glee ! 
 O first, to thee, all gracious Heaven, 
 Then to my friends, my thanks be 
 
 given ! " — 
 He paused a space, his brow he cross'd — 
 Then on the lioard his sword he toss'd. 
 Yet steaming hot; with Southern gore 
 From hilt to point 'twas crimson'd o'er. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " Bring here," he said, " the mazers 
 four,* 
 
 My noble fathers loved of yore. 
 
 Thrice let them circle round the board. 
 
 The pledge, fair Scotland's rights re- 
 stored ! 
 
 * The mazers four, large drinking cups, or 
 goblets. 
 
 And he whose lips shall touch the wine. 
 
 Without a vow as true as mine, 
 
 To hold both lands and life at naught, 
 
 Until her freedom shall be bought,— 
 
 Be brand of a disloyal Scot, 
 
 And lasting infamy his lot ! 
 
 Sit, gentle friends ! our hour of glee 
 
 Is brief, we'll spend it joyously ! 
 
 Blithest of all the sun's bright beams. 
 
 When betwixt storm and storm he 
 
 gleams. 
 Well is our coimtry's work licgun, 
 But more, far more, must j'et l)e done. 
 S])eed messengers the country through; 
 Arouse old friends, and gather new; 
 Warn Lanark's knights to gird their 
 
 mail, 
 Rouse the brave sons of Teviotdale, 
 Let Ettrick's archers sharp their darts. 
 The fairest forms, the truest hearts ! 
 Call all, call all ! from Reedswair-Palh ! 
 To the wild confines of Cape Wrath; 
 Wide let the news through .Scotland 
 
 ring, — 
 The Northern Eagle claps his wing ! " 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 I. 
 O WHO, that shared them, ever shall 
 
 forget 
 The emotions of the spirit-rousing 
 
 time. 
 When breathless in the mart the 
 
 couriers met. 
 Early and late, at evening and at 
 
 prime; 
 When the loud cannon and the merry 
 
 chime 
 Hail'd news on news, as field on field 
 
 was won ! 
 When Hope, long doubtful, soar'd at 
 
 length sujjlime. 
 And our glad eyes, awake as day be- 
 gun, 
 Watch'd Joy's broad banner rise, to meet 
 
 the rising sim ! 
 
 O these were hours, when thrilling 
 
 joy repaid 
 A long, long course of darkness, doubts 
 
 and fears ! 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 331 
 
 The heart -sick faintness of the hope 
 
 delay'd, 
 The waste, the woe, the bloodshed, 
 
 and the tears, 
 That track'd with terror twenty rolling 
 
 years, 
 All was forgot in that blithe jubilee! 
 Her downcast eye even pale Affliction 
 
 rears, 
 To sigh a thankful prayer, amid the 
 
 glee, 
 I'hat hail'd the Despot's fall, and peace 
 
 and liberty ! 
 
 Such news o'er Scotland's hills tri- 
 umphant rode. 
 When 'gainst the invaders turn'd the 
 
 battle's scale. 
 When Bruce's banner had victorious 
 
 flow'd 
 O'er Loudoun's mountain, and in 
 
 Ury's vale; '^"^ 
 When English blood oft deluged 
 
 Douglasdale,'^** 
 And fiery Edward routed stout St. 
 
 John,=» 
 When Randolph's war-cry swell'd the 
 
 Southern gale,** 
 And many a fortress, town, and tower, 
 
 was won. 
 And Fame still sounded forth fresh deeds 
 of glory done. 
 
 II. 
 Blithe tidings flew from baron's tower. 
 To peasant's cot, to forest bower. 
 Ami waked the solitary cell. 
 Where lone St. Bride's recluses dwell. 
 Princess no more, fair Isabel, 
 
 A vot'ress of the order now. 
 Say, did the rule that bid thee wear 
 Dim veil and woollen scapulaire, 
 And reft thy locks of dark-brown hair. 
 
 That stern and rigid vow, 
 Did it condemn the transport high. 
 Which glisten'd in thy watery eye, 
 When minstrel or when palmer told 
 Each fresh exploit of Bruce the bold ? — 
 And whose the lovely form, that shares 
 Thy anxious hopes, thj fears, thy prayers? 
 No sister she of convent shade ! 
 So say these locks in lengthen'd braid. 
 So say the blushes and the sighs, 
 The tremors that unbidden rise, 
 
 When, mingled with the Bruce's fame, 
 The brave Lord Ronald's praises came. 
 
 Believe, his father's castle won, 
 And his bold enterprise begun, 
 That Bruce's earliest cares restore 
 The speechless page to Arran's shore : 
 Nor think that long the quaint disguise 
 Conceal'd her from her sister's eyes; 
 And sister-like in love they dwell 
 In that lone convent's silent cell. 
 There Bruce's slow assent allows 
 Fair Isabel the veil and vows; 
 And there, her sex's dress regain'd. 
 The lovely Maid of Lorn remained, 
 Unnamed, unknown, while Scotland 
 
 far 
 Resounded with the din of war; 
 And many a month, and many a day. 
 In calm seclusion wore away. 
 
 These days, these months, to years had 
 
 worn. 
 When tidings of high weight were borne 
 
 To that lone island's shore; 
 Of all the Scottish conquests made 
 By the First Edward's ruthless blade, 
 
 His son retain'd no more, 
 Northward of Tweed, but Stirling's 
 
 towers, 
 Beleaguer'd by King Robert's powers; 
 
 And they took term of truce,*' 
 If England's King should not relieve 
 The siege ere John the Baptist's eve, 
 
 To yield them to the Bruce. 
 England was roused — on every side 
 Courier and post and herald hied. 
 
 To summon prince and peer, 
 At Berwick-bounds to meet their Liege, 
 Prepared to raise fair Stirling's siege. 
 
 With buckler, brand, and spear. 
 The term was nigh — they muster 'd fast, 
 By beacon and by bugle-blast 
 
 Forth marshall'd for the field; 
 There rode each knight of noble name. 
 There England's hardy archers came. 
 The land they trode seem'd all on flame. 
 
 With banner, blade, and shield'! 
 And not famed England's powers alone, 
 Renown'd in arms, the summons own; 
 
 For Neustria's knights obeyd, 
 
33- 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES 
 
 Canto Vi. 
 
 Gascogne hath lent her horsemen good, 
 And Cambria, but of late subdued, 
 Sent forth her mountain multitude,'** 
 And Connoght pour'd from waste and 
 
 wood 
 Her hundred tribes, whose sceptre rude 
 Dark Eth O'Connor sway'd.** 
 
 Right to devoted Caledou 
 
 The storm of war rolls slowly on. 
 
 With menace deep and dread; 
 So the dark clouds, with gathering power. 
 Suspend awhile the threaten'd shower, 
 Till every peak and summit lower 
 
 Round the pale pilgrim's head. 
 Not with such pilgrim s startled eye 
 King Robert mark'd the tempest nigh ! 
 
 Resolved the brunt to bide. 
 His royal summons warn'd the land, 
 That all whoown'd their King'.- command 
 Should instant take the spear and brand. 
 
 To combat at his side. 
 O who may tell the sons of fame. 
 That at King Robert's bidding came. 
 
 To battle for the right ! 
 From Cheviot to the shores of Ross, 
 From Solway-Sands to Marshal's- Moss, 
 
 All boun'd them for the fight. 
 Such news the royal courier tells, 
 Who came to rouse dark Arran's dells; 
 But farther tidings must the ear 
 Of Isabel in secret hear. 
 These in her cloister walk, next mom, 
 Thus shared she with the Maid of Lorn : — 
 
 *' My Edith, can I tell how dear 
 Our intercourse of hearts sincere 
 
 Hath been to Isabel ? — • 
 Judge then the sorrow of my heart. 
 When I must say the words, We part ! 
 
 The cheerless convent-cell 
 Was not, sweet maiden, made for thee: 
 Go thou where thy vocation free 
 
 On happier fortunes fell. 
 Nor, Edith, judge thyself betray'd. 
 Though Robert knows that Lorn's high 
 
 Maid 
 And his poor silent page were one. 
 Versed in the fickle heart of man, 
 Earnest and anxious hath he look'd 
 How Ronald's heart the message brook'd 
 
 That gave him, with her last farewell. 
 The charge of Sister Isabel, 
 To think upon thy better right. 
 And keep the faith his promise plight. 
 Forgive him for thy sister's sake. 
 At first if vain repinings wake — 
 
 Long since that mood is gone; 
 Now dwells he on thy juster claims, 
 And oft his breach of faith he blames — 
 
 Forgive him for thine own ! " 
 
 " No! never to Lord Ronald's bower 
 
 Will I again as paramour " 
 
 " Nay, hush thee, too impatient maid, 
 
 Until my final tale be said ! — 
 
 The good King Robert would engage 
 
 P^dith once more his elfin page. 
 
 By her own heart, and her own eye, 
 
 Her lover's penitence to try — 
 
 Safe in his royal charge, and free. 
 
 Should such thy final purpose be. 
 
 Again unknown to seek the cell, 
 
 And live and die with Isabel." 
 
 Thus spoke the maid. — King Robert's 
 
 eye 
 Might have some glance of policy; 
 Dunslaffnage had the monarch ta'en. 
 And Lorn had own'd King Robert's reign, 
 Her brother had to England fled, 
 And there in banishment was dead; 
 Ample, through exile, death, and flight- 
 O'er tower and land was Edith's right; 
 This amjile right o'er tower and land 
 Were safe in Ronald's faithful hand. 
 
 Embarrass'd eye and blushing cheek 
 Pleasure, and shame, and fear bespeak, 
 Yet much the reasoning Edith made: — 
 ' Her sister's faith she must upbraid. 
 Who gave such secret, dark and dear. 
 In counsel to another's ear. 
 Why should she leave the peaceful cell ?- 
 How should she part with Isabel? — 
 How wear that strange attire agen? — 
 How risk herself midst martial men? -- 
 And how be guarded on the way? — 
 At least she might entreat delay.' 
 Kind Isabel, with secret smile, 
 Saw and forgave the maiden's wile, 
 Reluctant to be thought to move 
 At the first call of truant love. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 333 
 
 ()\\, blame her not ! — when zephyrs wake, 
 The aspen's trembling leaves must shake; 
 When beams thesunthroughApril'sshower 
 It needs must bloom, the violet flower; 
 And Love, howe'er the maiden strive. 
 Must with reviving hope revive ! 
 A thousand soft excuses came. 
 To plead his cause 'gainst virgin shame. 
 Pledged by their sires in earliest youth, 
 He had her plighted faith and truth — 
 Then, 'twas her Liege's strict conmiand. 
 And she, beneath his royal hand, 
 A ward in person and in land : — 
 And, last, she was resolved to stay 
 Only brief space — one little day — • 
 Close hidden in her safe disguise 
 From all, but most from Ronald's eyes — 
 But once to see him more ! nor blame 
 licrwish — to hear him name her name ! — 
 Then, to bear back to S(jlitude 
 The thought he had his falsehood rued ! 
 But Isabel, who long had seen 
 Her pallid cheek and pensive mien. 
 And svell herself the cause might know. 
 Though innocent, of Edith's woe, 
 Joy'd, generous, that revolving time 
 Gave means to expiate the crime. 
 High glow'd her l)osom as she said : — 
 ■• Well shall her sufferings be repaid ! " 
 Now came the parting hour — a band 
 From Arran's mountains left the land; 
 Their chief, Fitz-Louis, had the care 
 The speechless Amadine to l>ear 
 To Bruce, with honor, as behoved 
 To page the monarch dearly loved. 
 
 The King had deem'd the maiden bright 
 Should reach him long before the frght. 
 But storms and fate her course delay : 
 It was on eve of battle-day. 
 When o'er the Gillie's-hill she rode. 
 The landscape like a furnace glow'd, 
 And far as e'er the eye was borne, 
 The lances waved like autumn-corn. 
 In battles four beneath their eye. 
 The forces of King Robert lie. 
 And one below the hill was laid. 
 Reserved for rescue and for aid ; 
 And three, advanced, form'dvaward-line, 
 Twixt Bannock's brook and Ninian's 
 shrine. 
 
 Detach'd was each, yet each so nigh 
 As well might mutual aid supply. 
 Beyond, the Southern host appears, 
 A boundless wilderness of spears. 
 Whose verge or rear the anxious eye 
 Strove far, but strove in vain, to spy. 
 Thick flashing in the evening beam, 
 Glaives, lances, bills, and banners gleam; 
 And where the heaven join'd with the hill 
 Was distant armor flashing still. 
 So wide, so far, the boundless host 
 Seem'd in the blue horizon lost. 
 
 Down from the hill the maiden pass'd. 
 At the wild show of war aghast; 
 And traversed first the rearward host. 
 Reserved for aid where needed most. 
 The men of Carrick and of Ayr, 
 Lennox and Lanark, too, were there. 
 
 And all the western land; 
 With these the valiant of the Isles 
 Beneath their chieftains rank'd their files, 
 
 In many a plaided band. 
 There, in the centre, proudly raised. 
 The Bruce's royal standard blazed. 
 And there Lord Ronald's banner bore 
 A galley driven by sail and oar. 
 A wild, yet pleasing contrast, made 
 Warriors in mail and plate array'd. 
 With the plumed bonnet and the plaid 
 
 By these Hebrideans worn; 
 But O ! unseen for three long years. 
 Dear was the garb of mountaineers 
 
 To the fair Maid of Lorn ! 
 For one she look'd — but he was far 
 Busied amid the ranks of war — 
 Yet with affection's troubled eye 
 She mark'd his banner boldly fly. 
 Gave on the countless foe a glance. 
 And thought on battle's desperate chance. 
 
 To centre of the vaward-line 
 Fitz-Louis guided Amadine. 
 Arm'd all on foot, that host appears 
 A serried mass of glimmering spears. 
 'ITiere stood the Marchers' warlike band, 
 The warriors there of Lodon's land; 
 Ettrick and Liddell bent the yew, 
 A l)and of archers fierce, though few; 
 The men of Nith and Annan's vale, 
 And the bold Spears of Teviotdale; — 
 
)34 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 The tlauiitless Douglas these obey, 
 And the young Stuart's gentle sway. 
 North-eastward by Saint Ninian's shrine, 
 Beneath tierce Randolph'scharge, combine 
 The warriors whom tlie hardy North 
 From Tay to Sutherland sent forth. 
 The rest of Scotland's war-array 
 With Edward Bruce to westwanl lay, 
 Where l^annock, with his broken bank 
 And deep ravine, protects their flank. 
 Behinti them, screen 'd by sheltering wood, 
 The gallant Keith, Lord Marshal, stood: 
 His men-at-arms bear mace and lance, 
 And plumes that wave, and helms that 
 
 glance. 
 Thus fair divided by the King, 
 Centre, and right, and left-ward wing. 
 Composed his front; nor distant far 
 Was strong reserve to aid the war. 
 And 'twas to front of this array. 
 Her guide and Edith made their way. 
 
 Here must they pause: for, in advance 
 
 As far as one might pitch a lance, 
 
 The monarch rode along the van,'** 
 
 The foe's approaching force to scan. 
 
 His line to marshal and to range. 
 
 And ranks to square and fronts to change. 
 
 Alone he rode — from head to heel 
 
 Sheathed in his ready arms of steel; 
 
 Nor mounted yet on war-horse wight, 
 
 But, till more near the shock of light, 
 
 Reining a palfrey low and light. 
 
 A diadem of gold was set 
 
 Above his bright steel basinet, 
 
 And clasp'd within its glittering twine 
 
 Was seen the glove of Argentine; 
 
 Truncheon or leading staff he lacks. 
 
 Bearing, instead, a battle-ax. 
 
 He ranged his soldiers for the fight. 
 
 Accoutred thus, in open sight 
 
 Of either host. — Three bowshots far, 
 
 Paused the deep front of England's war. 
 
 And rested on their arms awhile, 
 
 To close and rank their warlike file, 
 
 And hold high council, if that night 
 
 Should view the strife, or dawning light. 
 
 XIV. 
 O gay, yet fearful to behold. 
 Flashing with steel and rough with gold. 
 And bristled o'er with bills and spears, 
 
 With plumes and pennons waving fair. 
 Was that bright battle-front! for there 
 
 Rode England's King and peers: 
 And who, that saw that monarch ride. 
 His kingdom battled by his side. 
 Could then his direful doom foretell! — 
 Fair was his seat in kingly selle. 
 And in his sprightly eye was set 
 Some spark of the I'lantagenet. 
 Though light and wandering was his 
 
 glance. 
 It flash'd at sight of shield and lance. 
 " Know'st thou," he said, " De Argen- 
 tine, 
 Yon knight who marshals thus their 
 
 line? " — 
 "The tokens on his helmet tell 
 The Bruce, my Liege : I know him well." 
 "And shall the audacious traitor brave 
 The presence where our banners wave? " 
 " So please, my Liege," said Argentine, 
 " Were he but horsed on steed like mine, 
 To give him fair and knightly chance, 
 I would adventure forth my lance." — 
 " In battle-day," the King replied, 
 " Nice tourney rules are set aside. 
 — Still must the rebel dare our wrath? 
 Set on him — sweep him from our 
 
 path! " — 
 And, at King Edward's signal, soon 
 Dash'd from the ranks Sir Henry Boune. 
 
 Of Hereford's high blood he came, 
 A race renown'd for knightly fame. 
 He burn'd before his Monarch's eye 
 To do some deed of chivalry. 
 He sjjurr'd his steed, he couch'd his 
 
 lance, 
 And darted on the Bruce at once. 
 — As motionless as rocks, that bide 
 The wrath of the advancing tide. 
 The Bruce stood fast. — Each breast beat 
 
 high. 
 And dazzled was each gazing eye — 
 The heart had hardly time to think. 
 The eyelid scarce had time to wink. 
 While on the King, like flash of flame, 
 Spurr'd to full speed the war-horse came ! 
 The partridge may the falcon mock. 
 If that slight palfrey stand the shock — 
 But, swerving from the knight's career, 
 Just as they met, Bruce shunn'd the spear. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 335 
 
 Onward the baffled warrior bore 
 His course — but soon his course was o'er ! 
 High in his stirrups stood the King, 
 And gave his battle-ax the swing, 
 Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd, 
 Fell that stern dint — the first — the 
 
 last ! — 
 Such strength upon the blow was put, 
 The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut; 
 The ax-shaft, with its brazen clasp. 
 Was shiver'd to the gauntlet grasp. 
 Springs from the blow the startled horse. 
 Drops to the plain the lifeless corse; 
 — First of that fatal field, how soon. 
 How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune ! 
 
 One pitying glance the Monarch sped. 
 Where on the field his foe lay dead; 
 Then gently turn'd his palfrey's head. 
 And, pacing back his solx;r way. 
 Slowly he gain'd his own array. 
 There round their King the leaders crowd, 
 And blame his recklessness aloud. 
 That risk'd 'gainst each adventurous 
 
 spear 
 A life so valued and so dear. 
 His broken weapon's shaft survey'd 
 The King, and careless answer made: — 
 " My loss may pay my folly's tax; 
 I've broke my trusty Iwttle-ax." 
 Twas then Fitz-Louis, bending low. 
 Did Isabel's commission show; 
 Edith, disguised, at distance stands. 
 And hides her blushes with her hands. 
 The Monarch's brow has changed its hue. 
 Away the gory ax he threw, 
 While to the seeming page he drew. 
 
 Clearing war's terrors from his eye. 
 Her hand with gentle ease he took. 
 With such a kind protecting look, 
 
 As to a weak and timid boy 
 Might speak, that elder brother's care 
 And elder brother's love was there. 
 
 "Fear not," he said, " young Amadine !" 
 Then whisper'd: — - " Still that name be 
 
 thine. 
 Fate plays her wonted fantasy, 
 Kind Amadine, with thee and mc, 
 And sends thee here in doubtful hour. 
 But soon we are beyond her power; 
 
 For on this chosen battle-plain, 
 Victor or vanquish'd, I remain. 
 Do thou to yonder hill repair; 
 The followers of our host are there, 
 And all who may not weapons bare. — 
 Fitz-Louis, have him in thy care. — 
 Joyful we meet, if all go well; 
 If not, in Arran's holy cell 
 Thou must take part with Isabel; 
 For brave Lord Ronald, too, hath sworn, 
 Not to regain the Maid of Lorn, 
 (The bliss on earth he covets most,) 
 Would he forsake his battle-post. 
 Or shun the fortune that may fall 
 To Bruce, to Scotland, and to all. — 
 But, hark ! some news these trumpets tell; 
 Forgive my haste — farewell ! — fare- 
 well ! " — 
 And in a lower voice he said : — 
 "Be of good cheer — farewell, sweet 
 maid! " — 
 
 " What train of dust, with trumpet-sound 
 And glimmering sp)ear, is wheeling round 
 Our leftward flank?" — the Monarch 
 
 cried, 
 To Moray's Earl who rode beside. 
 " Lo! round thy station pass the foes! 
 Randolph, thy wreath has lost a rose; " 
 The Earl his visor closed, and said, 
 " My wreath shall bloom, or life shall 
 
 fade. — 
 Follow, my household ! " — And they go 
 Like lightning on the advancing foe. 
 " My Liege," said noble Douglas then, 
 " Earl Randolph has but one to ten: 
 Let me go forth his band to aid ! " — 
 — "Stir not. The error he hath made, 
 Let him amend it as he may; 
 I will not weaken mine .array." 
 Then loudly rose the conflict-cry. 
 And Douglas's brave heart swell'd high : — 
 " My Liege," he said, " with patient ear 
 I must not Moray's dcath-kncU hear ! " — 
 " Then go — but speed thee back again." 
 Forth sprang the Douglas with his train, 
 But, when they won a rising hill. 
 He bade his followers stand them still. — 
 " See, see ! the routed Southern fly ! 
 The Earl hath won the victory. 
 Lo ! where yon steeds run masterless. 
 His banner towers above the press. 
 
336 
 
 THE LORD OF l^HE ISLES. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 Ivein up; our presence would impair 
 The fame we come too late to share." 
 Back to the host the Douglas rode, 
 And soon glad tidings are abroad, 
 That, Dayncourt by stout Randolph slain, 
 His followers fled with loosen'd rein. — 
 That skirmish closed the busy day, 
 And couch'd in battle's prompt array, 
 Each army on their weapons lay. 
 
 It was a night of lovely June, 
 
 High rode in cloudless blue the moon, 
 
 Demayet smiled beneath her ray; 
 Old Stirling's towers arose in light, 
 And twined in links of silver bright. 
 
 Her winding river lay. 
 Ah, gentle planet ! other sight 
 Shall greet thee next returning night. 
 Of broken arms and banners tore, 
 And marshes dark with human gore. 
 And piles of slaughter'd men and horse, 
 And Forth that floats the frequent corse. 
 And many a wounded wretch to plain 
 Beneath thy silver light in vain ! 
 But now, from England's host, the cry 
 Thou hear'st of wassail revelry, 
 While from the Scottish legions pass 
 The murmur'd prayer, the early mass ! — 
 Here, numbers had presumption given; 
 There, bands o'ermatched sought aid from 
 Heaven. 
 
 On Gillie's-hill, whose height commands 
 The battle-field, fair Edith stands. 
 With serf and page unfit for war. 
 To eye the conflict from afar. 
 O ! with what doubtful agony 
 She sees the dawning tint the sky ! — 
 ■ Now on the Ochils gleams the sun. 
 And glistens now Demayet dun; 
 
 Is it the lark that carols shrill ? 
 Is it the bittern's early hum? 
 
 No! — distant, but increasing still, 
 
 The trumpet's sound swells u]i the hill. 
 
 With the deep murmur of the drum. 
 
 Responsive from the Scottish host. 
 
 Pipe-clang and bugle sound were toss'd,*^ 
 
 His breast and brow each soldier cross'd, 
 
 And started from the ground; 
 Arm'd and array'd for instant fight, 
 Rose archer, spearman, squire, andknight , 
 
 And in the pomp of battle bright 
 The dread battalia frown'd. 
 
 Now onward, and in open view. 
 
 The countless ranks of England drew. 
 
 Dark rolling like the ocean-tide, 
 
 When the rough west hath chafed his pride, 
 
 And his deep roar sends challenge wide 
 
 To all that bars his way ! 
 In front the gallant archers trode. 
 The men-at-arms behind them rode. 
 And midmost of the phalanx broad 
 
 The Monarch held his sway. 
 Beside him many a war-horse fumes. 
 Around him waves a sea of plumes. 
 Where many a knight in battle known, 
 And some who spurs had first braced on, 
 And deem'd that fight should see them 
 won. 
 
 King Edward's bests obey. 
 De Argentine attends his side. 
 With stout De Valence, Pembroke's 
 
 pride. 
 Selected chamjiions from the train. 
 To wait ujion his britlle-rein. 
 Upon the Scottish foe he gazed — 
 
 — At once before his sight amazed. 
 Sunk banner, spear, and shield; 
 
 Each weapon-point is downward sent. 
 Each warrior to the ground is bent 
 " The rebels, Argentine, repent! 
 
 For pardon they have kneel'd " — 
 " Ay ! — but they Ijend to other powers. 
 And other pardon sue than ours ! 
 See where yon bare-foot Ablx)t stands. 
 And blesses them with lifted hands ! ♦*' 
 Upon the spot where they have kneel'd, 
 These men will die or win llie field." — 
 
 — " Then prove we if they die or win ! 
 Bid Gloster's Earl the fight Ijcgin." 
 
 Earl Gilbert waved his truncheon high, 
 
 Just as the Northern ranks arose. 
 Signal for England's archery 
 
 To halt and bend their bows. 
 Then stepp'd each yeoman forth a pace, 
 Glanced at the intervening space. 
 
 And raised his left hand high; 
 To the right ear the cords they bring — 
 — At once ten thousand bow-strings ring, 
 
 Ten thousand arrows fly ! 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 337 
 
 Nor paused on the devoted Scot 
 The ceaseless fury of their shot; 
 
 As fiercely and as fast, 
 Forth whistling came the gray-goose wing 
 As the wild hailstones pelt and ring 
 
 Adown Decemljer's blast. 
 Nor mountain targe of tough hull-hide, 
 Nor lowland mail, that storm may bide; 
 Woe, woe to Scotland's banner'd pride, 
 
 If the fell shower may last ! 
 Upon the right, liehind the wood, 
 Each by his steed dismounted, stood 
 
 The Scottish chivalry; — 
 With foot in stirrup, hand on mane. 
 Fierce Edward Bruce can scarce restrain 
 His own keen heart, his eager train. 
 Until the archers gain'd the plain: 
 
 Then " Mount, ye gallants free ! " 
 He cried; and vaulting from the ground. 
 His saddle every horseman found. 
 On high their glittering crests they toss, 
 As springs the wild-fire from the moss; 
 The shield hangs down on every breast, 
 Each ready lance is in the rest. 
 
 And loud shouts Edward Bruce: — 
 " Forth, Marshal ! (in the peasant foe ! 
 We'll tame the terrors of their bow. 
 
 And cut the bow-string loose ! " •'■' 
 
 Then spurs were dash'd in chargers' 
 
 flanks, 
 Th°y rush'd among the archer ranks.' 
 No spears were there the shock to let. 
 No stakes to turn the charge were set. 
 And how shall yeoman's armor slight. 
 Stand the long lance and mace of might ? 
 Or what may their short swords avail, 
 'G.iinst barbed horse and shirt of mail? 
 Amid their ranks the chargers sprung, 
 High o'er their heads the weapons swung. 
 And shriek and groan and vengeful shout 
 Give note of triumph and of rout ! 
 Awhile, with stubborn hardihood, 
 Their English hearts the strife made good. 
 Borne down at length on every side, 
 Compell'd to flight, they scatter wide. — 
 Let stags of Sherwood leap for glee, 
 And bound the deer of Dallom-Lee ! 
 The broken bows of Bannock's shore 
 Shall in the greenwood ring no more ! 
 Round Wakefield's merry May-pole now. 
 The maids may twine the summer bough. 
 
 May northward look with longing glance. 
 For those that wont to lead the dance, 
 For the blithe archers look in vain ! 
 Broken, dispersed, in flight o'erta'en, 
 rierced through, trode down, by thou- 
 sands slain. 
 They cumber Bannock's bloody plain. 
 
 The King with scorn beheld their, flight. 
 "Are these," he said, "our yeoman 
 
 wight? 
 Each braggart churl could boast before. 
 Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore ! ** 
 Fitter to plunder chase or park. 
 Than make a manly foe their mark. — 
 Forward, each gentleman and knight ! 
 Let gentle blood show generous might, 
 And chivalry redeem the fight ! ' ' 
 To rightward of the wild affray, 
 ITie field show'd fair and level way; 
 But, in mid-space, the Bruce's care 
 Had Ijored the ground with many a pit, 
 With turf and brushwood hidden yet. 
 
 That form' d a ghastly snare. 
 Rushing, ten thousand horsemen came. 
 With spears in rest, and hearts onflame, 
 
 That panted for the shock ! 
 With blazing crests and banners spread, 
 And trumpet-clang and clamor dread. 
 The wide plain thunder'd to their tread, 
 
 As far as Stirling rock. 
 Down ! down ! in headlong overthrow. 
 Horsemen and horse, the foremost go, *® 
 
 Wild floundering on the field ! 
 The first are in destruction's gorge, 
 Their followers wildly o'er them urge: — 
 
 The knightly helm and shield. 
 The mail, the acton, and the spear. 
 Strong hand, high heart, are useless 
 
 here ! 
 Loud from the mass confused the cry 
 Of dying warriors swells on high, 
 And steeds that shriek in agony ! ^ 
 They came like mountain-torrent red. 
 That thunders o'er its rocky bed; 
 They broke like that same torrent'e 
 
 wave 
 When swallow'd by a darksome cave. 
 Billows on billows burst and boil. 
 Maintaining still the stern turmoil. 
 And to their wild and tortured groan 
 Each adds new terrors of his own ! 
 
THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 Too strong in courage and in might 
 Was England yet, to yield the fight. 
 
 Her noblest all are here; 
 Names that to fear were never known, 
 Bold Norfolk's Earl De Brotherton, 
 
 And Oxford's famed De Vere. 
 There Gloster plied the bloody sword. 
 And Berkley, Grey, and Hereford, 
 
 Bottctourt and Sanzavere, 
 Ross, Montague, and Mauley, came, 
 And Courtenay's pride, and Percy's 
 
 fame — 
 Names known too well in Scotland's war, 
 At Falkirk, Methven, and Dunbar, 
 Blazed broader yet in after years, 
 At Cressy red and fell Poitiers. 
 Pembroke with these, and Argentine, 
 Brought up the rearward liatlle-line. 
 With caution o'er the ground they tread, 
 Slippery with blood and piled with dead, 
 Till hand to hand in battle set, 
 The bills with spears and axes met. 
 And, closing dark on every side, 
 Raged the full contest far and wide. 
 Then was the strength of Douglas tried. 
 Then proved was Randolph's generous 
 
 pride, 
 And well did Stewart's actions grace 
 The sire of Scotland's royal race ! 
 
 Firmly they kept their ground; 
 As firmly England onward press'd. 
 And ilown went many a noble crest. 
 And rent was many a valiant breast. 
 
 And Slaughter revell'd round. 
 
 Unflinching foot 'gainst foot was set. 
 Unceasing blow liy blow was met: 
 
 The groans of those who fell 
 Were drown'd amid the shriller clang 
 That from the blades and harness rang. 
 
 And in the battle-yell. 
 Yet fast they fell, unheard, forgot. 
 Both Southern fierce and hardy Scot; 
 And O ! amid that waste of life, 
 What various motives fired the strife ! 
 The aspiring Noble bled for fame, 
 The Patriot for his country's claim; 
 This Knight his youthful strength to prove, 
 And that to win his lady's love; 
 Some fought from ruffian thirst of blood. 
 From habit some, or hardihood. 
 
 But ruffian stern, and soldier good. 
 
 The noble and the slave. 
 From various cause the same wild road. 
 On the same bloody morning, trode, 
 
 To that dark inn, the grave ! 
 
 The tug of strife to flag begins, 
 Though neither loses yet nor wins. 
 High rides the sun, thick rolls the dust, 
 And feebler speeds the blow and thrust. 
 Douglas leans on his war-sword now. 
 And Randolph wipes his liloody brow; 
 Nor less had toil'd each Southern knight, 
 From morn till mid-day in the fight. 
 Strong Egremont for air must gasp, 
 Beauchamp undoes his visor-clasp. 
 And Montague must quit his spear. 
 And sinks thy falchion, bold De Vere ! 
 The blows of Berkley fall less fast. 
 And gallant Pembroke's bugle-blast 
 
 Hath lost its lively tone; 
 Sinks, Argentine, thy battle-word. 
 And Percy's shout was fainter heard, 
 
 " My merry-men, fight on! " 
 
 Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye, 
 The slackening of the storm could spy. 
 " One effort more, and Scotland's free ! 
 Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee 
 
 Is firm as Ailsa Rock;^^ 
 Rush on withllighlandswordandtarge, 
 I with my Carrick spearman charge; 
 Now, forward to the shock ! " 
 At once the spears were forward 
 
 thrown. 
 Against the sun the broadswords shone; 
 The pibroch lent its maddening tone. 
 And loud King Robert's voice was 
 known: — - 
 "Carrick, press on — they fail, they fail ! 
 Press on, brave sons of Innisgail, 
 
 The foe is fainting fast ! 
 Each strike for parent, child, and wife. 
 For Scotland, liberty, and life, — 
 The battle cannot last ! ' ' 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The fresh and desperate onset bore 
 The foes three furlongs back and more, 
 Leaving their noblest in their gore. 
 Alone, De Argentine 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 THE LORD Of THE ISLES. 
 
 339 
 
 yet bears on high his red-cross shield, 
 
 Gathers the relics of the field, 
 
 Renews the ranks where they have reel'd. 
 
 And still makes good the line. 
 Brief strife, but fierce, — his efforts raise 
 A bright, but momentary blaze. 
 Fair Edith heard the Southern shout, 
 Beheld them turning from the rout. 
 Heard the wild call their trumpets sent, 
 In notes 'twixt triumph and lament. 
 That rallying force, combined anew, 
 Appcar'd in her distracted view, 
 
 To hem the Islesmen round: — 
 " O God ! the combat they renew, 
 
 And is no rescue found ! 
 And ye that look thus tamely on. 
 And see your native land o'erthrown, 
 O! are your hearts of flesh or stone? " 
 
 The multitude that watch'd afar. 
 Rejected from the ranks of war. 
 Had not unmoved beheld the fight. 
 When strove the Bruce for Scotland's 
 
 right; 
 Each heart had caught the patriot spark. 
 Old man and stripling, priest and clerk, 
 Bondsman and serf; even female hand 
 Stretch'd to the hatchet or the brand; 
 But, when mute Amadine they heard 
 Give to their zeal his signal-word, 
 
 A frenzy fired the throng : — 
 " Portents and miracles impeach 
 Our sloth — the dumb our duties teach — 
 And he that gives the mute his speech. 
 Can bid the weak be strong. 
 To us, as to our lords, are given 
 A native earth, a promised heaven; 
 To us, as to our lords, belongs 
 The vengeance for our nation's wrongs; 
 The choice, 'twixt death or freedom, 
 
 warms 
 Our breasts as theirs — To arms, to arms ! ' ' 
 To arms they flew, — ax, club, or spear, — 
 And mimic ensigns high they rear,''-^ 
 And, like a banner'd host afar. 
 Bear down on England's wearied war. 
 
 Already scatter'd o'er the plain. 
 Reproof, command, and counsel vain. 
 The rearward squadrons fled amain, 
 Or made but doubtful stay; 
 
 But when they mark'd the seeming show 
 Of fresh and fierce and marshall'd foe. 
 The boldest broke array, 
 
 give their hapless prince his due ! 
 In vain the royal Edward threw 
 
 His person mid the spears. 
 Cried, " Fight ! " to terror and despair. 
 Menaced, and wept, and tore his hair, 
 
 And cursed their caitiff fears ! 
 Till Pembroke turn'd his bridle rein. 
 And forced him from the fatal plain. 
 With them rode Argentine, until 
 They gain'd the summit of the hill. 
 
 But quitted there the train : — 
 *' In yonder field a gage I left, — 
 
 1 must not live of fame bereft; 
 
 I needs must turn again. 
 Speed hence, my Liege, for on your trace 
 The fiery Douglas takes the chase, 
 
 I know his banner well. 
 God send my Sovereign joy and bliss. 
 And many a happier field than this ! — 
 
 Once more, my Liege, farewell." 
 
 Again he faced the battle-field, — 
 Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield. 
 " Now then," he said, and couch'd his 
 
 spear, 
 " My course is run, the goal is near; 
 One effort more, one brave career. 
 
 Must close this race of mine." 
 Then in his stirrups rising high. 
 He shouted loud his battle-cry : — 
 
 " Saint James for Argentine ! " 
 And, of the bold pursuers, four 
 The gallant knight from saddle bore; 
 But not unharm'd — a lance's point 
 Has found his breastplate's loosen'd joint. 
 
 An ax has razed his crest; 
 Yet still on Colonsay's fierce lord, 
 Who press'd the chase with gory sword. 
 
 He rode with spear in rest. 
 And through his bloody tartans bored. 
 
 And through his gallant breast. 
 Nail'd to the earth, the mountaineer 
 Yet writhed him up against the spear. 
 
 And swung his broadsword round ! 
 — Stirrup, steel-boot, and cuish gave way, 
 Beneath that blow's tremendous sway. 
 
 The blood gush'd from the wound; 
 And the grim I^rd of Colonsay 
 
 Hath turn'd him on the ground, 
 
340 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 And laugh'd in death-pang, that his blade 
 The mortal thrust so well repaid. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Now toil'd the Bruce, the battle done, 
 To use his conquest boldly won; 
 And gave command for horse and spear 
 To press the Southern's scatter'd rear. 
 Nor let his broken force combine, 
 — When the war-cry of Argentine 
 
 Fell faintly on his ear; 
 "Save, save his life," he cried, "O 
 
 save 
 The kind, the noble, and the brave! " 
 The squadrons round free passage gave, 
 
 The wounded knight drew near; 
 He raised his red-cross shield no more. 
 Helm, cuish, and breastplate, stream'd 
 
 with gore. 
 Yet, as he saw the King advance. 
 He strove even then to couch his lance — 
 
 The effort was in vain ! 
 The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the horse; 
 Wounded and weary, in mid course 
 
 He stumbled on the plain. 
 Then foremost was the generous Bruce 
 To raise his head, his helm to loose : — 
 
 " Ijord Earl, the day is thine ! 
 My Sovereign's charge, and adverse fate, 
 Have made our meeting all too late: 
 
 Yet this may Argentine, 
 As boon from ancient comrade, crave, — 
 A Christian's mass, a soldier's grave." 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Bruce press'd his dying hand — its grasp 
 Kindly replied; but, in his clasp. 
 
 It stiffen'd and grew cold — 
 " And, O farewell ! " the victor cried, 
 *' Of chivalry the flower and pride. 
 
 The arm in l)attlc bold, 
 The courteous mien, the noV)le race, 
 The stainless faith, the manly face ! — 
 Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine. 
 For late-wake of De Argentine. 
 O'er better knight on death-bier laid, 
 Torch never gleam'd nor mass was said ! " 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Nor for De Argentine alone. 
 
 Through Ninian's church these torches 
 
 sh(jne, 
 And rose the death-prayer's awful tone. 
 
 That yellow lustre glimmer'd pale. 
 
 On broken plate and bloodied mail. 
 
 Rent crest and shattcr'd coronet. 
 
 Of Baron, Earl, and Banneret; 
 
 And the best names that England knew, 
 
 Claim'd in the death-prayer dismal due. 
 
 Yet mourn not, Land of Fame ! 
 Though ne'er the Leopards on thy shield 
 Retreated from so sad a field. 
 
 Since Norman William came. 
 Oft may thine annals justly boast 
 Of battles stern by Scotland lost; 
 
 Grudge not her victory, 
 When for her freeborn rights she strove; 
 Rights dear to all who freedom love. 
 
 To none so dear as thee ! 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Turn we to Bruce, whose curious ear 
 Must from Fitz-Louis tidings hear: 
 With him a hundred voices tell 
 Of prodigy and miracle, 
 
 " For the mute page had spoke." — 
 " Page ! " said Fitz-Louis, " rather say, 
 An angel sent from realms of day, 
 
 To burst the English yoke. 
 I saw his plume and bonnet drop, 
 When hurrying from the mountain-top; 
 A lovely brow, dark locks that wave, 
 To his bright eyes new lustre gave; 
 A step as light upon the green. 
 As if his pinions waved unseen !" — 
 " Spoke he with none? " — " With none 
 
 — one word 
 Burst when he saw the Island Lord, 
 Returning from the liattle-field." — 
 "What answer made the Chief?" — 
 
 "He kneel'd. 
 Durst not look up, but mutter'd low. 
 Some mingled sounds that none might 
 
 know, 
 And greeted him 'twixt joy and fear. 
 As being of superior sphere." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Even upon Bannock's bloody plain, 
 Heap'd then with thousands of the slain. 
 Mid victor monarch's musings high, 
 Mirth laugh'd in good King Robert's eye: 
 " And bore he such angelic air, 
 Such noble front, such waving hair? 
 Hath Ronald kneel'd to him?" he said, 
 " Then must we call the church to aid — 
 
Canto \I. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE /SLE.^. 
 
 341 
 
 Our will be to the Abbot known, 
 Ere these strange news are wider blown. 
 To Cambuskenneth straight ye pass, 
 And deck the church for solemn mass, 
 To pay for high deliverance given, 
 A nation's thanks to gracious Heaven. 
 Let him array, besides, such state. 
 As should on princes' nuptials wait. 
 Ourself the cause, through fortune's 
 
 spite. 
 That once broke short that spousal rite, 
 (~)urself will grace, with early morn. 
 The bridal of the Maid of Lorn." 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Go forth, my Song, upon thy ventur- 
 ous way; 
 
 Go boldly forth; nor yet thy master 
 blame, 
 
 Who chose no patron for his humble 
 lay. 
 
 And graced thy numljers with no 
 friendly name, 
 
 Whose partial zeal might smooth thy 
 path to fame. 
 
 There ^oas — and O ! how many sor- 
 rows crowd 
 Into these two brief words ! — there was 
 
 a claim 
 By generous friendship given — had 
 fate allow'd, 
 It well had bid thee rank the proudest of 
 the proud ! 
 
 All angel now — yet little less than all. 
 While still a pilgrim in our world 
 
 l)elow ! 
 What 'vails it us that patience to 
 
 recall, 
 Which hid its own to soothe all other 
 
 woe; 
 What 'vails to tell, how Virtue's pur- 
 est glow 
 Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair. 
 And, least of all, what 'vails the 
 
 world should know. 
 That one poor garland, twined to deck 
 
 thy hair. 
 Is hung upon thy hearse to droop and 
 
 wither there I 
 
THE 
 
 FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 TO HER GRACE THE 
 
 DUCHESS OF WELLINGTON, 
 
 PRINCESS OF WATERLOO, Etc., Etc. 
 THE FOLLOWING VERSES ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 It may be some apology for the imperfections of this poem, that it was composed hastily, 
 and during a short toitr upon the Continent, when the Author^ s labors were liable to fre- 
 quent interruption ; but its best ai>ology is, that it was written for the purpose of assist- 
 ing the Waterloo Subscription. 
 
 . AnnoTSFORD, 1815- 
 
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 Though Valois braved young Edward's gentle hand. 
 
 And Albert rush'd on Henry's way-worn band, 
 
 With Europe's chosen sons, in arms renown'd. 
 
 Yet not on Vere's bold archers long they look'd, 
 
 Nor Audley's squires, nor Mowbray's yeomen brook'd, — 
 
 They saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound. — Akenside. 
 
 Fair Brussels, thou art far behind, 
 Tliouoli, lingering on the morning wind, 
 
 We yet may hear the hour 
 Peal'd over orchartl and canal. 
 With voice prolong'd and measured 
 fall. 
 
 From proud St. Michael's tower; 
 Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,* 
 Where the tall beeches' glossy liough, 
 
 For many a league around. 
 With birch and darksome oak between. 
 Spreads deep and far a pathless screen, 
 
 Of tangled forest ground. 
 Stems planted close by stems defy 
 The adventurous foot; — the curious eye 
 
 For access seeks in vain; 
 And the brown tapestry of leaves, 
 Strew'don the blighted ground, receives 
 
 Nor sun, nor air, nor rain. 
 No opening glade dawns on our way. 
 No streamlet, glancing to the ray, 
 
 Our woodland path has cross'd; 
 And the straight causeway which we 
 
 tread 
 Prolongs a line of dull arcade. 
 Unvarying through the unvaried shade 
 
 Until in distance lost. 
 
 * The wood of Soignies is a remnant of the 
 forest of Ardennes, the scene of the channing 
 and romantic incidents of Shakespeare's " As 
 You Like It." 
 
 A brighter, livelier .scene succeeds; 
 In groups the scattering wood recedes, 
 Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny 
 meads. 
 
 And corn-fields, glance between; 
 The peasant at his labor blithe. 
 Plies the hook'd staff and shorten'd 
 scythe : ' — 
 
 But when these ears were green, 
 Placed close within destruction's scope. 
 Full little was that rustic's hope 
 
 Their ripening to have seen ! 
 And, lo, a hamlet and its fane: — 
 Let not the gazer with disdain 
 
 Their architecture view; 
 For yonder rude ungraceful shrine, t 
 And disproportion'd spire, are thine, 
 
 Immortal Waterloo ! 
 
 Fear not the heat, though full and 
 
 high. 
 The sun has scorch'd the autumn sky. 
 And scarce a forest straggler now 
 To shade us spreads a greenwood bough ; 
 These fields have seen a hotter day 
 Than e'er was fired by sunny ray. 
 
 t The chapel, or " votive fane," built by the 
 Marquis of Castanaza, in the hope that his sover- 
 eign, Carlos 11. of Spain, might be blest with an 
 heir. 
 
 343 
 
344 
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 Yet one mile on — yon shatter'd hedge 
 Crests the soft hill whose long smooth 
 ridge 
 
 Looks on the field below, 
 And sinks so gently on the dale, 
 That not the folds of Beauty's veil 
 
 In easier curves can flow. 
 Brief space from thence, the ground again 
 Ascending slowly from the plane, 
 
 Forms an opposing screen, 
 Which, with its crest of upland ground. 
 Shuts the horizon all around. 
 
 The soften'd veil between 
 Slopes smooth and fair for courser's tread; 
 Not the most timid maid need dread 
 To give her snow-white palfrey head 
 
 On that wide stubble ground; 
 Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush, are there, 
 Her course to intercept or scare. 
 
 Nor fosse nor fence are found, 
 Save where, from out her shatter'd tow- 
 ers. 
 Rise Hougomont's dismantled towers. 
 
 Now, see'st thou aught in this lone 
 
 scene 
 Can tell of that which late hath been? — 
 
 A stranger might reply : — • 
 "The bare extent of stubble-plain 
 Seems lately lighten'd of its grain ; 
 And yonder sable tracks remain 
 Marks of the peasant's ponderous wain, 
 
 When harvest-home was nigh. 
 On these broad spots of trampled ground. 
 Perchance the rustics danced such round 
 
 As Teniers loved to draw; 
 And where the earth seems scorch'd by 
 
 flame, 
 To dress the homely feast they came. 
 And toil'd the kerchief'd village dame 
 
 Around her fire of straw." 
 
 So deem'st thou — so each mortal deems, 
 
 Of that which is i\on\ that which seems. — 
 But other harvest here, 
 
 Than that which peasant's scythe de- 
 mands. 
 
 Was gather'd in by sterner hands, 
 With bayonet, blade, and spear. 
 
 No vulgar crop was theirs to reap; 
 
 No stinted harvest thin and cheap ! 
 
 Heroes before each fatal sweep 
 
 Fell thick as ripen'd grain; 
 And ere the darkening of the day. 
 Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay 
 The ghastly harvest of the fray. 
 The corpses of the slain. 
 
 Ay, look again — that line, so black 
 And trampled, marks the bivouac. 
 Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery's track 
 
 So often lost and won; 
 And close beside, the harden'd mud 
 Still shows where, fetlock deep in blood, 
 The fierce dragoon, through battle's flood, 
 
 Dash'd the hot war-horse on. 
 These spots of excavation tell 
 The ravage of the bursting shell — 
 And feel'st thou not the tainted steam. 
 That reeks against the sultry l)eam. 
 
 From yonder trenched mound? 
 The pestilential fumes declare 
 That Carnage has replenish'd there 
 
 Her garner-house i)rofound. 
 
 Far other harvest-home and feast, ' 
 Than claims the boor from scythe released. 
 
 On these scorch'd fields were known ! 
 Death hover'd o'er the maddening rout. 
 And, in the thrilling battle-shout, 
 Sent for the bloody banquet out 
 
 A summons of his own. 
 Through rolling smoke the Demon's eye 
 Could well each destined guest espy, 
 Well could his ear in ecstasy 
 
 Distinguish every tone 
 That fill'd the chorus of the fray — 
 From cannon-roar and trumpct-liray, 
 From charging squadrons' wild hurra, 
 P'rom thewild clangthatmark'd their w.iy, 
 
 Down to the <lying groan, 
 And the last sob of life's decay. 
 
 When breath was all but flown. 
 
 Feast on, stern foe of mortal life, 
 Feast on ! but think not that a strife, 
 With such promiscuous carnage rife. 
 
 Protracted space may last; 
 The deadly tug of war at length 
 Must limits find in human strength, 
 
 And cease when these are past. 
 
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 34S 
 
 Vain hope ! — That morn's o'erclouded sun 
 Heard the wild shout of fight begun 
 
 Ere he attain'd his height. 
 And through the war-smoke, volumed 
 
 high, 
 Still peals that unremitted cry. 
 
 Though now he stoops to night. 
 For ten long hours of doubt and dread. 
 Fresh succors from the extended head 
 Of either hill the contest fed; 
 
 Still down the slope they drew. 
 The charge of columns paused not. 
 Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot; 
 
 For all that war could do 
 Of skill and force was proved that day. 
 And turn'd not yet the doubtful fray 
 
 On bloody Waterloo. 
 
 Pale Brussels ! then what thoughts were 
 
 thine,''' 
 When ceaseless from the distant line 
 
 Continued thunders came ! 
 Each burgher held his breath, to hear. 
 These forerunners of havoc near. 
 
 Of rapine and of flame. 
 What ghastly sights were thine to meet. 
 When rolling through thy stately street. 
 The wounded show'd their mangled plight 
 In token of the unfinish'd fight. 
 And from each anguish-laden wain 
 The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain ! 
 How often in the distant drum 
 Heard'st thou the fell Invader come. 
 While Ruin, shouting to his band, 
 Shook high her torch and gory brand ! — 
 Cheer thee, fair City ! From yon stand. 
 Impatient, still his outstretch'd hand 
 
 Points to his prey in vain. 
 While maddening in his eager mood, 
 And all unwont to be withstood, 
 
 He fires the fight again. 
 
 " On ! On ! " was still his stern exclaim ;8 
 " Confront the battery's jaws of flame ! 
 
 Rush on the levell'd gun ! 
 My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance ! 
 Each Uhlan forward with his lance, 
 My Guard, my Chosen, charge forFrance, 
 
 France and Napoleon ! " 
 Loud answer'd their acclaiming shout, 
 Greeting the mandate which sent out 
 
 Their bravest and their best to dare 
 The fate their leader shunn'd to share.* 
 But He, his country's sword and shield. 
 Still in the battle-front reveal'd, 
 Where danger fiercest swept the field. 
 
 Came like a beam of light. 
 In action prompt, in sentence brief — 
 "Soldiers, stand firm," exclaim'd the 
 Chief, 
 
 " England shall tell the fight ! "* 
 
 On came the whirlwind — like the last 
 But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast — 
 On came the whirlwind — steel -gleams 
 
 broke 
 Like lightning through the rolling smoke; 
 
 The war was waked anew, 
 Three hundred cannon-mouths roar'd 
 
 loud. 
 And from their throats, with flash and 
 cloud. 
 
 Their showers of iron threw. 
 Beneath their fire, in full career, 
 Rush'd on the ponderous cuirassier. 
 The lancer couch'd his ruthless spear. 
 And hurrying as to havoc near. 
 
 The cohorts' eagles flew. 
 In one dark torrent, broad and strong, 
 The advancing onset roll'd along. 
 Forth harbinger 'd by fierce acclaim, 
 That, from the shroud of smoke and 
 
 flame, 
 Peal'd widely the imperial name. 
 
 But on the British heart were lost 
 The terrors of the charging host; 
 For not an eye the storm that view'd 
 Changed its proud glance of fortitude, 
 Nor was one forward footstep staid, 
 As dropp'd the dying and the dead. 
 Fast as their ranks the thunders tear, 
 Fast they renew'd each serried square; 
 And on the wounded and the slain 
 Closed their diminish 'd files again. 
 Till from their line scarce spear's lengths 
 
 three, 
 Emerging from the smoke they see 
 Helmet, and plume, and panoply, — 
 
 Then waked their fire at once ! 
 Each musketeer's revolving knell, 
 As fast, as regularly fell, 
 
346 
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 As when they practise to display 
 Tlieir discipHne on festal day. 
 
 Then down went helm and lance, 
 Down were the eagle banners sent, 
 Down reeling steeds and riders went. 
 Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent; 
 
 And, to augment the fray, 
 Wheel'd full against their staggering 
 
 flanks. 
 The English horsemen's foaming ranks 
 
 Forced their resistless way. 
 Then to the musket-knell succeeds 
 The clash of swords — theneighof steeds — 
 As plies the smith his clanging trade,'^ 
 Against the cuirass rang the blade; 
 And while amid their close array 
 The well-served cannon rent their way. 
 And while amid their scatter'd band 
 Raged the tierce rider's bloody brand, 
 Recoil 'd in common rout and fear, 
 Lancer and guard and cuirassier, 
 Horsemen and foot — a mingled host. 
 Their leaders fall'n, their standards lost. 
 
 Then, Wellington ! thy piercing eye 
 This crisis caught of destiny — 
 
 The British host had stood 
 That morn 'gainst charge of sword and 
 
 lance * 
 As their own ocean-rocks hold stance. 
 But when thy voice had said, " Advance !" 
 
 They were their ocean's flood. — 
 O Thou, whose inauspicious aim 
 Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame, 
 Think'st thou thy broken bands will bide 
 The terrors of yon rushing tide? 
 Or will thy chosen brook to feel 
 The British shock of levell'd steel,'' 
 
 Or dost thou turn thine eye 
 Where coming squadrons gleam afar, 
 And fresher thunders wake the war, 
 
 And other standards fly? — 
 Think not that in yon columns, file 
 Thy conquering troops from distant 
 Dyle — 
 
 Is Blucher yet unknown? 
 
 * "The British square stood unmoved, and 
 never gave fire until the cavalry were within ten 
 yards, when men rolled one way, horses galloped 
 another, and the cuirassiers were in every in- 
 stance driven back." — Life of Bonaparte, vol. 
 ix. p. 12. 
 
 Or dwells not in thy memory still, 
 (Heard frequent in thine hour of ill,) 
 What notes of hate and vengeance thrill 
 
 In Prussia's trumpet tone ? — 
 What yet remains? — shall it be thine 
 To head the relics of thy line 
 
 In one dread effort more? — 
 The Roman lore thy leisure loved, 
 And thou canst tell what fortune proved 
 
 That Chieftain, who, of yore, 
 Ambition's dizzy paths cssay'd. 
 And with the gladiators' aid 
 
 For empire enterprised — 
 He stood the cast his rashness play'd, 
 Left not the victims he had made, 
 Dug his red grave with his own blade, 
 And on the field he lost was laid, 
 
 Abhorr'd — but not despised. 
 
 But if revolves thy fainter thought 
 On safety — howsoever bought, — 
 Then turn thy fearful rein and ride, 
 Though twice ten thousand men have 
 died 
 
 On this eventful day. 
 To gild the military fame 
 Which thou, for life, in traffic tame 
 
 W'ilt barter thus away. 
 Siiall future ages tell this tale 
 Of inconsistence faint and frail? 
 And art thou He of Lodi's bridge, 
 Marengo's field, and Wagram's ridge! 
 
 Or is thy soul like mountain-tide. 
 That, swell'd by winter storm and shower, 
 Rolls down in turbulence of power, 
 
 A torrent fierce and wide; 
 Reft of these aids, a rill obscure, 
 Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor, 
 
 Whose channel shows display'd 
 The wrecks of its impetuous course, 
 But not one symptom of the force 
 
 By which these wrecks were made ! 
 
 Spur on thy way ! — since now thine ear 
 Has brook'd thy veterans' wish to hear, 
 
 Who, as thy flight they eyed, 
 Exclaim'd, — while tears of anguish 
 
 came. 
 Wrung forth by pride, and rage, and 
 shame : — 
 " O, that he had but died ! " 
 
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 7A1 
 
 But yet, to sum this hour of ill, 
 Look, ere thou leavest the fatal hill, 
 
 Back on yon broken ranks — 
 Upon whose wild confusion gleams 
 The moon, as on the troubled streams 
 
 When rivers break their banks. 
 And, to the ruiu'd peasant's eye, 
 Objects half seen roll swiftly by, 
 
 Down the dread current hurl'd — 
 So mingle banner, wain, and gun. 
 Where the tumultuous fight rolls on 
 Of warriors, who, when morn begun, 
 
 Defied a banded world. 
 
 List — frequent to the hurrying rout. 
 The stern pursuers' vengeful shout 
 Tells, that upon their broken rear 
 Rages the Prussian's bloody spear. 
 
 So fell a shriek was none. 
 When Beresina's icy flood 
 Redden'd and thaw'd with flame and 
 
 blood. 
 And, pressing on thy desperate way. 
 Raised oft and long their wild hurra. 
 
 The children of the Don. 
 Tliine ear no yell of horror cleft 
 Si) ominous, when all bereft 
 Of aid, the valiant Polack left * — 
 Ay, left by thee — found soldier's grave 
 In Leipsic's corpse-encumber'd wave. 
 Fate, in those various perils past, 
 Reserved thee still some future cast; 
 On the dread die thou now hast tlirown. 
 Hangs not a single field alone, 
 Nor one campaign — ^ thy martial fame. 
 Thy empire, dynasty, and name. 
 
 Have felt the final stroke; 
 And now, o'er thy devoted head 
 The last stern vial's wrath is shed. 
 
 The last dread seal is broke. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Since live thou wilt — refuse not now 
 Before these demagogues to Ix)W, 
 Late objects of thy scorn and hate, 
 Who shall thy once imperial fate 
 Make wordly theme of vain debate. — 
 Or shall we say, thou stoop'st less low 
 In seeking refuge from the foe, 
 
 » For an account of the death of Poniatowski 
 at Leipsic, see Sir Walter Scott's Life of Bona^ 
 parte, vol. vii. p. 401. 
 
 Against whose heart, in prosperous life. 
 Thine hand hath ever held the knife? 
 
 Such homage hath been paid 
 By Roman and by Grecian voice, 
 And there were honor in the choice. 
 
 If it were freely made. 
 Then safely come, — in one so low — 
 So lost, — we cannot own a foe; 
 Though dear experience bid us end. 
 In thee we ne'er can hail a friend. — 
 Come, howsoe'er — but do not hide 
 Close in thy heart that germ of pride, 
 Erewhile, by gifted bard espied, 
 
 That " yet imperial hope; " t 
 Think not that for a fresh rebound, 
 To raise ambition from the ground, 
 
 We yield thee means or scope. 
 In safety come — but ne'er again 
 Hold type of independent reign; 
 
 No islet calls thee lord. 
 We leave thee no confederate band, 
 No symbol of thy lost command, 
 To be a dagger in the hand 
 
 From wliich we wrench'd the sword. 
 
 Yet, even in yon sequester'd spot. 
 May worthier conquest be thy lot 
 
 Than yet thy life has known; 
 C<MUiuest, unbought by blood or harm. 
 That needs nor foreign aid nor arm, 
 
 A triumph all thine own. 
 Such waits thee when thou shalt control 
 Those passions wild, that stubborn soul, 
 
 That marr'd thy prosperous scene : 
 Hear this — from no unmoved heart, 
 Which sighs, comparing what thou ART 
 
 With what thou might'st have been ! 
 
 Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renew 'd 
 Bankrupt a nation's gratitude, 
 To thine own noble heart must owe 
 More than the meed she can bestow. 
 For not a people's just acclaim. 
 Not the full hail of Europe's fame. 
 Thy Prince's smiles, thy State's decree. 
 The ducal rank, the garter'd knee. 
 Not these such pure delight afford 
 As that, when hanging up thy sword, 
 
 t See Byrvn's " Ode to Napoleon." 
 
.H8 
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 Well may'st thou think : — " This honest 
 
 steel 
 Was ever drawn for pulilic weal; 
 And, such was rightful Heaven's decree, 
 Ne'er sheathed unless with victory ! " 
 
 Look forth, once more, with soften'd 
 
 heart. 
 Ere from the field of fame we part; 
 Triumph and Sorrow border near, 
 And joy oft melts into a tear. 
 Alas ! what links of love that morn 
 Has War's rude hand asunder torn ! 
 For ne'er was field so sternly fought, 
 And ne'er was conquest dearer bought. 
 Here piled in common slaughter sleep 
 Those whom affection long shall weep : 
 Here rests the sire, that ne'er shall strain 
 His orphans to his heart again; 
 The son, whom, on his native shore. 
 The parent's voice shall bless no more; 
 The bridegroom, who has hardly press'd 
 His blushing consort to his breast: 
 The husband, whom through many a year 
 Long love and mutual faith endear. 
 Thou canst not name one tender tie. 
 But here dissolved its relics lie ! 
 O ! when thou see'st some mourner's veil 
 Shroud her thin form and visage pale. 
 Or mark'st the Matron's bursting tears 
 Stream when the stricken drum she hears; 
 Or see'st how manlier grief, suppress'd. 
 Is laboring in a father's breast, — 
 With no inquiry vain pursue 
 The cause, but think on Waterloo ! 
 
 Period of honor as of woes. 
 What bright careers 'twas thine to close ! * 
 Mark'd on thy roll of blood what names 
 To Briton's memory, and to Fame's, 
 Laid there their last immortal claims ! 
 Thou saw'st in seas of gore expire 
 Redoul)ted PiCTON's soul of fire — 
 Saw'st in the mingled carnage lie 
 All that of PoNSONBY could die — 
 De Lancey change Love's bridal wreath. 
 For laurels from the hand of Death ^ — 
 Saw'st gallant Miller's failing eye ^^^ 
 Still bent where Albion's banners fly. 
 And Cameron, " in the shock of steel. 
 Die like the offspring of Lochiel; 
 
 And generous GoRr>ON,i'^ mid the strife. 
 Fall, while he watch'tl his leader's life. — 
 Ah! though her guanlian angel's shield 
 Fenced Britain's hero through the field. 
 Fate not the less her power made known, 
 Through his friends' hearts to pierce his 
 own ! * 
 
 Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay ! 
 Who may your names, your numlx;rssay? 
 What high-strung harp, what lofty line, 
 To each the dear-earn 'd praise assign, 
 From high-born chiefs of martial fame 
 To the poor soldier's lowlier name? 
 Lightly ye rose that dawning day. 
 From your cold couch of swamp and clay, 
 To fdl, before the sun was low. 
 The bed that morning cannot know. — 
 Oft may the tear the green sod steep. 
 And sacred be the heroes' sleep, 
 
 Till time shall cease to run; 
 And ne'er beside their noble grave, 
 May Briton pass and fail to crave 
 A blessing on the fallen brave 
 
 Who fought with Wellington ! 
 
 Farewell, sad Field ! whose blighted 
 
 face 
 Wears desolation's withering trace; 
 Long shall my memory retain 
 Thy shatter'd huts and trampled grain. 
 With every mark of martial wrong, 
 That scathethy towers, fair Hougomont l'^ 
 Yet though thy garden's green arcade 
 The marksman's fatal post was made. 
 Though on thy shatter'd beeches fell 
 The blended rage of shot and shell. 
 Though from thy blacken 'd portals torn. 
 Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn, 
 Has not such havoc bought a name 
 Immortal in the rolls of fame? 
 Yes — Agincourt may be forgot, 
 And Cressy be an unknown spot. 
 
 And Blenheim's name be new; 
 But still in story and in song. 
 For many an age remembered long, 
 Shall live the towers of Hougomont, 
 
 And Field of Waterloo. 
 
 * Th", ^ief of the victor for the fate of his 
 f •■•cii<ls is touchingly described by tliose who wit- 
 -jessed it. 
 
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 349 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Stern tide of human Time ! that 
 
 know'st not rest, 
 Butsweepingfromthecradletothetomb, 
 Bear'st ever downward on thy dusky 
 
 breast, 
 Successive generations to their doom; 
 While thy capacious stream has equal 
 
 room 
 For the gay Ijark where Pleasure's 
 
 streamers sport, 
 And for the prison-ship of guilt and 
 
 gloom, 
 The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a 
 
 court. 
 Still wafting onward all to one dark silent 
 
 port ; — 
 
 Stern tide of Time ! through what 
 
 mysterious change 
 Of hope and fear have our frail barks 
 
 been driven ! 
 For ne'er, before, vicissitude so 
 
 strange 
 Was to one race of Adam's offspring 
 
 given. 
 And sure such varied change of sea 
 
 and heaven. 
 Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe. 
 Such fearful strife as that where we 
 
 have striven. 
 Succeeding ages ne'eragainshall know. 
 Until the awful term when Thou shalt 
 
 cease to flow ! 
 
 Well hast thou stood, my Country ! — 
 
 the brave fight 
 Hast well maintain'd through good 
 
 report and ill; 
 In thy just cause and in thy native 
 
 might. 
 And in Heaven's grace and justice 
 
 constant still; 
 Whether the banded prowess, strength, 
 
 and skill 
 Of half the world against thee stood 
 
 array'd, 
 Or when, with better views and freer 
 
 will. 
 Beside thee Europe's noblest drew the 
 
 blade. 
 Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen 
 
 to aid. 
 
 Well art thou now repaid — though 
 
 slowly rose, 
 And struggled long with mists thy blaze 
 
 of fame. 
 While like the dawn that in the orient 
 
 glows 
 On the broad wave its earlier lustre 
 
 came; 
 Then eastern E^-pt saw the growing 
 
 flame, 
 And Maida's myrtles gleam'd beneath 
 
 its ray, 
 Where first the soldier, stung with 
 
 generous shame, 
 Rivall'd the heroes of the wat'ry 
 
 way. 
 And wash'd in focman's gore unjust 
 
 reproach away. 
 
 Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest 
 on high. 
 
 And bid the banner of thy Patron 
 flow. 
 
 Gallant St. George, the flower of 
 Chivalry, 
 
 For thou hast faced, like him, a dragon 
 foe, 
 
 And rescued innocence from over- 
 throw. 
 
 And trampled down, like him, tyrannic 
 might. 
 
 And to the gazing world mayst proudly 
 show 
 
 The chosen emblem of thy sainted 
 Knight, 
 Who quell'd devouring pride, and vindi- 
 cated right. 
 
 Yet mid the confidence of just renown. 
 Renown dear-bought, but dearer thus 
 
 acquired. 
 Write, Britain, write the moral lesson 
 
 down: 
 'Tis not alone the heart with valor 
 
 fired. 
 The discipline so dreaded and admired. 
 In many a field of blootly conquest 
 
 known; 
 — Such may by fame be lured, by gold 
 
 be hired — 
 'Tis constancy in thy good cause alone. 
 Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons 
 
 have won. 
 
HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 There is a mood of mind, we all have 
 known 
 
 On drowsy eve, or dark and lowering 
 day, 
 
 When the tired spirits lose their 
 sprightly tone. 
 
 And naught can chase the lingering 
 hours away. 
 
 Dull on our soul falls Fancy's dazzling 
 ray. 
 
 And Wisdom holds liis steadier torch 
 in vain, 
 
 Obscured the painting seems, mistnned 
 the lay, 
 
 Nor dare we of our listless load com- 
 plain, 
 For who for sympathy may seek that can- 
 not tell of pain? 
 
 The jolly sportsman knows such drcari- 
 
 hood, 
 When bursts in deluge the autumnal 
 
 rain. 
 Clouding that morn which threats the 
 
 heath-cock's brood; 
 Of such, in summer's drought, the 
 
 anglers plain, 
 Whohope the soft mild southern shower 
 
 in vain : 
 But , more than all , the discontented fair, 
 Whom father stern, and sterner aimt, 
 
 restrain 
 From country-ball, or race occurring 
 
 rare. 
 While all her friends around their vest- 
 ments gay prepare. 
 
 Ennui! — or, as our mothers call'd 
 
 thee. Spleen ! 
 To thee we owe full many a rare 
 
 device; — 
 Thine is the sheaf of ]iainted cards, I 
 
 ween. 
 The rolling billiard-ball, the rattling 
 
 dice; 
 The turning-lathe for framing gimcrack 
 
 nice; 
 The amateur's blotch'd pallet thou 
 
 mayst claim. 
 Retort, and air-pump, threatening frogs 
 
 and mice, 
 (^Murders disguised by philosophic 
 
 name,) 
 And much of trifling grave, and much of 
 
 buxom game. 
 
 Then of the books, to catch thy drowns 
 glance 
 
 Compiled, what bard the catalt)gue 
 may quote ! 
 
 Plays, poems, novels, never read but 
 once; — 
 
 Put not of such the tale fair Edgeworth 
 wrote. 
 
 That bears thy name, and is thine an- 
 tidote; 
 
 And not of such the strain my Thom- 
 son sung, 
 
 Delicious dreams inspiring by his note. 
 
 What time to Indolence his har]T he 
 strung; — 
 Oh ! might my lay be ranked that hajip'er 
 list among ! 
 
 350 
 
Canto I. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS, 
 
 351 
 
 Each halh his refuge whom tliy cares 
 
 assail. 
 For me, I love my study-tire to trim, 
 And con right vacantly some idle tale, 
 Displaying on the couch each listless 
 
 limb. 
 Till on the drowsy page the lights 
 
 grow dim, 
 And doubtful slumber half supplies the 
 
 theme; 
 While antique shapes of knight and 
 
 giant grim, 
 Damsel and dwarf, in long procession 
 
 gleam, 
 And the Romancer's tale becomes the 
 
 Reader's dream. 
 
 'Tis thus my malady I well may 
 bear, 
 
 Albeit outstretched, like Pope's own 
 Paridel,* 
 
 Upon the rack of a too-easy chair; 
 
 And find, to cheat the time, a power- 
 ful spell 
 
 In old romaunts of errantry that 
 tell. 
 
 Or later legends of the fairy-folk, 
 
 Or Oriental tale of Afrite fell, 
 
 Of Genii, Talisman, and broad-wing'd 
 Roc, 
 Though taste may blush and frown, and 
 sober reason mock. 
 
 Oft at such season, too, will rhymes 
 
 unsought 
 Arrange themselves in some romantic 
 
 lay; — 
 The which, as things unfitting graver 
 
 thought, 
 Are burnt or blotted on some wiser 
 
 day. — 
 These few survive — and proudly let 
 
 me say, 
 Court not the critic's smile, nor dread 
 
 his frown; 
 They well may serve to while an hour 
 
 away, 
 Nor does the volume ask for more 
 
 renown, 
 Than Ennui's yawning smile, what time 
 
 she drops it down. 
 
 * "The Dunciad," Book IV. 1. 341. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 I. 
 
 List to the valorous deeds that were done 
 
 By Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi- 
 
 kind's son ! 
 Count Witikind came of a regal strain, 
 And roved with his Norsemen the land 
 
 and the main. 
 Woe to the realms which he coasted ! 
 
 for there 
 Was sheddingof bloodand rending of hair, 
 Rape of maiden, and slaughter of priest, 
 Gathering of ravens and wolves to the 
 
 feast : 
 When he hoisted his standard black, 
 Before him was battle, behind him wrack. 
 And he burn'd the churches, that heathen 
 
 Dane, 
 To light his band to their barks again. 
 
 II. 
 
 On Erin's shores was his outrage known, 
 The winds of P^rance had his banners 
 
 blown; 
 Little was there to plunder, yet still 
 Mis pirates had foray'd on Scottish liill: 
 But upon merry England's coast 
 More frequent he sail'd, for he won the 
 
 most. 
 So wide and so far his ravage they knew, 
 If a sail ])Ut gleam'd white 'gainst the 
 
 welkin l)lue. 
 Trumpet antl bugle to arms did call, 
 Burghers hasten'd to man the wall, 
 Peasants fled inland his fury to 'scape, 
 Beacons were lighted on headland and 
 
 cape, 
 Bells were toll 'd out, and aye as they rung, 
 Fearful and faintly the gray brothers 
 
 sung: — 
 " Bless us, St. Mary, from flood and from 
 
 fire, 
 From famine and pest, and Count Witi- 
 
 kind's ire ! " 
 
 III. 
 He liked the wealth of fair England so 
 
 well, 
 That he sought in her bosom as native to 
 
 dwell. 
 He enter'd the Humber in fearful hour, 
 And disembark'd with his Danish power. 
 
352 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Three Earls came against him with all 
 their train, — 
 
 Two hath he taken, and one hath he 
 slain. 
 
 Count Witikind left the Humber's rich 
 strand, 
 
 And he wasted and warr'd in Northum- 
 berland. 
 
 But the Saxon King was a sire in age. 
 
 Weak in battle, in council sage; 
 
 Peace of that heathen leader he sought, 
 
 Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought; 
 
 And the Count took upon him the peace- 
 able style 
 
 Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's 
 broad isle. 
 
 Time will rust the sharpest sword. 
 Time will consume the strongest cord; 
 That which moulders hemp and steel, 
 Mortal arm and nerve must feel. 
 Of the Danish band, whom Count Witi- 
 kind led. 
 Many wax'd aged, and many were dead; 
 Himself found his armor full weighty to 
 
 bear. 
 Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his 
 
 hair. 
 He lean'd on a staff, when his step went 
 
 abroad. 
 And patient his palfrey, when steed he 
 
 bestrode. 
 As he grew feebler, his wildness ceased, 
 He made himself peace with prelate and 
 
 priest; 
 Made his peace, and, stooping his head, 
 Patiently listed the counsel they said. 
 Saint Cuthbert's Bishop was holy and 
 
 grave. 
 Wise andgood was thecounsel he gave : — 
 
 "Thouhast murder 'd,robb'd, and spoil'd, 
 Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd; 
 Priests didst thou slay, and churches burn, 
 Time it is now to repentance to turn; 
 Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with fiend- 
 ish rite. 
 Leave now the darkness, and wend into 
 
 light: 
 O! while life and space are given, 
 TaiQ thee yet, and think of Heaven! " 
 
 That stern old heathen his head he raised, 
 And on the good prelate he steadfastly 
 
 gazed : — 
 " Give me broad lands on the Wear and 
 
 the Tyne, 
 My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave 
 
 unto thine." 
 
 Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and 
 
 Wear, 
 To be held of the Church by bridle and 
 
 spear ; 
 Part of Monkwearmouth, of Tynedale 
 
 part. 
 To better his will, and to soften his heart : 
 Count Witikind was a joyful man. 
 Less for the faith than the lands that he 
 
 wan. 
 The high church of Durham is dress'd 
 
 for the day. 
 The clergy are rank'd in their solemn 
 
 array; 
 There came the Count, in a bear-skin 
 
 warm. 
 Leaning on Hilda his concubine's arm; 
 He kneel'd before Saint Cuthbert's shrine, 
 With patience unwonted at rites divine; 
 He abjured the gods of heathen race. 
 And he l)ent his head at the font of grace. 
 But such was the grisly old proselyte's 
 
 look, 
 That the priest who baptized him grew 
 
 pale and shook; 
 And the old monks mutter'd beneath 
 
 their hood : — 
 "Of a stem so stubborn can never spring 
 
 good ! " 
 
 VII. 
 
 Up then arose that grim convertite. 
 Homeward he hied him when ended the 
 
 rite; 
 The Prelate in honor will with him ride. 
 And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side. 
 Banners and banderols danced in the 
 
 wind, 
 Monks rode before them, and spearmen 
 
 behind; 
 Onward they pass'd till fairly did shine 
 Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne ; 
 And full in front did that fortress lower. 
 In darksome strength with its buttress 
 
 and tower; 
 
Canto I. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 •353 
 
 At the castle gate was young Harold there, 
 Count Witikind's only offspring and heir. 
 
 Young Harold was fear'd for his hardi- 
 hood, 
 
 His strength of frame, and his fury of 
 mood. 
 
 Rude he was and wild to behold. 
 
 Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold. 
 
 Cap of vair nor rich array. 
 
 Such as should grace that festal day : 
 
 His doublet of bull's hide was all un- 
 braced, 
 
 Uncover'd his head, and his sandal un- 
 laced : 
 
 His shaggy black lock on his brow hung 
 low, 
 
 And his eyes glanced through them a 
 swarthy glow; 
 
 A Danish club in his hand he bore. 
 
 The spikes were clotted with recent gore; 
 
 At his back a she-wolf, and her wolf- 
 cubs twain. 
 
 In the dangerous chase that morning 
 slain. 
 
 Rude was the greeting his father he made. 
 
 None to the Bishop, — while thus he 
 said: — 
 
 " What priest-led hypocrite art thou. 
 With thy humble look and thy monkish 
 
 brow. 
 Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his 
 
 vow? 
 Canst thou be Witikind the Waster 
 
 known. 
 Royal Eric's fearless son, 
 Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord. 
 Who won his bride by the axe and sword ; 
 From the shrine of St. Peter the chalice 
 
 who tore, 
 And melted to bracelets for Freya and 
 
 Thor; 
 With one blow of his gauntlet who burst 
 
 the skull. 
 Before Odin's stone, of the Mountain 
 
 Bull? 
 Then ye worshipp'd with rites that to 
 
 war-gods belong. 
 With the deed of the brave, and the blow 
 
 of the strong; 
 
 And now, in thine age to dotage sunk. 
 Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven 
 
 monk, — 
 Lay down thy mail-shirt for clothing of 
 
 hair, — 
 Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt 
 
 thou bear? 
 Or, at best, be admitted in slothful 
 
 bower 
 To batten with priest and with paramour ? 
 Oh ! out upon thine endless shame ! 
 Each Scald's high harp shall blast thy 
 
 fame, 
 And thy son will refuse thee a father's 
 
 name ! ' ' 
 
 Ireful wax'd old Witikind's look. 
 His faltering voice with fury shook : — 
 " Hear me, Harold of harden'd heart ! 
 Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert: 
 Thine outrage insane I command thee 
 
 cease. 
 Fear my wrath and remain at peace : — 
 Just is the debt of repentance I've paid. 
 Richly the Church has a recompense 
 
 made. 
 And the truth of her doctrines I prove 
 
 with my blade. 
 But reckoning to none of my actions I 
 
 owe. 
 And least to my son such accounting will 
 
 show. 
 Why speak I to thee of repentance or 
 
 truth. 
 Who ne'er from thy childhood knew 
 
 reason or ruth ? 
 Hence ! to the wolf and the bear in her 
 
 den; 
 These are thy mates, and not rational 
 
 men." 
 
 XI. 
 
 Grimly smiled Harold, and coldly replied: 
 " We must honor our sires, if we fear 
 
 when they chide. 
 For me, I am yet what thy lessons have 
 
 made, 
 I was rock'd in a buckler and fed from a 
 
 blade; 
 An infant, was taught to clasp hands and 
 
 to shout 
 From the roof of the tower when the 
 
 flame had broke out; 
 
554 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 In the blood of slain foemen my finger 
 
 to dip, 
 And tinge with its purple my cheek and 
 
 my lip, — 
 'Tis thou know'st not truth, that has 
 
 barter'd in eld, 
 For a price, the brave faith that thine 
 
 ancestors held. 
 When this wolf," — and the carcass he 
 
 flung on the plain, — 
 " Shall wake and give food to her nurse- 
 lings again, 
 The face of his father will Harold review; 
 Till then, aged Heathen, young Christian, 
 
 adieu ! " 
 
 Priest, monk, and prelate, stood aghast. 
 As through the pageant the heathen 
 
 pass'd. 
 A cross-liearcr out of his saddle he flung, 
 Laid his hand on the pommel, and into 
 
 it sprung. 
 Loud was the shriek and deep the groan. 
 When the holy sign on the earth was 
 
 thrown ! 
 The fierce old Count unsheathed his 
 
 brand, 
 But the calmer prelate stay'd his hand : — 
 "Let him pass free! — Heaven knows 
 
 its hour, — 
 But he must own repentance's power. 
 Pray and weep, and penance bear. 
 Ere he hold land by the Tync and the 
 
 Wear." 
 Thus in scorn and in wrath from his 
 
 father is gone 
 Young Harold the Dauntless, Count 
 
 Witikind's son. 
 
 High was the feasting in Witikind's 
 
 hall, 
 Revell'd priests, soldiers, and pagans, 
 
 and all; 
 And e'en the good Bishop was fain to 
 
 endure 
 The scandal, which time and instruction 
 
 might cure: 
 II were dangerous, he deem'd, at the 
 
 first to restrain. 
 In his wine and his wassail, a half-chris- 
 
 ten'd Dane. 
 
 The mead flow'd around, and the ale was 
 
 drain 'd dry. 
 Wild was the laughter, the song, and the 
 
 cry; 
 With Kyrie Eleison, came clamorously 
 
 in 
 The war-songs of Danesmen, Norweyan, 
 
 and Finn. 
 Till man after man the contention gave 
 
 o'er, 
 Outstretch'd on the rushes that strcw'd 
 
 the hall floor; 
 And the tempest within, having ceased 
 
 its wild rout, 
 Gave place to the tempest that thunder'd 
 
 without. 
 
 Apart from the wassail, in turret alone, 
 
 I>ay flnxen-hair'd Gunnar, old Ermen- 
 garde's son; 
 
 In the train of Lord Harold that Page 
 was the first, 
 
 For Harold in childhood had Ermcn- 
 garde nursed; 
 
 And grieved was young Gunnar his mas- 
 ter should roam. 
 
 Unhoused and unfriended, an exile from 
 home. 
 
 He heard the deep thunder, the plashing 
 of rain, 
 
 He saw the red lightning through shot- 
 hole and pane; 
 
 "And oh!" said the Page, "on the 
 shelterless wold 
 
 Lord Harold is wandering in darkness 
 and cold ! 
 
 What though he was stubborn, and way- 
 ward, and wild. 
 
 He endured me because I was Ermen- 
 garde's child, — ' 
 
 And often from dawn till the set of the 
 sun. 
 
 In the chase, by his stirrup, unbidden I 
 run; 
 
 I would I were older, and knighthood 
 could bear, 
 
 I would soon quit the banks of the Tyne 
 and the Wear; 
 
 For my mother's command, with her last 
 parting breath, 
 
 I'nde me follow her nursling in life and 
 to death. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 3SS 
 
 " It pours and it thunders, it lightens 
 
 amain, 
 As if Lok, the Destroyer, had burst from 
 
 his chain ! 
 Accursed by the Church and expell'd by 
 
 his sire. 
 Nor Christian nor Dane give him shelter 
 
 or fire, 
 And this tempest what mortal may house- 
 less endure? 
 Unaided, unmantled, he dies on the 
 
 moor ! 
 Whate'er comes of Gunnar, he tarries not 
 
 here." 
 He leapt from his couch and he grasp 'd 
 
 to his spear; 
 Sought the hall of the feast. Undisturb'd 
 
 by his tread, 
 The wassailers slept fast as the sleep of 
 
 the dead : 
 "Ungrateful and bestial!" his anger 
 
 broke forth, 
 "To forget mid your goblets the pride 
 
 of tbe North ! 
 And you, ye cowl'd priests, who have 
 
 plenty in store, 
 Must give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey 
 
 and ore." 
 
 Then, heeding full little of ban or of curse, 
 He has seized on the Prior of Jorvaulx's 
 
 purse : 
 Saint Meneholt's Abbot next morning 
 
 has miss'd 
 His mantle, deep furr'd from the cape 
 
 to the wrist. 
 The Seneschal's keys from his belt he 
 
 has ta'en 
 (Well drench'd on that eve was old 
 
 Hildebrand's brain). 
 To the stable-yard he made his way. 
 And mounted the Bishop's palfrey gay. 
 Castle and hamlet behind him has cast. 
 And right on his way to the moorland 
 
 has pass'd. 
 Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to 
 
 face 
 A weather so wild at so rash a pace; 
 So long he snorted, so loud he neigh'd, 
 There answer'd a steed that was bound 
 
 beside, 
 
 And the red flash of lightning show'd 
 
 where there lay 
 His master. Lord Harold, outstretched on 
 
 the clay. 
 
 Up he started, and thunder'd out : — 
 
 "Stand!" 
 And raised the club in his deadly hand. 
 The flaxen-hair'd Gunnar his purpose told, 
 Show'd the palfrey and profferr'd the 
 
 gold. 
 "Back, back, and home, thou simple boy ! 
 Thou canst not share my grief or joy : 
 Have I not mark'd thee wail and cry 
 When thou hast seen a sparrow die ? 
 And canst thou, as my follower should. 
 Wade ankle-deep throughfoeman'sblood, 
 Dare mortal ^d immortal foe, 
 The gods above, the fiends below. 
 And man on earth, more hateful still, 
 The very fountain-head of ill ? 
 Desperate of life, and careless of death. 
 Lover of bloodshed, and slaughter, and 
 
 scathe. 
 Such must thou be with me to roam. 
 And such thou canst not be — back, and 
 
 home ! " 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Young Gunnar shook like an aspen bough. 
 As he heard the harsh voice and beheld 
 
 the dark brow. 
 And half he repented his purpose and 
 
 vow. 
 But now to draw back were bootless 
 
 shame. 
 And he loved his master, so urged his 
 
 claim: — , 
 "Alas! if my arm and my courage be 
 
 weak. 
 Bear with me awhile for old Ermengarde's 
 
 sake; 
 Nor deem so lightly of Gunnar's faith. 
 As to fear he would break it for peril of 
 
 death. • ■ 
 
 Have I not risk'd it to fetch thee this gold. 
 This surcoat and mantle to fence thee from 
 
 cold? 
 And, did I bear a baser mind. 
 What lot remains if I stay behind? 
 The priests' revenge, thy father's wrath, 
 A dungeon, and a shameful death." 
 
356 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 With gentler look Lord Harold eyed 
 The Page, then turn'd his head aside; 
 And either a tear did his eyelash stain, 
 Or it caught a drop of the passing rain. 
 " Art thou an outcast, then?" quoth he; 
 " The meeter page to follow me." 
 'Twere bootless to tell what climes they 
 
 sought. 
 Vestures achieved, and battles fought; 
 Mow oft with few, how oft alone, 
 I'ierre Harold's arm the field hath won. 
 Mew sWore his eye, that flasli'd so red 
 When each other glance was quenched 
 
 with dread, 
 Ror(? oft a light of deadly flame, 
 'I'hat ne'er from mortal courage came. 
 Those limbs so strong, that mood so stern, 
 'I'hat loved the couch of h^th and fern, 
 Afar from hamlet, tower, and town. 
 More than to rest on driven down; 
 That stubborn frame, that sullen moo<l. 
 Men deem'd must come of aught but 
 
 good; 
 And they whisper'd, the great Master 
 
 Fiend was at one 
 With Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi- 
 
 kind's son. 
 
 Years after years hail gone and fled, 
 The good old F'relate lies lapp'd in lead; 
 In the chapel still is shown 
 His sculptured form on a marble stone, 
 With staff and ring and scapulaire. 
 And folded hands in the act of prayer. 
 Saint Cuthbert's mitre is resting now 
 On the haughty Saxon, bold Aldingar's 
 
 brow ; 
 The power of his crozier he loved to ex- 
 tend 
 O'er whatever would break, or whatever 
 
 would bend; 
 And now hath he clothed him in cope and 
 
 in pall, 
 And the Chapter of Durham has met at 
 
 his call. 
 " .A.nd hear ye not, brethren," the proud 
 
 Bishop said, 
 "That our vassal, the Danish Count 
 
 Witikind's dead? 
 All his gold and his goods halh he given 
 To holy Church for the love of Heaven, 
 
 And had founded a chantry with stipend 
 
 and dole, 
 That priests and that beadsmen may pray 
 
 for his soul : 
 Harold his son is wandering abroad. 
 Dreaded by man and abhorr'd by God; 
 Meet it is not, that such should heir 
 The lands of the Church on the Tyne and 
 
 the Wear, 
 And at her pleasure her hallow'd hands 
 May now resume these wealthy lands. 
 
 Answer'd good Eustace, a canon old: — 
 " Harold is tameless, and furious, and 
 
 bold; 
 Ever Renown blows a note of fame. 
 And a note of fear, when she sounds his 
 
 name; 
 Much of bloodshed and much of scathe 
 Have l)een their lot who have waked his 
 
 wrath. 
 Leave him these lands and lordships 
 
 still; 
 Heaven in its hour may change his will; 
 But if reft of gold, and of living bare. 
 An evil counsellor is despair." 
 More had he said, but the Prelate frown'd, 
 And murmur'd his brethren who sate 
 
 around. 
 And with one consent have they given 
 
 their doom, 
 That the Church should the lands of Saint 
 
 Cuthbert resume. 
 So will'd the Prelate : and canon and dean 
 Gave to his judgment their loud amen. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 'Tis merry in greenwood — thus runs the 
 
 old lay, — 
 In the gladsome month of lively May, 
 When the wild liirds' song on stem and 
 spray 
 Invites to forest bower; 
 Then rears the ash his airy crest. 
 Then shines the birch in silver vest. 
 And the beech in glistening leaves is drest. 
 And dark between shows the oak's proud 
 breast. 
 Like a chieftain's frowning tower; 
 
Canto II. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 357 
 
 Though a tliousand branches join their 
 
 screen, 
 Yet the broken sunbeams glance between, 
 And tip the leaves with lighter green, 
 
 With brighter tints the (lower; 
 Dull is the heart that loves not then 
 The deep recess of thuiwildwood glen, 
 Where roe and red-deer find sheltering 
 den, 
 
 When the sun is in his power. 
 
 Less merry, perchance, is the fading leaf 
 That follows so soon on the gather 'd 
 
 sheaf, 
 When the greenwood loses the name; 
 Silent is then the forest bound, 
 Save the redbreast's note, and the rustling 
 
 sound 
 Of frost-nipt leaves that are dropping 
 
 round, 
 Or the deep-mouth'd cry of the cUstant 
 
 hound 
 That opens on his game : 
 Vet then, too, I love the forest wide. 
 Whether the sun in splendor ride, 
 Vnd gild its many-color'd side; 
 Or whether the soft or silvery haze. 
 In vapory folds o'er the landscape strays. 
 And half involves the woodland maze. 
 
 Like an early widow's veil. 
 Where wimjiling tissue from the gaze 
 The form half hides, and half betrays. 
 Of beauty wan and pale. 
 
 Fair Metelill was a woodland maid. 
 Her father a rover of greenwood shade. 
 By forest statutes undismay'd. 
 
 Who lived by Ijow and quiver; 
 Well known was Wulfstane's archery. 
 By merry Tyne lx)th on moor and lea. 
 Through wooded Weardale'sglens so free, 
 Well beside Stanhope's wildwood tree. 
 
 And well on Ganlesse river. 
 Yet free though he trespass'd on wood- 
 land game, 
 More known and more fear'd was the 
 
 wizard fame 
 Of Jutta of Rookhope, the Outlaw's dame; 
 Fear'd when she frown'd was her eye of 
 flame, 
 More fear'd when in wrath she laugh'd; 
 
 For, then, 'twas said, more fatal true 
 To its dread aim her spell-glance flew. 
 Than when from Wulfstane's bended yew 
 Sprung forth the gray-goose shaft. 
 
 Yet had this fierce and dreaded pair. 
 So Heaven decreed, a daughter fair; 
 
 None brighter crown'd the bed. 
 In Britain's bounds, of peer or prince, 
 Nor hath, perchance, a lovelier since. 
 
 In this fair isle been bred. 
 And naught of fraud, or ire, or ill, 
 Was known to gentle Metelill, — 
 
 A simple maiden she; 
 The spells in dimpled smile that lie, 
 Andadowncastblush,andthe darts that fly 
 With the sidelong glance of a hazel eye. 
 
 Were her arms and witchery. 
 So young, so simple was she yet. 
 She scarce could childhood's joys forget, 
 And still she loved, in secret set 
 
 Beneath the greenwood tree. 
 To plait the rushy coronet, 
 And braid with flowers her locks of jet. 
 
 As when in infancy; — 
 Yet could that heart, so simple, prove 
 The early dawn of stealing love : 
 
 Ah ! gentle maid, beware ! 
 The power who, now so mild a guest. 
 Gives dangerous yet delicious zest 
 To the calm pleasures of thy breast. 
 Will soon, a tyrant o'er the rest, 
 
 Let none his empire share. 
 
 One morn in kirtle green array 'd. 
 Deep in the wood the m.aiden stray'd. 
 
 And, where a fountain sprung. 
 She sate her down, unseen, to thread 
 The scarlet berry's mimic braid. 
 
 And while the Ijeads she strung. 
 Like the blithe lark, whose carol gay 
 Gives a good-morrow to the day. 
 
 So lightsoniely she sung: — 
 
 VI. 
 SONG. 
 
 " Lord Wiluam was born in gilded 
 
 bower, 
 The heir of Wilton's lofty tower; 
 Vet better loves Ixird William now 
 To roam beneath wild Rookhope's brow; 
 
358 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 And William has lived where ladies fair 
 With gawds and jewels deck their hair, 
 Yet better loves the dewdrops still 
 That pearl the locks of Metelill. 
 
 " The pious Palmer loves, I wis, 
 Saint Cuthbert's hallow'd beads to kiss, 
 But I, though simple girl I be, 
 Might have such homage paid to me; 
 For did Lord William see me suit 
 This necklace of the bramble's fruit, 
 I le fain — but must not have his will — 
 Would kiss the beads of Metelill. 
 
 *' My nurse has told me many a tale. 
 How vows of love are weak and frail; 
 My mother says that courtly youth 
 By rustic maid means seldom sooth. 
 What should they mean? it cannot be. 
 That such a warning's meant for me, 
 For naught — oh ! naught of fraud or ill 
 Can William mean to Metelill ! " 
 
 Sudden she stops — and starts to feel 
 A weighty hand, a glove of steel. 
 Upon her shrinking shoulders laid; 
 Fearful she turn'd, and saw, dismay'd, 
 A Knight in plate and mail array'd. 
 His crest and bearing worn and fray'd. 
 
 His surcoat soil'd and riven, 
 Form'd like that giant race of yore. 
 Whose long-continued crimes outwore 
 
 The sufferance of Heaven. 
 Stern accents made his pleasure known. 
 Though then he used his gentlest tone : — 
 " Maiden," he said, " sing forth thy 
 
 glee. 
 Start not — sing on — it pleases me." 
 
 Secured within his powerful hold, 
 To bend her knee, her hands to fold, 
 
 Was all the maiden might; 
 And " Oh! forgive," she faintly said, 
 " The terrors of a simple maid. 
 
 If thou art mortal wight? 
 But if — of such strange tales are told — 
 Unearthly warrior of the wold. 
 Thou comest to chide mine accents bold. 
 My mother, Jutta, knows the spell. 
 At noon and midnight pleasing well 
 
 The disembodied ear. 
 
 Oh ! let her powerful charms atone 
 For aught my rashness may have done. 
 
 And cease thy grasp of fear." 
 Then laugh'd the Knight — his laughter's 
 
 sound 
 Half in the hollow helmet drown'd; 
 His barred visor then he raised. 
 And steady on the maiden gazed. 
 He smooth'd his brows, as best he might. 
 To the dread calm of autumn night, 
 
 When sinks the tempest roar; 
 V'et still the cautious fishers eye 
 The clouds, and fear the gloomy sky, 
 
 Aiul haul their barks on shore. 
 
 " Damsel," he said, " be wise and learri 
 Matters of weight and deep concern : 
 
 From distant realms I come, 
 And, wanderer long, at length have 
 
 plann'd 
 In this my native Northern land 
 
 To seek myself a home. 
 Nor that alone — a mate I seek; 
 She must be gentle, soft, and meek, — 
 
 No lordly dame for me; 
 Myself am something rough of mood. 
 And feel the fire of royal blood. 
 And therefore do not hold it good 
 
 To match in my degree. 
 Then, since coy maidens say my face 
 Is harsh, my form devoid of grace, 
 For a fair lineage to provide, 
 'Tis meet that my selected bride 
 In lineaments be fair; 
 I love thine well — till now I ne'er 
 Look'd patient on a face of fear. 
 But now that tremulous sob and tear 
 
 Become thy beauty rare. 
 One kiss — nay, damsel, coy it not ! — 
 And now go seek thy parents' cot. 
 And say, a bridegroom soon I come, 
 To woo my love, and bear her home." 
 
 Home sprimg the maid without a pause, 
 As leveret 'scaped from greyhound's jaws ; 
 But still she lock'd, howe'er distress'd. 
 The secret in her boding breast; 
 Dreading her sire, who oft forbade 
 Her steps should stray to distant glade. 
 Night came — to her accustom 'd nook 
 Her distaff aged Jutta took. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 359 
 
 And by the lamp's imperfect glow, 
 Rough Wulfstane trimm'd his shafts and 
 
 bow. 
 Sudden and clamorous, from the ground 
 Upstarted slumbering brach and hound; 
 Loud knocking next the lodge alarms, 
 And Wulfstane snatches at his arms, 
 When open flew the yielding door. 
 And that grim Warrior press'd the floor : — 
 
 " All peace be here. — What! none re- 
 plies? 
 Dismiss your fears, and your surprise. 
 'Tis I — that Maid hath told my tale, — 
 Or, trembler, did thy courage fail? 
 It recks not — It is I demand 
 Fair Metelill in marriage band; 
 Harold the Dauntless I, whose name 
 Is brave men's boast and caitiff's shame." 
 The parents sought each other's eyes, 
 With awe, resentment, and surprise: 
 Wulfstane, to quarrel prompt, began 
 The stranger's size and thews to scan; 
 But as he scann'd his courage sunk. 
 And from unequal strife he shrunk. 
 Then forth, to blight and blemish, flies 
 The harmful curse from Jutta's eyes; 
 Yet, fatal howsoe'er, the spell 
 On Harold innocently fell ! 
 And disappointment and amaze 
 Were in the witch's wilder'd gaze. 
 
 But soon the wit of woman woke. 
 And to the Warrior mild she spoke : — 
 " Her child was all too young." — " A toy. 
 The refuge of a maiden coy." — 
 Again, " A powerful baron's heir 
 Claims in her heart an interest fair." — 
 " A trifle — whisper in his ear. 
 That Harold is a suitor here ! " — 
 Baffled at length she sought delay: 
 " Would not the knight till morning stay? 
 Late was the hour — he there might rest 
 Till morn, their lodge's honor'd guest." 
 Such were her words — her craft might 
 
 cast, 
 Her honor'd guest should sleep his last: 
 "No, not to-night — -but soon," he swore, 
 "He would return, nor leave them more. ' ' 
 The threshold then his huge stride crost. 
 And soon he was iu darkness lost. 
 
 Appall'd a while the parents stood. 
 Then changed their fear to angry mood, 
 And foremost fell their words of ill 
 On unresisting Metelill; 
 Was she not caution'd and forbid, 
 Forewarn'd, implored, accused, and chid. 
 And must she still to greenwood roam. 
 To marshal such misfortune home? 
 "Hence, minion — to thy chamber hence — 
 There prudence learn and penitence." 
 She went — her lonely couch to steep 
 In tears which absent lovers weep; 
 Or if she gain'd a troubled sleep. 
 Fierce Harold's suit was still the theme 
 And terror of her feverish dream. 
 
 Scarce was she gone, her dame and sire 
 Upon each other bent their ire: — 
 " A woodsman thou, and hast a spear. 
 And couldst thou such an insult liear?" 
 Sullen he said : — "A man contends 
 With men, a witch with sprites and fiends; 
 Not to mere mortal wight belong 
 Yon gloomy brow and frame so strong; 
 But thou — is this thy promise fair. 
 That your Lord William, wealthy heir 
 To Ulrick, Baron of Witton-le-Wear, 
 Should Metelill to altar bear? 
 Do all the spells thou boast'st as thine 
 Serve but to slay some peasant's kine. 
 His grain in autumn's storms to steep, 
 Or thorough fog and fen to sweep. 
 And hag-ride some poor rustic's sleep? 
 Is such mean mischief worth the fame 
 Of sorceress and witch's name? 
 Fame, which with all men's wish con- 
 spires. 
 With thy deserts and my desires. 
 To damn thy corpse to penal fires? 
 Out on thee, witch ! aroint ! aroint ! 
 What now shall put thy schemes in joint? 
 What save this trusty arrow's point. 
 From the dark dingle when it flies. 
 And he who meets it gasps and dies." 
 
 Stern she replied: — "I will not wage 
 War with thy folly or thy rage; 
 But ere the morrow's sun be low, 
 Wulfstane of Rookhope, thou shaft know. 
 If I can venge me on a foe. 
 
36o 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Believe the while, that whatsoe'er 
 
 I spoke, in ire, of bow and spear, 
 
 It is not Harold's destiny 
 
 The death of pilfer'd deer to die. 
 
 But he, and thou, and yon pale moon, 
 
 (That shall be yet more pallid soon. 
 
 Before she sink behind the dell,) 
 
 Thou, she, and Harold too, shall tell 
 
 What Jutta knows of charm or spell." 
 
 Thus nnittcring, to the door she bent 
 
 Her wayward steps, and forth she went, 
 
 And left alone the moody sire, 
 
 To cherish or to slake his lire. 
 
 Far faster than bclong'd to age 
 
 Has Jutta made her pilgrimage. 
 
 A priest has met her as she pass'd. 
 
 And cross'd himself and stood aghast. 
 
 She traced a hamlet — not a cur 
 
 His throat would ope, his foot would stir; 
 
 By crouch, by trembling, and by groan. 
 
 They made her hated presence known ! 
 
 But when she trode the sable fell. 
 
 Were wilder sounds her way to tell, — 
 
 For far was heard the fox's yell. 
 
 The black-cock waked and faintly crew, 
 
 Scream'd o'er the moss the scaredcurlew; 
 
 Where o'er the cataract the oak 
 
 Lay slant, was heard the raven's croak; 
 
 The mountain-cat, which sought his prey. 
 
 Glared, scream'd, and started from her 
 
 way. 
 Such music cheer'd her journey lone 
 To the deep dell and rocking stone; 
 There, with unhallow'd hymn of praise. 
 She called a God of heathen days. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 " From thy Pomeranian throne, 
 Hewn in rock of living stone. 
 Where, to thy godhead faithful yet, 
 Bend Eslhonian, Finn, T^v\^^ Lett, 
 And their swords in vengeance whet. 
 That shall make thine altars wet. 
 Wet and red for ages more 
 With the Christians' hated gore, — 
 Hear me ! Sovereign of the Rock, 
 Hear me ! mighty Zernebock ! * 
 
 * Zernebock, Clurny Bog, Slavonic for Black 
 Go4. 
 
 " Mightiest of the mighty known, 
 Here thy wonders have been shown; 
 Hundred tribes in various tongue 
 Oft have here thy praises sung; 
 Down that stone with Runic seam'd, 
 Hundred victims' blood hath stream'd I 
 Now one woman comes alone, 
 And but wets it with her own. 
 The last, the feeblest of thy flock, — 
 Hear — and be present, Zernebock! 
 
 "Hark! becomes! the night-blast cold 
 Wilder sweeps along the wold; 
 The cloudless moon grows dark and dim. 
 And bristling hair and quaking limb 
 Proclaim the Master Demon nigh, — 
 Those who view his form shall die ! 
 \n ! I stoop anfl veil my head; 
 Thou who ridest the tempest dread, 
 Shaking hill and rending oak — 
 Spare me ! spare me ! Zernebock. 
 
 " He comes not yet ! shall cold delay 
 Thy votaress at her need repay? 
 Thou — shall I call thee god or fiend ? — 
 Let others on thy mood attend 
 With prayer and ritual — Jutta's arms 
 Are necromantic words and charms; 
 Mine is the spt-ll, that, utter'd once, 
 Shall wake Thy Master from his trance. 
 Shake his red mansion-house of pain, 
 And burst his seven - times - twisted 
 
 chain ! — 
 So! com'st thou ere the spell is spoke? 
 I own thy presence, Zernebock." — 
 
 " Daughter of dust," the Deep Voice 
 
 said, 
 — Shook while it spoke the vale for 
 
 dread, 
 Rock'd on the base that massive stone. 
 The Evil Deity to own, — 
 " Daughter of dust ! not mine the power 
 Thou seek'st on Harold's fatal hour. 
 'Twixt heaven and hell there is a strife 
 Waged for his soul and for his life, 
 And fain would we the combat win. 
 And snatch him in his hour of sin. 
 There is a star now rising red, 
 That threats him with an influence dread : 
 Woman, thine arts of malice whet, 
 I'o use the space before it set. 
 
Canto HI. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 361 
 
 Involve him with the Church in strife, 
 Push on adventurous chance his life; 
 Ourself will in the hour of need. 
 As best we may thy counsels speed." 
 So ceased the Voice; for seven leagues 
 
 round 
 Each hamlet started at the sound; 
 But slept again, as slowly died 
 Its thunders on the hill's brown side. 
 
 " And is this all," said Jutta stern, 
 "That thou canst teach and I can learn? 
 Hence ! to (he land of fog and waste. 
 There fittest is thine influence placed, 
 Thou powerless, sluggish deity ! 
 But ne'er shall Briton bend the knee 
 Again before so poor a god." 
 She struck the altar with her rod: 
 Sliglu was the touch, as when at need 
 A damsel stirs her tardy steed; 
 But to the blow the stone gave place, 
 And, starting from its balanced base, 
 RoU'd thundering down the moonlight 
 
 dell, — 
 Re-echo'd moorland, rock, and fell; 
 Into the moonlight tarn it dash'd. 
 Their shores tlic sounding surges lash'd. 
 
 And there was ripple, rage, and foam; 
 But on that lake, so dark and lone. 
 Placid and pale the moonbeam shone 
 
 As Jutta hied her home. 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 I. 
 
 Gray towers of Durham ! there was 
 once a time 
 
 I view'd your battlements with such 
 vague hope, 
 
 As brightens life in its first dawning 
 prime ; 
 
 Not that e'en then came within fancy's 
 scope 
 
 A vision vain of mitre, throne, or cope; 
 
 Yet, gazing on the venerable hall, 
 
 Her flattering dreams would in per- 
 spective ope 
 
 Some reverend room, some preben- 
 dary's stall, — 
 And thus Hope me deceived as she de- 
 ceiveth all. 
 
 Well yet I love thy mix'd and massive 
 
 piles. 
 Half church of God, half castle 'gainst 
 
 the Scot, 
 And long to roam these venerable 
 
 aisles, 
 With records stored of deeds long 
 
 since forgot; 
 There might I share my Surtees'* hap- 
 pier lot. 
 Who leaves at will his patrimonial field 
 1*o ransack every crjpt and hallow'd 
 
 spot, 
 And from oblivion rend the spoils they 
 
 yield. 
 Restoring priestly chant and clang of 
 
 knightly shield. 
 
 Vain is the wish — since other cares 
 
 demand 
 Each vacant hour, and in another 
 
 clime; 
 But still that northern harp invites my 
 
 hand. 
 Which tells the wonder of thine earlier 
 
 time ; 
 And fain its numbers would I now 
 
 command 
 To paint the beauties of that dawning 
 
 fair. 
 When Harold, gazing from its lofty 
 
 stand. 
 Upon the western heights of Beaure- 
 
 paire. 
 Saw Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt by 
 
 winding Wear. 
 
 Fair on the half-seen stream the sun- 
 beams danced. 
 
 Betraying it beneath the woodland 
 bank. 
 
 And fair between the Gothic turrets 
 glanced 
 
 Broad lights, and shadows fell on front 
 and flank, 
 
 And girdled in the massive donjon 
 Keep, 
 
 And from their circuit peal'd o'er bush 
 and bank 
 
 * Robert Surtees of Mainsforth, F.S. A., author 
 of " The History and Antiquities of the County 
 Palatine of Durfiam." 
 
362 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 The matin bell with summons long and 
 deep, 
 And echo answer'd still with long-re- 
 sounding sweep. 
 
 The morning mists rose from the ground, 
 Each merry bird awaken'd round, 
 
 As if in revelry; 
 Afar the bugles' clanging sound 
 Call'd to the chase the lagging hound; 
 
 The gale breathed soft and free, 
 And seem'd to linger on its way 
 To catch fresh odors from the spray, 
 And waved it in its wanton play 
 
 So light and gamesomely. 
 The scenes which morning beams reveal. 
 Its sounds to hear, its gales to feel 
 III all their fragrance round him steal. 
 It melted Har(jld's heart of steel, 
 
 And, hardly wotting why, 
 lie doff'd his helmet's gloomy pride, 
 And hung it on a tree beside. 
 
 Laid mace and falchion by, 
 And on the greensward sate him down, 
 And from his dark habitual frown 
 
 Relax'd his rugged brow — 
 Whoever hath the doubtful task 
 From that stern Dane a boon to ask, 
 
 Were wise to ask it now. 
 
 His place I)eside young Gunnar took, 
 And mark'd his master's softening 
 
 look. 
 And in his eye's dark mirror spied 
 The gloom of stormy thoughts subside. 
 And cautious watch'd the fittest tide 
 
 To speak a warning word. 
 So when the torrent's billows shrink, 
 The timid pilgrim on the brink 
 Waits long to see them wave and 
 sink. 
 
 Ere he dare brave the ford, 
 And often after doubtful pause, 
 His step advances or withdraws: 
 Fearful to move the slumbering ire 
 Of his stern lord thus stood the s(|uire, 
 
 Till Harold raised his eye. 
 That glanced as when athwart the 
 
 shroud 
 Of the dispersing tempest-cloud 
 
 The bursting sunbeams fly; — 
 
 "Arouse thee, son of Ermengarde, 
 Offspring of prophetess and bard ! 
 Take harp and greet this lovely prime 
 With some high strain of Runic rhyme. 
 Strong, deep, and powerful ! I'eai it round 
 Like that loud bell's sonorous sound, 
 Yet wild by fits, as when the lay 
 Of bird and bugle hail the day. 
 Such was my grandsire Eric's sport. 
 When dawn gleam'd on his martial court, 
 Heymar the Scald, with harp's high 
 
 sound, 
 Summon'd the chiefs who slept around; 
 Couch'd on the spoils of wolf and bear, 
 They roused like lions from their lair. 
 Then rush'd in emulation forth 
 To enhance the glories of the North. — 
 Proud Eric, mightiest of thy race. 
 Where is thy shadowy resting place? 
 In wild Valhalla hast thou cjuaff'd 
 From foeman's skull metheglin draught, 
 Or wanderest where thy cairn was jiiled 
 To frown o'er oceans wide and wild? 
 Or have the milder Christians given 
 Thy refuge in their peaceful heaven? 
 where'er thou art, to thee are known 
 Our toils endured, our trophies won. 
 Our wars, our wanderings, and our woes.'' 
 He ceased, and Gunnar's song arose: — 
 
 VI. 
 SONG. 
 
 " Hawk and osprey screamed for joy 
 O'er the beetling cliffs of Hoy, 
 Crimson foam the beach o'erspread. 
 The heath was dyed with darker red, 
 When o'er Eric, Inguar's son, 
 Dane and Northman jiiled the stone; 
 Singing wild the war-song stern: — 
 ' Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn ! ' 
 
 " Where eddying currents foam and boil 
 By Bersa's burgh and Graemsay's isle. 
 The seaman sees a martial form 
 Half-mingled with the mist and storm. 
 In anxious awe he liears away 
 To moor his bark in .Stromna's bay, J 
 
 And murmurs from the l)ounding stern : — 1 
 ' Rest thee. Dweller of the Cairn ! ' 
 
 " What cares disturb the mighty dead? 
 Each honor'd rite was duly paid; 
 
Canto III. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 36J 
 
 No daring hand thy helm unlaced, 
 
 Thy sword, thy shield, were near thee 
 
 placed, — ■ 
 Thy flinty couch no tear profaned, 
 Without, with hostile blood 'twas stain'd; 
 Within, 'twas lined with moss and fern ; — 
 Then rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn ! " 
 
 "He may not rest: from realms afar 
 Comes voice of battle and of war. 
 Of conquest wrought with bloody hand 
 On Carmel's cliffs and Jordan's strand, 
 When Odin's warlike son could daunt 
 The turban'd race of Termagaunt." — 
 
 " Peace," said the Knight, " the noble 
 
 Scald 
 Our warlike fathers' deeds recall'd. 
 Hut never strove to soothe the son 
 With talcs of what himself had done. 
 At Odin's board the bard sits high 
 Whose harp ne'er stoop'd to flattery; 
 I!ut highest he whose daring lay 
 I lath dared unwelcome trutiis to say." 
 With doubtful smile young Gunnar eyed 
 His master's looks, and naught replied — - 
 Hut well that smile his master led 
 To construe what he left unsaid : — 
 " Is it to me, thou timid youth. 
 Thou fear'st to speak unwelcome truth? 
 My soul no more thy censure grieves 
 Than frosts rob laurels of their leaves. 
 Say on — and yet — - beware the rude 
 And wild distemper of my blood; 
 Loth were I that mine ire should wrong 
 The youth that bore my shield so long. 
 And wh<j in service constant still, 
 Though weak in frame, art strong in 
 
 will." — 
 " Oh ! " quoth the page, " even there de- 
 pends 
 My counsel — there my warning tends — 
 Oft seems as of my master's breast 
 Some demon were the sudden guest; 
 Then at the first misconstrued word 
 His hands is on the mace and sword. 
 From her firm seat his wisdom driven. 
 His life to countless dangers given. — 
 O ! would that Gunnar could suffice 
 To be the fiend's last sacrifice. 
 So that, when glutted \sith my gore. 
 He fled and tempted thee no more ! " 
 
 Then waved his hand, and shook his head 
 The impatient Dane, while thus he 
 
 said: — 
 " Profane not, youth — it is not thine 
 To judge the spirit of our line — 
 The bold Berserkar's rage divine, 
 Through whose inspiring, deeds are 
 
 wrought 
 Past human strength and human thought. 
 When full upon his gloomy soul 
 The champion feels the influence roll. 
 He swims the lake, he leaps the wall — 
 Heeds not the depth, nor plumbs the 
 
 fall — 
 Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes 
 Singly against a host of foes; 
 Their spears he holds like wither'd reeds. 
 Their mail like maiden's silken weeds; 
 One 'gainst a hundred will he strive. 
 Take countless wounds and yet survive. 
 Then rush the eagles to his cry 
 Of slaughter and of victory, — , 
 
 And blood he quaffs like Odin's bowl, 
 Deep drinks his sword, — deep drinks his 
 
 soul; 
 And all that meet him in his ire 
 He gives to ruin, rout, and fire; 
 Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den. 
 And couches till he's man agen. — 
 Thou know'st the signs of look and limb, 
 When 'gins that rage to overbrim — 
 Thou know'st when I am moved, and 
 
 why; 
 And when thou seest me roll mine eye. 
 Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot, 
 Regard thy safety and be mute; 
 But else speak lx)ldly out whate'er 
 Is fitting that a knight should hear. 
 I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power 
 Upon my dark and sullen hour; — 
 So Christian monks are wont to say 
 Demons of old were charmed away; 
 Then fear not I will rashly deem 
 111 of thy speech, whate'er the theme." 
 
 As down some strait in doubt and dread 
 The watchful pilot drops the lead. 
 And, cautious in the midst to steer. 
 The shoaling channel sounds with fear; 
 So, lest on dangerous ground he swerved. 
 The Page his master's brow observed, 
 
364 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 I'ausing at intervals to fling 
 
 His hand o'er the melodious string, 
 
 And to his moody breast apply 
 
 The soothing charm of harmony. 
 
 While hinted half, and half exprest. 
 
 This warning song convey 'd the rest: — 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 " 111 fares the bark with tackle riven. 
 And ill when on the breakers driven, — 
 111 when the storm-sprite shrieks in air, 
 And the scared mermaid tears her hair; 
 But worse when on her helm the hand 
 Of some false traitor holds command. 
 
 " 111 fares the fainting Palmer, placed 
 Mid Hebron's rocks or Rana's waste, — 
 111 when the scorching sun is high, 
 And the expected font is dry, — 
 Worse when his guide o'er sand and heath, 
 The barbarous Copt, has plann'd his 
 death. 
 
 3- 
 
 " 111 fares the Knight with buckler cleft, 
 And ill when of his helm liereft, — 
 111 when his steed to earth is flung. 
 Or from his grasp his falchion wrung; 
 But worse, if instant ruin token. 
 When he lists rede by woman spoken." — 
 
 "How now, fond boy? — Canst thou 
 
 think ill," 
 Said Harold, <'of fair Metelill?" — 
 " She may be fair," the Page replied, 
 
 As through the strings he ranged, — 
 '* She may be fair; but yet," he cried, 
 
 And then the strain he changed, — 
 
 " She may be fair," he sang, " but yet 
 
 Far fairer have I seen 
 Than she, for all her locks of jet, 
 
 And eyes so dark and sheen. 
 Were I a Danish knight in arms, 
 
 As one day I may be, 
 My heart should own no foreign 
 charms, — 
 
 A Danish maid for me. 
 
 " I love my father's northern land, 
 
 Where the dark pine-trees grow. 
 And the bold Baltic's echoing strand 
 
 Looks o'er each grassy oe.* 
 I love to mark the lingering sun, 
 
 From Dennjark loth to go, 
 And leaving on the billows bright. 
 To cheer the short-lived summer nigiil, 
 
 A path of ruddy glow. 
 
 " But most northern maid I love. 
 
 With breast like Denmark's snow, 
 And form as fair as Denmark's pine. 
 Who loves with purple heath to twine 
 
 Her locks of sunny glow; 
 And sweetly blends that shade of gold 
 
 With the cheek's rosy hue, 
 And faith might for her mirror hold 
 
 That eye of matchless blue. 
 
 " 'Tis hers the manly sports to love 
 
 That southern maidens fear. 
 To bend the bow by stream and grove, 
 
 And lift the hunter's spear. 
 She can her chosen champion's flight 
 
 With eye undazzled see. 
 Clasp him victorious from the strife. 
 Or on his corpse yield up her life, — 
 
 A Danish maid for me ! " 
 
 Then smiled the Dane: — "Thou canst 
 
 so well 
 The virtues of our maidens tell. 
 Half could I wish my choice had been 
 Blue eyes, and hair of golden sheen. 
 And lofty soul; — yet what of ill 
 Hast thou to charge on Metelill? " — 
 "Nothing on her," young Gunnar said, 
 " But her base sire's ignoble trade. 
 Her mother, too — the general fame 
 Hath given to Jutta evil name, 
 And in her gray eye is a flame 
 Art cannot hide, nor fear can tame. — 
 That sordid woodman's peasant cot 
 Twicehavethinehonor'd footsteps sought, 
 And twice return'd with such ill rede 
 As sent thee on some desperate deed." — 
 
 * Oe, island. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 3^5 
 
 "Thou errest; Jutta wisely said. 
 
 He that comes suitor to a maid, 
 
 Ere link'd in marriage, should provide 
 
 Lands and a dwelling for his bride — 
 
 My father's, by the Tyne and Wear, 
 
 I have reclaim'd." — " O, all too dear. 
 
 And all too dangerous the prize, 
 
 E'en were it won," young Gunnar 
 
 cries; — 
 " And then this Jutta's fresh device, 
 ihat thou shouldst seek, a heathen Dane, 
 I'rom Durham's priests a boon to gain, 
 When thou hast left their vassals slain 
 In their own halls! " — Flush'd Harold's 
 
 eye, 
 Thunder'd his voice: — "False Page, 
 
 you lie ! 
 The castle, hall and tower, is mine, 
 Kuilt liy old Witikind on Tyne. 
 The wild-cat will defend his den, 
 F"ights for her nest the timid wren; 
 And think'st thou I'll forego my right 
 For dread of monk or monkish knight? 
 Up and away, that deepening bell 
 Doth of the Bishop's conclave tell. 
 Thither will I, in manner due, 
 As Jutta bade, my claim to sue; 
 And, if to right me they are loth, 
 Then woe to church and chapter both ! " 
 Now shift the scene, and let the curtain 
 
 fall, 
 And our next entry be Saint Cuthbert's 
 
 hall. 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 I. 
 Full many a bard hath sung the solemn 
 
 gloom 
 Of the long Gothic aisle and stone- 
 
 ribb'd roof, 
 O'er-canopying shrine, and gorgeous 
 
 tomb, 
 Carved screen, and altar glimmering far 
 
 aloof, 
 And blending with the shade, — a 
 
 matchless proof 
 Of high devotion, which hath now 
 
 wax'd cold; 
 Yet legends say, that Luxury's brute 
 
 hoof 
 
 Intruded oft within such sacred fold. 
 Like step of Bel's false priest, track'd in 
 his fame of old. 
 
 Well pleased am I, howe'er, that when 
 
 the rout 
 Of our rude neighbors whilome deign'd 
 
 to come, 
 Uncall'd, and eke unwelcome, to sweep 
 
 out 
 And cleanse our chancel from the rags 
 
 of Rome, 
 They spoke not on our ancient fame 
 
 the doom 
 To which their bigot zeal gave o'er 
 
 their own. 
 But spared the marlyr'<l saint and 
 
 storied tomb, 
 Tho' papal miracles had graced the 
 
 stone. 
 And tho' the aisles still loved the organ's 
 
 swelling tone. 
 
 And deem not, tho' 'tis now my part 
 
 to paint 
 A Prelate sway'd by love of power and 
 
 gold. 
 That ail who wore the mitre of our Saint 
 Like to ambitious Aldingar I hold; 
 Since both in modern times and days of 
 
 old 
 It sate on those whose virtues might 
 
 atone 
 Their predecessors' frailties trebly told; 
 Matthew and Morton we as such may 
 
 own — 
 And such (if fame speak truth) the 
 
 honor'd Barrington. 
 
 But now to earlier and to ruder times, 
 As subject meet, I tune my rugged 
 
 rhymes. 
 Telling how fairly the chapter was met. 
 And rood and Iwoks in seemly order 
 
 set; 
 Huge brass-clasp'd volumes, which the 
 
 hand 
 Of studious priest but rarely scann'd. 
 Now on fair carved desk display'd, 
 'Twas theirs the solemn scene to aid. 
 O'erheadwithmany ascutcheongraced, 
 .'^nd quaint devices interlaced. 
 
3^6 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 A labyrinth of crossing rows, 
 
 The roof in lessening arches shows; 
 
 Beneath its shade placed proud and 
 
 high, 
 With footstool and with canopy, 
 Sate Aldingar, — and prelate ne'er 
 More haughty graced Saint Cuthbert's 
 
 chair; 
 Canons and deacons were placed below. 
 In due degree and lengthen 'd row. 
 Unmoved and silent each sat there, 
 Like image, in his oaken chair; 
 Nor head, nor hand, nor foot they 
 
 stirr'd. 
 Nor lock of hair, nor tress of beard; 
 And of their eyes severe alone 
 The twinkle show'd they were not 
 
 stone. 
 
 The Prelate was to speech address'd, 
 Each head sunk reverent on each 
 
 breast ; 
 But ere his voice was heard — without 
 Arose a wild tumultuous shout, 
 Offspring of wonder mix'd with fear. 
 Such as in crowded streets we hear 
 Hailing the flames, that, bursting out. 
 Attract yet scare the rabble rout. 
 Ere it had ceased, a giant hand 
 Shook oaken door and iron band, 
 Till oak and iron both gave way, 
 Clash'd the long bolts, the hinges bray. 
 
 And, ere upon angel or saint they can 
 call, 
 
 Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst of 
 the hall. 
 
 " Now save ye, my masters, both rochet 
 
 and rood. 
 From Bishop with mitre to Deacon with 
 
 hood ! 
 For liere stands Count Harold, old Witi- 
 
 kind's son, 
 Come to sue for the lands which his an- 
 cestors won." 
 The Prelate look'd round him with sore 
 
 troubled eye. 
 Unwilling to grant, yet afraid to deny; 
 While each Canon and Deacon who hoard 
 
 the Dane speak, 
 To be safely at home would have fasted 
 
 a week 
 
 Then Aldingar roused him, and answer'd 
 
 again : — 
 " Thou suest for a boon which thou canst 
 
 not obtain; 
 The Church hath no fiefs for an uncliris- 
 
 ten'd Dane. 
 Thy father was wise, and his treasure hath 
 
 given. 
 That the priests of a chantry might hymn 
 
 him to heaven; 
 And the fiefs which whilome he possess'd 
 
 as his due, 
 Have lapsed to the Church, and been 
 
 granted anew 
 To Anthony Conyers and Albcric Vere, 
 For the service Saint Cuthbert's blest ban 
 
 ner to bear, 
 When the bands of the North come to foray 
 
 the Wear; 
 Then disturb not our conclave with wran- 
 gling or blame. 
 But in peace and in patience pass hence 
 
 as ye came." 
 
 V. 
 
 Loud laugh'dthestern Pagan : — "They're 
 
 free from the care 
 Of fief and of service, both Conyers and 
 
 Vere, — 
 Six feet of your chancel is all they will 
 
 need, 
 A buckler of stone and a corslet of lead. — 
 Ho, Gunnar ! — the tokens;" — and, 
 
 sever'd anew, 
 A head and a hand on the altar he 
 
 threw. 
 Then shudder'd with terror both Canon 
 
 and Monk, 
 They knew the glazed eye and the coun- 
 tenance shrunk. 
 And of Anthony Conyers the half-grizzled 
 
 hair, 
 And the scar on the hand of Sir Alberic 
 
 Vere. 
 There was not a churchman or priest that 
 
 was there, 
 But grew pale at the sight, and betook 
 
 him to prayer. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Count Harold laugh 'd at their looks of 
 
 fear : — ■ 
 " Was this the hand should your banner 
 
 bear? 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 i^ 
 
 Was that the head should wear the 
 
 casque 
 III liattle at the Church's task? 
 Was it to such you gave the place 
 Of Harold with the heavy mace? 
 Find me between the Wear and Tyne 
 A knight will wield this club of mine, — 
 Give him my (lefs, and I will say 
 There's wit beneath the cowl of gray." 
 He raised it, rough with many a stain, 
 Caught from crush'd skull and spouting 
 
 brain ! 
 He vvheel'd it that it shrilly sung, 
 And the aisles echo'd as it swung, 
 Then dash'd it down with sheer descent. 
 And split King Osric's monument.— 
 " How like ye this music ! How trow ye 
 
 the hand 
 That can wield such a mace may be reft 
 
 of its land? 
 No answer ? — I spare ye a space to 
 
 agree, 
 And Saint Cuthbert inspire you, a saint if 
 
 he be. 
 Ten strides through your chancel, ten 
 
 strokes on your bell, 
 And again I am with you — grave fathers, 
 
 farewell." 
 
 VII. 
 
 He turn'd from their presence, he clash'd 
 
 the oak door. 
 And the clang of his stride died away on 
 
 the floor; 
 And his head from his lx)Som the Prelate 
 
 uprears 
 With a ghost-seer's look when the ghost 
 
 disappears. 
 " Ye priests of Saint Cuthbert, now give 
 
 me your rede, 
 For never of counsel had Bishop more 
 
 need ! 
 Were the arch-fiend incarnate in flesh and 
 
 in bone, 
 The language, the look, and the laugh 
 
 were his own. 
 In the bounds of Saint Cuthbert there is 
 
 not a knight 
 Dare confront in our quarrel yon goblin 
 
 in fight; 
 Then rede me aright to his claim to 
 
 reply, 
 'Tis unlawful to grant, and 'tis death to 
 
 deny." 
 
 On venison and malmsie that morning 
 
 had fed 
 The Cellarer Vinsauf — 'twas thus that 
 
 he said : — 
 " Delay till to-morrow the Chapter's 
 
 reply; 
 Let the feast be spread fair, and the wine 
 
 be pour'd high : 
 If he's mortal he drinks, — if he drinks, 
 
 he is ours — 
 His bracelets of iron, — his bed in our 
 
 towers." 
 This man had a laughing eye, 
 Trust not, friends, when such you spyV, 
 A beaker's depth he well could drain. 
 Revel, sport, and jest amain — 
 The haunch of the deer and the grape's 
 
 bright dye ".'.. 
 
 Never bard loved them better than I ; 
 But sooner than Vinsauf (rll'd me my 
 
 wine, 
 Pass'd me his jest, and laugh'd at mine. 
 Though the buck were of Bearpark, of 
 
 Bordeaux the vine. 
 With the dullest hermit I'd rather dine 
 On an oaken cake and a draught of the 
 
 Tyne. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Walwayn the leech spoke next. He 
 
 knew 
 Each plant that loves the sun and dew. 
 But special those whose juice can gain 
 Dominion o'er the blood and brain; 
 The peasant who saw him by pale moon- 
 beam 
 Gathering such herbs by bank and stream, 
 Deem'd his thin form and soundless tread 
 W^ere those of wanderer from the dead. — 
 "Vinsauf, thy wine," he said, "hath 
 
 power, 
 Our gyves are heavy, strong our tower; 
 Yet three drops from this flask of mine, 
 More strong than dungeons, gyves, or 
 
 wine. 
 Shall give him prison under ground 
 More dark, more narrow, more profound. 
 Short rede, good rede, let Harold have — 
 A dog's death, and a heathen's grave." 
 I have lain on a sick man's bed. 
 Watching for hours for the leech's tread, 
 As if I deem'd that his presence alone 
 Were of power to bid my pain begone; 
 
368 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canto IV, 
 
 I have listed his words of comfort 
 given, 
 
 As if to oracles from heaven; 
 
 I have counted his steps from my cham- 
 ber door, 
 
 And bless'd them when they were heard 
 no more; — 
 
 But sooner than Walwayn my sick couch 
 should nigh, 
 
 My choice were, by leech-craft unaided, 
 to die. 
 
 " Such service done in fervent zeal 
 The Church may pardon and conceal," 
 The doubtful Prelate said, " but ne'er 
 The counsel ere the act should hear. — 
 Anselm of Jarrow, advise us now. 
 The stamp of wisdom is on thy brow; 
 Thy days, thy nights, in cloister pent. 
 Are still to mystic learning lent; — 
 Anselm of Jarrow, in thee is my hope, 
 Thou well mayst give counsel to Prelate 
 or Pope." 
 
 XI. 
 
 Answer'd the Prior : — " 'Tis wisdom's 
 
 use 
 Still to delay what we dare not refuse : 
 Ere granting the boon he comes hither to 
 
 ask. 
 Shape for the giant gigantic task; 
 Let us see how a step so sounding can 
 
 tread 
 In paths of darkness, danger, and dread; 
 He may not, he will not, impugn our 
 
 decree. 
 That calls but for proof of his chivalry; 
 And were Guy to return, or Sir Bevis the 
 
 Strong, 
 Our wilds have adventure might cumber 
 
 them long — 
 The Castle of Seven Shields" — " Kind 
 
 Anselm, no more ! 
 The step of the Pagan approaches the 
 
 door." 
 The churchmen were hush'd. In his 
 
 mantle of skin, 
 With his mace on his shoulder. Count 
 
 Harold strode in. 
 There was foam on his lips, there was fire 
 
 in his eye, 
 For, chafed by attendance, his fury was 
 
 nigh. 
 
 " Ho ! Bishop," he said, "dost thou grant 
 
 me my claim? 
 Or must I assert it by falchion and flame ?" 
 
 "On thy suit, gallant Harold, "the Bishop 
 replied. 
 
 In accents which trembled, "we may not 
 decide, 
 
 Until proof of your strength and your 
 valor we saw — 
 
 'Tis not that we doubt them, but such is 
 the law." — 
 
 " And would you, Sir Prelate, have Har- 
 old make sport 
 
 For the cowls and the shavelings that herd 
 in thy court ? 
 
 Say what shall he do? — From the shrine 
 shall he tear 
 
 The lead bier of thy patron, and heave i( 
 in air. 
 
 And thro' the long chancel make Cuth. 
 bert take wing. 
 
 With the speed of a bullet dismiss'd from 
 the sling? " — 
 
 " Nay, spare such probation," the Cel- 
 larer said, 
 
 " From the mouth of our minstrels thy 
 task shall be read. 
 
 While the wine sparkles high in the gob- 
 let of gold. 
 
 And the revel is loudest, thy task shall 
 be told; 
 
 And thyself, gallant Harold, shall, hear- 
 ing it, tell 
 
 That the Bishop, his cowls, and his shave- 
 lings, meant well." 
 
 Loud revell'd the guests, and the goblets 
 
 loud rang. 
 But louder the minstrel, Hugh Mcneville, 
 
 sang; 
 And Harold, the hurry and pride of whose 
 
 soul, 
 E'en when verging to fury, own'd music's 
 
 control. 
 Still bent on the harper his broad sable eye. 
 And often untasted the goblet pass'd by; 
 Than wine, or than wassail, to him was 
 
 more dear 
 The minstrel's high tale of enchantment 
 
 to hear; 
 
iTanto IV. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 369 
 
 And the Bishop that day might of Vinsauf 
 complain 
 
 That his art had but wasted his wine- 
 casks in vain. 
 
 XIV. 
 THE CASTLE OF THE SEVEN SHIELDS. 
 
 ./ Ballad. 
 The Druid Urien liad daughters seven, 
 Their skill could call the moon from 
 
 heaven: 
 So fair their forms and so high their 
 
 fame, 
 That seven proud kings for their suitors 
 
 came. 
 
 King Mador and Rhys came from Powis 
 and Wales, 
 
 Unshorn were their hair, and unpruned 
 were their nails; 
 
 From Strath-Clwyde was Ewain, and 
 Ewain was lame. 
 
 And the red-bearded Donald from Gallo- 
 way came. 
 
 Lot, King of Lodon, was hunchback'd 
 from youth; 
 
 Dunmail of Cumbria had never a tooth; 
 
 Hut Adolf of Bambrough, Northumber- 
 land's heir. 
 
 Was gay and was gallant, was young and 
 was fair. 
 
 There was strife 'mongst the sisters, for 
 
 each one would have 
 For husband King Adolf, the gallant and 
 
 brave ; 
 And envy bred hate, and hate urged them 
 
 to blows. 
 When the firm earth was cleft, and the 
 
 Arch-fiend arose ! 
 
 He swore to the maidens their wish to 
 fulfil — 
 
 They swore to the foe they would work 
 by his will. 
 
 A spindle and distaff to each hath he given, 
 
 " Now hearken my spell," said the Out- 
 cast of Heaven. 
 
 " Ye shall ply these spindles at midnight 
 
 hour. 
 And for every spindle shall rise si tower. 
 
 Where the right shall be feeble, the wrong 
 shall have power. 
 
 And there shall ye dwell with your para- 
 mour." 
 
 Beneath the pale moonlight they sate on 
 
 the wold. 
 And the rhymes which they chanted must 
 
 never be told; 
 And as the black wool from the distaff 
 
 they sped. 
 With blood from' their bosom they mois- 
 
 ten'd the thread. 
 
 As light danced the spindles beneath the 
 
 cold gleam. 
 The castle arose like the birth of a 
 
 dream — 
 The seven towers ascended like mist from 
 
 the ground. 
 Seven portals defend them, seven ditches 
 
 surround. 
 
 Within that dread castle seven monarchs 
 were wed. 
 
 But six of the seven ere the morning lay 
 dead; 
 
 With their eyes all on fire, and their 
 daggers all red, 
 
 Seven damsels surround the Northum- 
 brian's bed. 
 
 " Six kingly bridegrooms to death we 
 
 have done. 
 Six gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath 
 
 won. 
 Six lovely brides all his pleasures to do. 
 Or the bed of the seventh will be hus- 
 
 bandless too." 
 
 Well chanced it that Adolf the night when 
 he wed. 
 
 Had confess'd and had sain'd him ere 
 boune to his bed; 
 
 He sprung from the couch and the broad- 
 sword he drew. 
 
 And there the seven daughters of Urien 
 he slew. 
 
 The gate of the castle he Ijolted and 
 
 seal'd. 
 And hung o'er each arch-stone a crown 
 
 and a shield ! 
 
67<^ 
 
 Harold the dauntless. 
 
 Ganto V 
 
 To the cells of Saint Dunstan then wended 
 
 his way, 
 And died in his cloister an anchorite 
 
 gray. 
 
 Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle lie 
 
 stow'd, 
 The foul fiends brood o'er them like raven 
 
 and toad. 
 Whoever shall guesten these chambers 
 
 within, 
 From curfew to matins, that treasure 
 
 shall win. 
 
 But manhood grows faint as the world 
 
 waxes old ! 
 There lives not in Britain a champion so 
 
 bold, 
 So dauntless of heart, and so prudent of 
 
 brain, 
 As to dare the adventure that treasure to 
 
 gain. 
 
 The waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave 
 with the rye. 
 
 Before the rude Scots shall Northumber- 
 land fly, 
 
 And the flint cliffs of Bambro' shall melt 
 in the sun, 
 
 Before that adventure be perill'd and won. 
 
 " And is this my probation? " wild Har- 
 old he said, 
 
 " Within a lone castle to press a lone 
 bed? — 
 
 Good even, my Lord Bishop, — Saint 
 Cuthbert to borrow. 
 
 The Castle of Seven Shields receives me 
 to-morrow." 
 
 CANTO FIFTH, 
 I. 
 Denmark's sage courtier to her 
 
 princely youth. 
 Granting his cloud an ouzel or a whale. 
 Spoke, though unwittingly, a partial 
 
 truth; 
 For Fantasy embroiders Nature's veil. 
 The tints of ruddy eve, or dawning 
 
 pale, 
 
 Of the swart thunder-cloud, or silver 
 haze. 
 
 Are but the ground-work of the rich 
 detail. 
 
 Which Fantasy with pencil wild por- 
 trays. 
 Blending what seems and is, in the rapt 
 muser's gaze. 
 
 Nor are the stubborn forms of earth 
 and stone 
 
 Less to the Sorceress's empire given; 
 
 For not with unsubstantial hues alone. 
 
 Caught from the varying surge, or 
 vacant heaven, 
 
 From bursting sunbeam or from flash- 
 ing levin. 
 
 She limns her pictures: on the earth, 
 as air. 
 
 Arise her castles, and her car is driven; 
 
 And never gazed the eye on scene so fair, 
 But of its boasted charms gave Fancy 
 half the share. 
 
 Up a wild pass went Harold, bent to 
 prove, 
 
 Hugh Meneville, the adventure of thy 
 lay; 
 
 Gunnar pursued his steps in faith and 
 love. 
 
 Ever companion of his master's way. 
 
 Midward their path, a rock of granite 
 gray 
 
 From the adjoining cliff had made de- 
 scent, — 
 
 A barren mass — yet with her droop- 
 ing spray 
 
 Had a young birch-tree crown'd its 
 battlement. 
 Twisting her fibrous roots through cranny, 
 flaw, and rent. 
 
 This rock and tree could Guniini's 
 thought engage 
 
 Till F"ancy brought the tear-drop to his 
 eye. 
 
 And at his master ask'd the timid 
 Page; — 
 
 " What is the emblem that a bard 
 should spy 
 
 In that rude rock and its green can- 
 opy? " 
 
Canto V. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 371 
 
 •And Harold said : — " Like to the hel- 
 met lirave 
 Of warrior slain in fight it seems to lie, 
 And these same drooping boughs do 
 o'er it wave 
 Not all unlike the plume his lady's favor 
 gave." — 
 
 "Ah, no!" replied the Page; "the 
 
 ill-starr'd love 
 Of some poor maid is in the emblem 
 
 shown. 
 Whose fates are willi some hero's in- 
 terwove. 
 And rooted on a heart to love im- 
 
 known : 
 And as the gentle dews of heaven 
 
 alone 
 Nourish these drooping boughs, and as 
 
 the scathe 
 Of the red lightning rends both tree 
 
 and stone. 
 So fares it with her unrequited faith, — 
 Iler sole relief is tears — her only refuge 
 
 death." — 
 
 "Thou art a fond fantastic boy," 
 Ilnrold replied, " to females coy. 
 
 Yet prating still of love; 
 Evt-n so amid the clash of war 
 I know thou lovest to keep afar, 
 Though destined by thy evil star 
 
 With one like me to rove. 
 Whose business and whose joys are found 
 Upon the bloody battle-ground. 
 Yet, foolish trembler as thou art, 
 Thou hast a nook of my rude heart, 
 And thou and I will never part; — 
 Harold would wrap the world in flame 
 Ere injury on Gunnar came ! " 
 
 The grateful Page made no reply, 
 But turn'd to Heaven his gentle eye. 
 And clasp'd his hands, as one who said : — 
 "My toils — mywanderingsareo'erpaid !" 
 Then in a gayer, lighter strain, 
 Compell'd himself to speech again; 
 
 And, as they flow'd along, 
 His words took cadence soft and slow 
 And liquid, like dissolving snow, 
 
 They melted into song : — 
 
 "What tho' thro' fields of carnage wide 
 I may not follow Harold's stride, 
 Yet who with faithful Gunnar's pride 
 
 Lord Harold's feats can see? 
 And dearer than the couch of pride 
 He loves the bed of gray wolf's hide, 
 When slumbering by Lord Harold's side 
 
 In forest, field, or lea." — 
 
 " P>reak off ! " said Harold, in a tone 
 Where hurry and surprise were shown, 
 
 With some slight touch of fear, — 
 " Break off ! we are not here alone; 
 A Palmer form comes slowly on ! 
 Piy cowl, and staff, and mantle known, 
 
 My monitor is near. 
 Now mark him, Gunnar, heedfully. 
 He pauses by the blighted tree — 
 Dost see him, youth? — Thou couldst not 
 
 see 
 When in the vale of Galilee 
 
 I first l)ehcld his form. 
 Nor when we met that other while 
 In Cephalonia's rocky isle. 
 
 Before the fearful storm, — 
 Dostseehim now?" The Page, distraught 
 With terror, answer'd : — "I see naught. 
 
 And there is naught to see, 
 Save that the oak's scathed boughs fling 
 
 down 
 Upon the path a shadow brown. 
 That, like a pilgrim's dusky gown, 
 
 Waves with the waving tree." 
 
 Count Harold gazed upon the oak 
 As if his eyestrings would have broke, 
 
 And then resolvedly said: — 
 " Be what it will yon phantom gray — 
 Nor heaven nor hell shall ever say 
 That for their shadows from his way 
 
 Count Harold turn'd dismay 'd; 
 I'll speak him, tho' his accents fill 
 My heart with that unwonted thrill 
 
 Which vulgar minds call fear. 
 I will subdue it ! " — Forth he strode. 
 Paused where the blighted oak-tree 
 
 show'd 
 Its salile shadow on the road. 
 And, folding on his bosom broad 
 
 His arms, said: — " Speak — I hear." 
 
372 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 The Deep Voice said: — " O wild of will, 
 Furious thy purpose to fulfill — 
 Ileart-sear'd and unrepentant still. 
 How long, O Harold, shall thy tread 
 Disturb the slumbers of the dead? 
 Each step in thy wihl way thou makest, 
 Tlie ashes of the dead thou wakest; 
 ATid shout in triumph o'er thy path 
 The fiends of bloodshed and of wrath. 
 In this thine hour, yet turn and hear! 
 For life is brief and judgment near." 
 
 Then ceased The Voice. — The Dane re- 
 plied 
 In tones where awe and inborn pride 
 l'"or mastery strove : — " In vain ye chide 
 The wolf for ravaging the flock, 
 Or with its hardness taunt the rock, — 
 I am as they — my Danish strain 
 Sends streams of fire through every vein. 
 Ariiid thy realms of ghoul and ghost, 
 Say, is the fame of Eric lost, 
 Or Witikind's the Waster, known 
 Where fame or spoil was to be won; 
 Whose galleys ne'er bore off a shore 
 They left not black with flame? — 
 He was my sire, — and, sprung of him, 
 That rover merciless and grim. 
 Can I be soft and tame? 
 Part hence, and with my crimes no more 
 
 upbraid me, 
 I am that Waster's son, and am but 
 what he made me." 
 
 The Phantom groan'd; — the mountain 
 
 shook arovmd. 
 The fawn and wild doc started at the 
 
 sound, 
 The gorse -and fern did wildly round 
 
 them wave, 
 As if some sudden storm the impulse 
 
 gave. 
 "All thou hast said is truth. —Yet on 
 
 the head 
 Of that bad sire let not the charge be laid. 
 That he, like thee, with unrelenting pace, 
 From grave to cradle ran the evil race : — • 
 Relentless in his avarice and ire, 
 Churches and towns he gave to sword 
 
 and fire; 
 
 Shed blood like water, wasted every 
 land. 
 
 Like the destroying angel's burning 
 brand; 
 
 Fulfill'd whate'er of ill might be in- 
 vented, 
 
 Yes- — ^ all these things he did — he did, 
 
 but he KKPENTEI) ! 
 
 Perchance it is part of his punishment 
 
 still, 
 That his offspring pursues his example 
 
 of ill. 
 P)Ut thou, when thy tempest f>f wrath 
 
 shall next shake thee. 
 Gird thy loins for resistance, my son, and 
 
 awake thee; 
 If thou yield'st to thy fury, how tempted 
 
 soever. 
 The gate of repentance shall ope for thee 
 
 never! " 
 
 XI. 
 "He is gone," said Lord Harold, and 
 
 gazed as he spoke; 
 "There is naught on the path ])ut the 
 
 shade of the oak. 
 He is gone, whose strange presence my 
 
 feeling oppress'd. 
 Like the night-hag that sits on the slum- 
 
 berer's breast. 
 My heart beats as thick as a fugitive's 
 
 tread. 
 And cold dews drop from my brow and 
 
 my head. — 
 Ho! Gunnar, the flasket yon almoner 
 
 gave ; 
 He said that three drops would recall 
 
 from the grave. 
 For the first time Count Harold owns 
 
 leechcraft has power, 
 Or, his courage to aid, lacks the juice of 
 
 a flower ! " 
 The page gave the flasket, which Wal- 
 
 wayn had fill'd 
 With the juice of wild roots that his art 
 
 had distill'd — 
 So baneful their influence on all that had 
 
 breath. 
 One drop had been frenzy, and two had 
 
 been death. 
 Harold took it, but drank not; for jubi- 
 lee shrill. 
 And music and clamor were heard on the 
 
 hill, 
 
Canto V. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 373 
 
 And down the steep pathway, o'er stock 
 
 and o'er stone, 
 The train of a bridal came blithesomely 
 
 on; 
 There was song, there was pipe, there 
 
 was timbrel, and still 
 The burden was: "Joy to the fair 
 
 Metelill!" 
 
 Harold might see from his high stance, 
 Himself unseen, that train advance 
 
 With mirth and melody; — 
 On horse and foot a mingled throng, 
 Measuring their steps to bridal song 
 
 And bridal minstrelsy; 
 And ever when the blithesome rout 
 Lent to the song their choral shout, 
 Redoubling echoes roU'd about. 
 While echoing cave and cliffs sent out 
 
 The answering symphony 
 Of all those mimic notes which dwell 
 In hollow rock and sounding dell. 
 
 Joy shook his torch above the band, 
 By many a various passion fann'd; — 
 As elemental sparks can feed 
 On essence pure and coarsest weed, 
 Gentle, or stormy, or refined, 
 Joy takes the colors of the mind. 
 Lightsome and pure, but unrepress'd, 
 He fired the bridegroom's gallant breast; 
 More feebly strove with maiden feftr. 
 Yet still joy glimmer'd through the tear 
 On the bride's blushing cheek, that shows 
 Like dewdrop on the budding rose; 
 While Wulfslane's gloomy smile declared 
 The glee that selfish avarice shared, 
 And pleased revenge and malice high 
 Joy's semblance took in Jutta's eye. 
 On dangerous adventure sped. 
 The witch deem'd Harold with the dead. 
 For thus that morn her Demon said : — 
 " If, ere the set of sun, be tied 
 The knot 'twixt bridegroom and his 
 
 bride, 
 The Dane shall have no power of ill 
 O'er William and o'er Metelill." 
 And the pleased witch made answer : — 
 
 " Then 
 Must Harold have pass'd from the paths 
 
 of men ! 
 
 Evil repose may his spirit have, — 
 
 May hemlock and mandrake find root in 
 his grave, — 
 
 May his death-sleep be dogged by dreams 
 of dismay. 
 
 And his waking be worse at the answer- 
 ing day." 
 
 Such was their various mood of glee 
 
 Blent in one shout of ecstasy. 
 
 But still when Joy is brimming highest, 
 
 Of Sorrow and Misfortune nighest. 
 
 Of Terror with her ague cheek, 
 
 And lurking Danger, sages speak : — 
 
 These haunt each path, but chief they 
 
 lay 
 Their snares beside the primrose way. — 
 Thus found that bridal band their path 
 Beset by Harold in his wrath. 
 Trembling beneath his maddening mood, 
 High on a rock the giant stood; 
 His shout was like the doom of death 
 Spoke o'er their heads that pass'd beneath. 
 His destined victims might not spy 
 The reddening terrors of his eye, — 
 The frown of rage that writhed his face, — 
 The lip that foam'd like boar's in chase; 
 But all could see — and, seeing, all 
 Bore back to shun the threaten'd fall — 
 The fragment which their giant foe 
 Rent from the cliff and heaved to throw 
 
 XV. 
 
 Backward they bore; — yet are there two 
 
 For battle who prepare : 
 No pause of dread Lord William knew 
 
 Ere his good blade was bare; 
 And Wulfstane bent his fatal yew, 
 But ere the silken cord he drew. 
 As hurl'd from Hecla's thunder. Hew 
 
 That ruin through the air ! 
 Full on the outlaw's front it came. 
 And all that late had human name, 
 And human face, and human frame, 
 That lived, and moved, and had free will 
 To choose the path of good or ill, 
 
 Is to its reckoning gone; 
 And naught of Wulfstane rests behind, 
 
 Save that beneath that stone, 
 ILilf-buried in the dinted clay, 
 A red and shapeless mass there lay 
 
 Of mingled flesh and bone ! 
 
374 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canio VI. 
 
 As from the bosom of the sky 
 
 The eagle darts amain, 
 Three bounds from yonder summit high 
 
 Placed Harold on the plain. 
 As the scared wild-fowl scream and fly, 
 
 So fled the bridal train; 
 As 'gainst the eagle's peerless might 
 The noble falcon dares the fight, 
 
 But dares the fight in vain, 
 So fought the bridegroom; from his hand 
 The Dane's rude mace has struck his brand, 
 Its glittering fragments strew the sand, 
 
 Its lord lies on the plain. 
 Now, Heaven ! take noble William's 
 
 part. 
 And melt that yet unmelted heart. 
 Or, ere his bridal hour depart, 
 
 The hapless bridegroom's slain ! 
 
 Count Harold's frenzied rage is high. 
 
 There is a death-fire in his eye. 
 
 Deep furrows on his brow are trench'd, 
 
 His teeth are set, his hand is clench'd. 
 
 The foam upon his lip is white, 
 
 His deadly arm is up to smite ! 
 
 But as the mace aloft he swung, 
 
 To stop the blow young Gunnar sprung, 
 
 Around his master's knees he clung. 
 
 And cried: — " In mercy spare ! 
 O, think upon the words of fear 
 Spoke by that visionary Seer, 
 The crisis he foretold is here, — 
 
 Grant mercy — or despair ! '' 
 This word suspended Harold's mood. 
 Yet still with arm upraised he stood. 
 And visage like the headsman's rude 
 
 That pauses for the sign. 
 " O mark thee with the blessed rood," 
 The page implored; "speak word of 
 
 good , 
 Resist the fiend, or be subdued ! " 
 
 He sign'd the cross divine — 
 Instant his eye hath human light, 
 I^ess red, less keen, less fiercely bright; 
 His brow relax'd the obdurate frown, 
 The fatal mace sinks gently down. 
 
 He turns and strides away; 
 Yet oft, like revellers who leave 
 Unfinish'd feast, looks back to grieve, 
 As if repenting the re])rieve 
 
 He granted to his prey. 
 
 Yet still of forbearance one sign hath he 
 
 given. 
 And fierce Witikind's son made one step 
 
 towards heaven. 
 
 But tho' liis dreaded footsteps part. 
 Death is behind and shakes his dart; 
 Lord William on the plain is lying. 
 Beside him Metelill seems dying ! 
 Bring odors — essences in haste — 
 And lo ! a flasket richly chased, — 
 But Jutta the elixir proves 
 Ere pouring it for those she loves. — 
 Then Walwayn's potion was not wasted. 
 For when three drops the hag had tasted, 
 
 So disn)al was her yell. 
 Each bird of evil omen woke, 
 The raven gave his fatal croak. 
 And shriek'd the night-crow from the oak. 
 The screech-owl from the thicket broke. 
 
 And flutter'd down the dell ! 
 So fearful was the sound and stern. 
 The slumbers of the full-gorged erne 
 Were startled, and from furze and fern 
 
 Of forest and of fell, 
 The fox and fan)ish'd wolf replied, 
 (For wolves then prowl'dtheCheviot side,) 
 From mountain head to mountain head 
 The unhallow'd sounds around weresped; 
 But when their latest echo fled. 
 The sorceress on the ground lay dead. 
 
 Such was the scene of blood and woes, 
 With which the bridal morn arose 
 
 Of William and of Metelill; 
 But oft, when dawning 'gins to spread. 
 The summer morn peeps dim and red 
 
 Above the eastern hill. 
 Ere, bright and fair, upon his road 
 The King of Splendor walks abroad; 
 So when this cloud had pass'd away. 
 Bright was the noontide of their day, 
 And all serene its setting ray. 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 I. 
 Well do I hope that this my minstrel 
 
 tale 
 Will tempt no traveller from southern 
 fields. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 375 
 
 Whether in tilbury, barouche, or mail. 
 To view the Castle of these Seven Proud 
 
 Shields. 
 Small confirmation its condition yields 
 To Meneville's high lay. — No towers 
 
 are seen 
 On the wild heath, but those that Fancy 
 
 builds. 
 And, save a fosse that tracks the moor 
 
 with green. 
 Is naught remains to tell of what may 
 
 there have been. 
 
 And yet grave authors, with the no 
 small waste 
 
 Of their grave time, have dignified the 
 spot 
 
 By theories, to prove the fortress placed 
 
 By Riiman bands, to curb the invading 
 Scot. 
 
 Hutchinson, Horsley, Camden, I might 
 quote. 
 
 But rather choose the theory less civil 
 
 Of boors, who, origin of things for- 
 got. 
 
 Refer still to the origin of evil, 
 And for their master-mason choose that 
 master-fiend the Devil. 
 
 Therefore, I say, it was on fiend-built 
 towers 
 
 That stout Count IlaroldlK-nt his won- 
 dering gaze. 
 
 When evening dew was on the heather 
 flowers. 
 
 And the last sunbeams made the moun- 
 tain 1)laze, 
 
 And tinged the battlements of other 
 days 
 
 With the l)right level light ere sinking 
 down. — 
 
 Illumined thus, the Dauntless Dane 
 surveys 
 
 The Seven Proud Shields that o'er the 
 portal frown. 
 And on their lilazons traced high marks 
 of old renown. 
 
 A wolf North Wales had on his armor- 
 coat, 
 
 And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant 
 stag; 
 
 Strath-Clwyde's strange emblem was 
 
 a stranded lx)at, 
 Donald of Galloway's a trotting nag; 
 A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's 
 
 brag; 
 A dudgeon-dagger was by Dunmail 
 
 worn; 
 Northumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat 
 
 crag 
 Surmounted by a cross — such signs 
 
 were borne 
 Upon these antique shields, all wasted 
 
 now and worn. 
 
 These scann'd. Count Harold sought 
 
 the castle door. 
 Whose ponderous bolts were rusted to 
 
 decay; 
 Yet till that hour adventurous knight 
 
 fori lore 
 The unobstructed passage to essay. 
 More strong than armed warders in 
 
 array. 
 And obstacle more sure than bolt or 
 
 bar. 
 Sate in the portal Terror and Dis- 
 may, 
 While Superstition, who forbade to 
 
 war 
 With foes of other mould than mortal 
 
 clay. 
 Cast spells across the gate, and barr'd 
 ' the onward way. 
 
 Vain now these spells; for soon with 
 
 heavy clank 
 The fecbly-faslen'd gate was inward 
 
 push'd. 
 And, as it oped, thro' that emblazon'd 
 
 rank 
 Of antique shields, the wind of even- 
 ing rush'd 
 With sound most like a groan, and 
 
 I hen was hush'd. 
 Is none who on such spot such sounds 
 
 could hear 
 But to his heart the blood had faster 
 
 rush'd; 
 Yet to bold Harold's breast that throb 
 
 was dear — 
 It spoke of danger nigh, but had no 
 
 touch of fear. 
 
376 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 Yet Harold and his Page no signs have 
 
 traced 
 Within the castle, that of danger 
 
 show'd, 
 For still the hills and courts were wild 
 
 and waste, 
 As thro' their precincts the adventurers 
 
 trode. 
 The seven huge towers rose stately, 
 
 tall, and broad. 
 Each tower presenting to their scrutiny 
 A hall in which a king might make 
 
 abode, 
 And fast beside, garnish'd both proud 
 
 and high, 
 Was placed a bower for rest in which a 
 
 king might lie. 
 
 As if a bridal there of late had been, 
 Deck'd stood the table in each gor- 
 geous hall; 
 And yet it was two hundred years, I 
 
 ween, 
 Since date of that unhallow'd festival. 
 Flagons, and ewers, and standing cups 
 
 were all 
 Of tarnished gold, or silver nothing 
 
 clear. 
 With throne begilt, and canopy of 
 
 pall, 
 And tapestry clothed the walls with 
 
 fragments sear — 
 Frail as the spider's mesh did that rich 
 
 woof appear. 
 
 In every bower, as round a hearse, 
 
 was hung 
 A dusky crimson curtain o'er the 
 
 bed. 
 And on each couch in ghastly wise 
 
 were flung 
 Tlie wasted relics of a monarch dead ; 
 liarbaricornamentsaround were spread. 
 Vests twined with gold, and chains of 
 
 precious stone. 
 And golden circlets, meet fur monarch's 
 
 head ; 
 While grinn'd, as if in scorn amongst 
 
 them thrown. 
 The wearer's fleshless sk.dl, alike with 
 
 dust bestrown. 
 
 For these were they who, drunken 
 
 with delight. 
 On pleasure's opiate pillow laid their 
 
 head. 
 For whom the bride's shy footsteps, 
 
 slow and light. 
 Was changed ere morning to the mur- 
 derer's tread. 
 For human bliss and woe in the frail 
 
 thread 
 Of human life are all so closely twined, 
 That till the shears of Fate the texture 
 
 shred. 
 The close succession cannot be dis- 
 
 join'd. 
 Nor dare we, from one hour, judge that 
 
 which comes behind. 
 
 But where the work of vengeance had 
 
 Ix-en done, 
 In that seventh chamber, was a sterner 
 
 sight; 
 There of the witch-brides lay each 
 
 skeleton. 
 Still in thepostureastodeath when (light. 
 For this lay prone, by one blow slain 
 
 outright; 
 And that, as one who struggled long 
 
 in dying; 
 One bony hand held knife, as if to 
 
 smite; 
 One bent on fleshless knees, as mercy 
 
 crying; 
 One lay across the door, as kill'd in act 
 
 of flying. 
 
 The stern Dane smiled this charnel- 
 house to see, — 
 
 For his chafed thought return'd to 
 Metelill; — 
 
 And " Well," he said, " hath woman's 
 perfidy. 
 
 Empty as air, as water volatile, 
 
 Been here avenged. — - The origin of ill 
 
 Thro' woman rose, the Christian doc- 
 trine saith: 
 
 Nor deem I, Gunnar, that thy minstrel 
 skill 
 
 Can show example where a woman's 
 breath 
 I lath made a true-love vow, and 
 tempted, kept her faith." 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 HAROLD THK DAUNTLESS. 
 
 377 
 
 The minstrel-lxjy half smiled, half sigh'd, 
 And his half-filling eyes he dried, 
 Andsaid: "The theme I shimldbutwrong. 
 Unless it were my dying song, 
 (Our Scalds have said, in dying hour 
 The northern harp has treljle power,) 
 Else could I tell of woman's faith, 
 Defying danger, scorn, and death. 
 Firm was that faith, — -as diamond stone 
 Pure and unHaw'd, ^ her love unknown, 
 And unrequited; — firm and pure, 
 Her stainless faith could all endure; 
 From clime to clime, from place to place, 
 Through want, and danger, and disgrace, 
 A wanderer's wayward steps could trace. 
 All this she did, and guerdon none 
 Required, save that her burial-stone 
 Should make at length the secret known, 
 'Thus hath a faithful woman done.' — 
 Not in each breast such truth is laid. 
 But Eivir was a Danish maid." — 
 
 " Thou art a wild enthusiast," said 
 Count Harold, "for thy Danish maid; 
 And yet, young Gunnar, I will own 
 Hers were a faith to rest upon. 
 But Eivir sleeps beneath her stone, 
 .And all resembling her are gone. 
 What maid e'er show'd such constancy 
 In plighted faith, like thine to me? 
 But couch thee, boy; the darksome shade 
 Falls thickly round, nor be dismay'd 
 
 Because the dead are by. 
 They were as we; our little day 
 O'erspent, and we shall be as they. 
 Yet near me, Gunnar, be thou laid, 
 Thy couch upon my mantle made. 
 That thou mayst think, should fear invade. 
 
 Thy master slumbers nigh." 
 Thus couch'd they in that dread abode, 
 Until the beams of dawning glow'd. 
 
 An alter'd man Lord Harold rose, 
 When he beheld that dawn unclose — 
 
 There's trouble in his eyes, 
 And traces on his brow and cheek 
 Of mingled awe and wonder speak: 
 
 " My page," he said, " arise; — 
 Leavewe this place, my page." — No more 
 He utter'd till the castle door 
 
 They cross'd, but there he paused and 
 
 said : — 
 " My wildness hath awaked the dead — 
 
 Disturb'd the sacred tomb ! 
 Methought this night I stood on high. 
 Where Hecla roars in middle sky, 
 .And in her cavern'd gulfs could spy 
 
 The central place of doom; 
 And there before my mortal eye 
 Souls of the dead came flitting by, 
 VV'hom fiends, with many a ficndisli cry. 
 
 Bore to that evil den ! 
 My eyes grew dizzy, and my brain 
 Was wilder'd, as the elvish train, 
 With shriek and howl, dragg'd on amain 
 
 Those who had late been men. 
 
 " With haggard eyes and streaming hair, 
 Jutta the Sorceress was there. 
 And there pass'd Wulfstane, lately slain, 
 All crush'd and foul with bloody stain. — 
 More had I seen, but that uprose 
 A whirlwind wild, and swept the snows; 
 And with such sound as when at need 
 A champion spurs his horse to speed. 
 Three armed knights rush on, who lead 
 Caparison'd a sable steed. 
 Sable their harness, and there came 
 Thro' their closed visors sparks of flame. 
 The first proclaimed, in sounds of fear: — 
 ' Harold the Dauntless, welcome here '. ' 
 The next cried: — ' Jubilee ! we've won 
 Count Witikind the Waster's son ! ' 
 And the third rider sternly spoke: — 
 ' Mount, in the name of Zernebock ! — 
 From us, O Harold, were thy powers, — 
 Thy strength, thy dauntlessness are ours; 
 
 Nor think, a vassal thou of hell. 
 With hell canst strive.' The fiend spoke 
 
 true ! 
 My inmost soul the summons knew, 
 
 As captives know the knell 
 That says the headsman's sword is bare, 
 And, with an accent of despair. 
 
 Commands them quit their cell. 
 I felt resistance was in vain. 
 My foot had that fell stirrup ta'en, 
 My hand was on the fatal mane. 
 
 When to my rescue sped 
 That Palmer's visionary form, 
 And — like the passing of a storm — 
 
 The demons yell'd and fled ! 
 
;7S 
 
 HAROLD THE DA L.\ 1'LL.SS. 
 
 Canto \ I. 
 
 " His sable cowl flung back, reveal'd 
 The features it before conceal'd; 
 
 And, Gunnar, I could find 
 In him whose counsels strove to stay 
 So oft my course on wilful way, 
 
 My father Witikind ! 
 Doom'd for his sins, and doom'd for mine, 
 A wanderer upon earth to pine 
 Until his son shall turn to grace, 
 And smooth for him a resting-place. — 
 Gunnar, he must not haunt in vain 
 This world of wretchedness and pain; 
 I'll tame my wilful heart to live 
 In peace — to pity and forgive — 
 And thou, for so the Vision said, 
 Must in thy Lord's repentance aid. 
 Thy mother was a prophetess. 
 He said, who by her skill could guess 
 How close the fatal textures join 
 Which knit thy thread of life with mine; 
 Then, dark, he hinted of disguise 
 She framed to cheat too curious eyes, 
 That not a moment might divide 
 Thy fated footsteps from my side. 
 Methought while thus my sire did teach, 
 I caught the meaning of his speech. 
 Yet seems its purport doubtful now." 
 His hand then sought his thoughtful brow, 
 Then first he mark'd that in the tower 
 His glove was left at waking hour. 
 
 Trembling at first, and deadly pale. 
 Had Gunnar heard the visional tale; 
 But when he learn'd the dubious close. 
 He blush'd like any opening rose. 
 And, glad to hide his tell-tale cheek. 
 Hied back that glove of niail to seek; 
 When soon a shriek of deadly dread 
 Summon'd his master to his aid. 
 
 What sees Count Harold in that bower. 
 
 So late his resting-place? — 
 The semljlance of the Evil Power, 
 
 Adored by all his race ! 
 Odin in living form stood there, 
 His cloak the spoils of Polar bear; 
 For plumy crest a meteor shed 
 Its gloomy radiance o'er his head. 
 Vet vfil'd its hagt^ard majesty 
 To the wild lightnings of his eye. 
 
 Such height was his, as when in stone 
 O'er Upsal's giant altar shown: 
 
 So flow'd his hoary beard; 
 Such was his lance of mountain-pine, 
 So did his sevenfold buckler shine; — 
 But when his voice he rear'd, 
 
 I Deep, without harshness, slow and strong 
 The powerful accents roll'd along, 
 
 I And, while he spoke, his hand was laid 
 On Captive Gunnar's shrinking head. 
 
 " Harold," he said, " what rage is thine, 
 To quit the worship of thy line, 
 
 To leave thy Warrior-God? — 
 With me is glory or disgrace. 
 Mine is the onset and the chase, 
 Embattled hosts before my face 
 
 Are wither'd by a nod. 
 Wilt thou then forfeit that high seat 
 Deserved by many a dauntless feat, 
 Among the heroes of thy line, 
 Eric and fiery Thorarine? — 
 Thou wilt not. Only can I give 
 The joys for which the valiant live, 
 Victory and vengeance — only I 
 Can give the joys for which they die. 
 The immortal tilt — the banquet full, 
 Thebrimmingdraughtfromfoenian'sskull. 
 Mine art thou, witness this thy glove. 
 The faithful pledge of vassal's love." 
 
 " Tempter," said Harold, firm of heart, 
 "I charge thee, hence ! whate'er thou art, 
 I do defy thee — and resist 
 The kindling frenzy of my breast, 
 Waked by thy words; and of my mail. 
 Nor glove, nor buckler, splent, nor nail. 
 Shall rest with thee — that youth release. 
 And God, or Demon, part in peace." — 
 " Eivir," the Shape replied, " is mine, 
 Mark'd in the birth-hour with my sign. 
 Think'st thou that priest with drops of 
 
 spray 
 Could wash that blood-red mark away? 
 Or that a borrow'd sex and name 
 Can abrogate a Godhead's claim?" 
 Thrill'd this strange speech thro' Harold's 
 
 brain. 
 He clenched his teeth in high disdain, 
 For not his new-born faith subdued 
 I Some tokens of his ancient mood ; — 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 
 
 379 
 
 " Now, by the hope so lately given 
 Of better trust and purer heaven, 
 I will assail thee, fiend! " — Then rose 
 His mace, and with a storm of blows 
 The mortal and the Demon close. 
 
 Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around, 
 Darken'd the sky and shook the ground; 
 
 But not the artillery of hell. 
 The bickering lightning, nor the rock 
 Of turrets to the earthquake's shock. 
 
 Could Harold's courage quell. 
 Sternly the Dane his purpose kept, 
 And blows on blows resistless heap'd, 
 
 Till quail'd that Demon Form, 
 And — for his power to hurt or kill 
 Was bounded by a higher will — 
 
 Evanish'd in the storm. 
 Nor paused the Champion of the North, 
 But raised and bore his Eivir forth. 
 From that wild scene of fiendish strife. 
 To light, to liberty, and life ! 
 
 He placed her on a bank of moss, 
 
 A silver runnel Ijubbled by. 
 And new-born thoughts his soul engross, 
 And tremors yet unknown across 
 
 His stuliborn sinews fly. 
 The while with timid hand the dew 
 Upon her brow and neck he threw. 
 And mark'd how life with rosy hue 
 On her pale cheek revived anew. 
 
 And glimmer'd in her eye. 
 Inly he said : — '* That silken tress, — 
 What blindness mine that could not 
 
 guess ! 
 Or how could page's rugged dress 
 
 That lx)som's pride belie? 
 O, dull of heart, thro' wild and wave 
 In search of blood and death to rave, 
 
 With such a partner nigh !." 
 
 XVIII. 
 Then in a mirror'd pool he peer'd. 
 Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard, 
 The stains of recent conflict clear'd, — 
 
 And thus the Champion proved, 
 That he fears now who never fear'd, 
 
 And loves who never loved. 
 
 And Eivir — Hfe is on her cheek. 
 And yet she will not move or speak. 
 
 Nor will her eyelid fully ope; 
 Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye. 
 Through its long fringe, reserved and 
 
 shy. 
 Affection's opening dawn to spy; 
 And the deep blush, which bids its dye 
 O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly. 
 
 Speaks shame- facedness and hope. 
 
 But vainly seems the Dane to seek 
 
 For terms his new-born love to speak, — 
 
 For words, save those of wrath and 
 
 wrong. 
 Till now were strangers to his tongue; 
 So, when he raised the blushing maid, 
 In blunt and honest terms he said, 
 ('Twere well that maids, when lovers 
 
 woo. 
 Heard none more soft, were all as true) : — 
 " Eivir ! since thou for many a day 
 Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way, 
 It is but meet that in the line 
 Of after-life I follow thine. 
 To-morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide. 
 And we will grace his altar's side, 
 A Christian knight and Christian bride; 
 And of Witikind's son shall the marvel 
 
 l)e said. 
 That on the same morn he was chrislen'd 
 
 and wed." 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 And now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary 
 
 maid ? 
 And why these listless looks of yawn- 
 ing sorrow? 
 No need to turn the page, as if 'twere 
 
 lead. 
 Or fling aside the volume till to-morrow. 
 Be cheer'd — 'tis ended — and I will 
 
 not borrow. 
 To try thy patience more, one anecdote 
 From Bartholine, or Perinskiold, or 
 
 Snorro. 
 Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who 
 
 hath wrote 
 A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd to add 
 
 a note. 
 
CONTRIBUTIONS to MINSTRELSY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SCOTTISH BORDER. 
 
 IMITATIONS OF THE ANCIENT BALLAD. 
 
 THOMAS THE RHYMER. 
 
 IN THREE PARTS. 
 
 PART FIRST. — ANCIENT. 
 
 Few personages are so renownefl in tradition as Thomas of Ercildoune, known by the 
 appellation of The Khynicr. Uniting, or supposing to unite, in his person the powers of 
 poetical composition and of vaticination, his memory, even after the lapse of five hundred 
 years, is regarded with veneration by his countrymen. To give anything like a certain 
 history of this remarkable man would Ix; indeed difficult ; but the curious may derive some 
 satisfaction from the particulars here brought together. 
 
 It is agreed on all hands, that the residence, and probably the birthplace, of this ancient 
 bard was l>>cildoune, a village situated upon the I.eader, two miles above its junction with 
 the Tweed. The ruins of an ancient tower are still pointed out as the Rhymer's castle. 
 The uniform tradition bears, that his surname was Lermont, or Learmont ; and that the 
 appellation of The Rhymer was conferred on him in consequence of his poetical composi- 
 tions. There remains, nevertheless, some doubt upon the subject. 
 
 We are better able to ascertain the period at which Thomas of Ercildoune lived, being 
 the latter end of the thirteenth century. I am inclined to place his death a little farther 
 back than Mr. I'inkerton. who supposes that hewasalive in 1300. — {List of Scottish Poets.) 
 
 It cannot lie doubted that Thomas of Krcildoune was a remarkable and important person 
 in his own time, since, very shortly after his death, we find him celebrated as a prophet and 
 as a poet. Whether he himself made any pretensions to the first of these characters, or 
 whether it was gratuitously conferred upon him by the credulity of jMJsterity, it seems diffi- 
 cult to decide. If we may believe Mackenzie, Learmont only versified the prophecies de- 
 livered by Ehza, an inspired nun of a convent at Haddington. But of this there seems 
 
 381 
 
382 
 
 CONTRIBUTIOXS TO MINSTRELSY. 
 
 not to be the most distant proof. On the contrary, all ancient authors, who quote the 
 Rhymer's prophecies, uniformly suppose tlieni to have Ix-en emitted by himself. 
 
 The popular tale bears, that 'J'homas was carried oft, at an early age, to the Fairy Land 
 where he acquired all the knowledge which made him afterwards so famous. After seven 
 years' residence, he was permitted to return to the earth, to enlighten and astonish his country- 
 men by his prophetic powers; still, however, remaining bound to return to his royal mis- 
 tress, when she should intimate her pleasure. Accordingly, while Thomas was making 
 merry with his friends in the Tower of Ercildoune, a person came running in, and told, 
 with marks of fear and astonishment, that a hart and hind had left the neighboring forest, 
 and were, composedly and slowly, parading the street of the village. The prophet instantly 
 arose, left his habitation, and followed the wonderful animals to the forest, whence he was 
 never seen to return. According to the popular belief, he still ''droes his weird" in Fain,- 
 Land, and is one day expected to revisit earth. In the mean while, his memory is held in 
 the most profound respect. The Eildon Tree, from beneath the shade of which he delivered 
 his prophecies, now no longer exists ; but the spot is marked by a large stone, called Eildon 
 Tree -Stone. A neighboring rivulet takes the name of the Bogle Burn (Goblin Brook) from 
 the Rhymer's supernatural visitants. 
 
 It seemed to the Editor unpardonable to dismiss a person so important in Border tradi- 
 tions as the Rhymer, without some further notice than a simple commentary upon the 
 following ballad. It is given from a copy, obtained from a lady residing not far from Er- 
 cildoune, corrected and enlarged by one in Mrs. Brown's MSS. The former copy, however, 
 as might be expacted, is far more minute as to local description. To this old tale the Editor 
 has ventured to add a Second Part, consisting of a kind of canto, from the printed proph- 
 ecies vulgarly ascribed to the Rhymer ; and a Third I'art. entirely modern, founded upon 
 the tradition of his having returned with the hart and the hind to the Land of Faery. To 
 make his f)eace with the more severe antiquaries, the Editor has prefixed to tlie Second 
 Part some remarks on Learmont's prophecies. 
 
 Prue Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;* 
 A ferlie t he spied wi' his ce; 
 
 Vnd there he saw a ladye bright. 
 Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. 
 
 [ier shirt was o' the grass-green silk. 
 Her mantle o' the velvet fyne; 
 
 \t ilkat lett of her horse's mane, 
 Hung fifty siller bells and nine. 
 
 Prue Thomas he piill'd aff his cap, 
 And louted § low down to his knee: — 
 
 ' All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven ! 
 For thy peer on earth 1 never did see." — 
 
 ' O no, O no, Thomas," she said, 
 "That name does not bclang to me; 
 
 [ am but the Queen of fair Elfiand, 
 That am hither come to visit thee. 
 
 * Huntley Bank and the adjoining ravine, called 
 rem immemorial tradition The Khynier's Glen, 
 were ultimately included in the domain of Abl)ots- 
 ord. The scenery of this glen forms the back- 
 rround of Edwin Landseer's portrait of .Sir 
 kV.ilter Scott, painted in 1833. 
 
 t Wonder 
 
 X Each. 
 
 S Bowed. 
 
 " Harp and carp, Thomas," she said; 
 
 " Harp and carp along wi' me; 
 And if ye dare to kiss my lips, 
 
 Sure of your bodie I will he."- 
 
 " Betide me weal, betide me woe, 
 That weird II shall never daunton 
 me." — 
 
 Sync he has kiss'd her rosy lips, 
 All underneath the Eildon Tree. 
 
 " Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said; 
 
 "True Thorhas, ye maun go wi' me; 
 And ye maun serve me seven years. 
 
 Thro' weal or woe as may chance to 
 be." 
 
 She mounted on her milk-white steed; 
 
 She's ta'en true Thomas up l>chind: 
 And aye, whene'er her bridle rung, 
 
 The steed flew swifter than the wind. 
 
 O they rade on, and farther on; 
 
 The steed^aed swifter than the wind; 
 Until ihey reach'd a desert wide. 
 
 And living land was left behind. 
 
 II Destiny sliall not alarm me. 
 
Part II. 
 
 THOMAS THE RHYMER. 
 
 383 
 
 " Light down, light down, now true 
 Thomas, 
 
 And lean your head upon my knee; 
 Abide and rest a little space. 
 
 And I will shew you ferlies three. 
 
 '' O see ye not yon narrow road. 
 
 So thick beset with thorns and briers? 
 
 That is the path of righteousness, 
 Though after it but few enquires. 
 
 " And see ye not that braid braid road, 
 That lies across that lily leven? 
 
 That is the path of wickedness, 
 
 Though some call it the road to heaven. 
 
 " And see not ye that bonny road. 
 That winds about the fernie brae? 
 
 That is the road to fair Elfland, 
 
 Where thou and I this night maun gae. 
 
 "' But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, 
 Whatever ye may hear or see; 
 
 For, if ye speak word in Elflyn land, 
 Ye'Il ne'er get back to your ain coun- 
 trie." 
 
 O they rade on, and farther on. 
 
 And they waded through rivers aboon 
 the knee, 
 
 And they saw neither sun nor moon, 
 But they Jicard the roaring of the sea. 
 
 It was mirk mirk night, and there was 
 nae stern light,* 
 And they waded through red blude to 
 the knee. 
 For a' the blude that's shed on earth 
 Rins through the springs o' that coun- 
 trie. 
 
 Syne they came on to a garden green, 
 And she pu'd an apple frae a tree t -- 
 
 " Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; 
 It will give thee the tongue that can 
 never lie." — 
 
 " My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas 
 said; 
 
 " A gudely gift ye wad gie to me ! 
 I neither dought to buy nor sell. 
 
 At fair or tryst where I may be. 
 
 "I dought neither speak to prince or 
 peer. 
 
 Nor ask of grace from fair ladye." — 
 " Now hold thy peace ! " the lady said, 
 
 " For as I say, so must it be." — 
 
 He has gotten a coat of the even cloth. 
 And a pair of shoes of velvet green; 
 
 And till seven years were gane and 
 past. 
 True Thomas on earth was never seen. 
 
 I'ART SECOND. — ALTERED FROM ANCIENT PROPHECIES. 
 
 The i^ropliecies, ascribed to Thomas of Ercildoune, have been the principal means of 
 securing to him remembrance " amongst the sons of his people." The author of Sir Tristrcm 
 would long ago have joined, in the vale of oblivion, "Clerk of Tranent, who wrote the ad- 
 venture of Schir Guwaiii," if, by good hap, tlie same current of ideas respecting antiquity, 
 which causes Virgil to tje regarded as a magician by the Lazzaroni of Naples, had not exalted 
 the Uard of Ercildoune to the prophetic character. Perhaps, indeed, he himself affected it 
 during liis life. We know, at least, for certain, that a belief in his supernatural knowledge 
 was current soon after his death. His prophecies are alluded to by Barbour, by Wintown, 
 and by Henry the Minstrel, or Blind Harry, as he is usually termed. None of these 
 authors, however, give the words of any of the Rhymer's vaticinations, but merely narrate, 
 historically, his having predicted the events of which they speak. The earliest of the 
 prophecies ascribed to him, which is now extant, is quoted by Mr. Pinkerton from a MS. 
 It is supposed to be a response from Thomas of Ercildoune to a question from the heroic 
 Countess of March, renowned for the defence of the Castle of Dunbar against the English, 
 and termed, in the familiar dialect of her time, Black Agnes of Dunbar. This prophecy is 
 
 * Star light. 
 
 t The traditional commentary u|>on this ballad informs us, that the apple was the produce of the 
 fatal Tree of Knowledge, and that die garden was the terrestrial paradise. The repugnance of 
 Thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood, when he niijdit lind it cunvenieut, has k comic effect. 
 
3^4 
 
 CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 
 
 remarkable, in so far as it bears very little resemblance to any verses published in the printed 
 copy of the Rhymer's supposed prophecies. 
 
 Corspatrick (Comes Patrick) Earl of March, but more commonly taking his title from 
 his castle of Dunbar, acted a noted part during the wars of Edward I. in Scotland. As 
 Thomas of Ercildoune is said to have delivered to him his famous prophecy of King .Alex- 
 ander's death, the Editor has chosen to introduce him into the following ballad. All the 
 prophetic verses are selected from Hart's publication. * 
 
 When seven years were come and gane, 
 The sun blinked fair on pool and 
 stream; 
 
 And Thomas lay on Huntlie Bank, 
 Like one awaken' d from a dream. 
 
 He heard the trampling of a steed. 
 He saw the flash of armor flee, 
 
 And he beheld a gallant knight 
 
 Come riding down by the Eildon-tree. 
 
 He was a stalwart knight, and strong; 
 
 Of giant make he 'pear'd to be: 
 He stirr'd his horse, as he were wode, 
 
 Wi' gilded spurs, of faushion free. 
 
 Says — "Well met, well met, true 
 
 Thomas ! 
 
 Some uncouth ferlies show to me." — 
 
 Says — "Christ thee save, Corspatrick 
 
 brave ! 
 
 Thrice welcume, good Dunbar, to me ! 
 
 " Light down, light down, Corspatrick 
 brave ! 
 And I will show thee curses three, 
 Shall gar fair Scotland greet and grane. 
 And change the green to the black 
 livery. 
 
 " A storm shall roar this very hour, 
 From Ross's hill to Solway sea." — 
 
 " Ye lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar. 
 For the sun shines sweet on fauld and 
 lea. ' ' 
 
 He put his hand on the Earlie's head; 
 He show'd him a rock beside the sea, 
 
 Where a king lay stiff beneath his steed, + 
 And steel-dight nobles wiped their ee. 
 
 "The neist curse lights on Branxton 
 hills: 
 
 By Flodden's high and heathery side. 
 Shall wave a banner red as blude. 
 
 And chieftains throng wi' meikle pride. 
 
 "A Scottish king shall come full keen. 
 
 The ruddy lion beareth he; 
 A feather'd arrow sharp, I ween 
 
 Shall make him wink and warre to see. 
 
 " When he is bloody, and all to bledde. 
 Thus to his men he still shall say: — 
 
 ' For God's sake, turn ye back again. 
 And give yon southern folk a fray ! . 
 
 Why should I lose the right is mine? 
 My doom is not to die this day.' \ 
 
 " Yet turn ye to the eastern hand. 
 And woe and wonder ye sail see; 
 
 How forty thousand spearmen stand. 
 Where yon rank river meets the 
 sea." 
 
 " There shall the lion lose the gylte. 
 And the lil)bards§ bear it clean away; 
 
 At Pinkyn Cleuch there shall be spilt 
 Much gentil bluid that day." — 
 
 " Enough, enough, of curse and ban; 
 
 Some blessings show thou now to me. 
 Or, by the faith o' my bodie," Corspatrick 
 said, 
 " Ye shall rue the day ye e'er saw 
 me!" — 
 
 * Prophecies supposed to have been delivered by True Thomas, Bede, Merlin, etc., published 
 by Andro Hart, 1615. An exact reprint of Hart's volume, from the copy in the library at Abbots, 
 ford, under the care of the learned antiquary Mr. David Laing of Edinburgh, was announced in 1833 
 as soon to appear. 
 
 t King Alexander III., killed by a fall from his horse near Kinghom. 
 
 X The uncertainty which long prevailed in Scotland, concerning the fate of James IV., is 
 well known. 
 
 § Leopards of Plantagenet. The Scottish banner is a lion on a field guUi ; the English 
 banner then was the three leopards. 
 
Part III. 
 
 THOMAS THE RHYMER. 
 
 385 
 
 " The first of blessings I shall thee show. 
 Is by a burn, that's call'd of bread;* 
 
 Where Saxon men shall tine the lx>w. 
 And find their arrows lack the head. 
 
 " Beside that brigg, out ower that burn. 
 Where the water bickereth bright and 
 sheen, 
 
 Shall many a fallen courser spurn. 
 
 And knights shall die in battle keen. ' 
 
 " Beside a headless cross of stone, 
 
 The libbards there shall lose the gree: 
 
 The raven shall come, the erne shall go. 
 And drink the Saxon bluid sae free. 
 
 The cross of stone they shall not know, 
 So thick the corses there shall be." — 
 
 " But tell me, now," said brave Dunbar, 
 "True Thomas, tell now unto me. 
 
 What man shall rule the isle Britain, 
 Even from the north to the southern 
 sea? " — 
 
 " A French Queen shall bear the son.t 
 Shall rule all Britain to the sea; 
 
 He of the Bruce's blood shall come. 
 As near as in the ninth degree. 
 
 " The waters worship shall his race; 
 Likewise the waves of the farthest 
 sea; 
 For they shall ride over ocean wide. 
 With hempen bridles, and horse of 
 tree. " 
 
 PART THIRD. — MODERN. 
 
 Thomas THE Rhymer was renowned among his contemporaries, as the author of the cele- 
 brated romance of Sir Tristrem. Of this once-admired poem only one copy is now known 
 to exist, which is in the Advocates' Library. The Editor, in 1S04, publishad a small edition 
 of this curious work ; which, if it does not revive the reputation of the Bard of Ercildoune, 
 is at least the earliest specimen of Scottish poetry hitherto published. Some account of 
 this romance has already been given to the world in Mr. Ellis's Sfecimens of Ancient 
 Poetry, vol. i. p. 165 ; iii., p. 410 ; a work to which our predecessors and our posterity are 
 alike obliged ; tlie former, for the preservation of the best-selected examples of their poetical 
 taste ; and the latter, for a history of the English language, which will only cease to be in- 
 teresting with the existence of our mother-tongue, and all that genius and learning have 
 recorded in it. It is sufficient here to mention, that so great was the reputation of the 
 romance of Sir Tristrem, that few were thought capable of reciting it after the manner of 
 the author. 
 
 The following attempt to commemorate the Rhymer's poetical fame, and the traditional 
 account of his marvellous return to Fairy Land, being entirely modern, would have been 
 placed with greater propriety among the class of Modern Ballads, had it not been for its 
 immediate connection with the first and second parts of the same story. 
 
 When seven years more were come and 
 gone, 
 
 Was war through Scotland spread, 
 And Ruberslaw show'd high Dunyon X 
 
 His beacon blazing red. 
 
 Then all by bonny Coldingknowf 
 Pitched palliouns II took their room, 
 
 * Bannock, or Breed Bum. One of Thomas's 
 rhymes preserved by tradition runs thus : — 
 The bum of breid 
 Shall run fou reid. 
 The bannock is the name given by the Scots to a 
 thick round cake of unleavened bread. 
 
 t James VL, son of Mary Queen of France 
 and Scotland. 
 
 X Hills near Jedburjih. || Tents. 
 
 § An ancient tower near Ercildoune, belonginf 
 
 And crested helms, and spears a-rowe, 
 Glanced gayly through the broom. 
 
 The Leader, rolling to the Tweed, 
 
 Resounds the ensenzie;ir 
 They roused the deer from Caddenhead, 
 
 To distant Torwoodlee. ** 
 
 to a family of the name of Home. One of 
 Thomas's prophecies is said to have run thus : — 
 
 " Vengeance 1 vengeance ! when and where ? 
 On the hour of Coldingknow now and ever 
 mair ! " 
 
 The spot is rendered classical by its having 
 given its name to the beautiful melody, The 
 Broom of the CoTvdenkno^vs. 
 
 IF Ensenxie — War-cry, or gathering word. 
 
 ** Places in Selkirkshire. 
 
386 
 
 CONTRTBUTIOXS TO MINSTRELSY. 
 
 The feast was spread in Ercikloiine, 
 In Lcarmont's high and ancient hall; 
 
 And there were knights of great renown, 
 And ladies, laced in pall. 
 
 Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine, 
 
 The music nor the tale, 
 Nor gol)lets of the blood-red wine. 
 
 Nor mantling quaighs* of ale. 
 
 True Thomas rose, with harp in liand, 
 When as the feast was done: 
 
 (In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land, 
 The elfin harp he won.) 
 
 Hushed were the throng, both liml) ami 
 tongue, 
 
 And harpers for envy pale; 
 And armed lords lean'd on their swords. 
 
 And hearken'd to the tale. 
 
 In numbers high, the witching tale 
 
 The prophet poured along; 
 No after l)ard might e'er avail 
 
 Those numbers to prolong. 
 
 Yet fragments of the lofty strain 
 Float down the tide of years, 
 
 As, buoyant on the stormy main, 
 A parted wreck appears. 
 
 He sung King Arthur's Table Round : 
 
 The Warrior of the Lake; 
 How courteous Gawaine met the wound. 
 
 And bled for ladies' sake. 
 
 But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise, 
 
 The notes melodious swell; 
 Was none excelled in Arthur's days, 
 
 The knight of Lionelle. 
 
 For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right, 
 
 A venom'd wound he bore; 
 When fierce Morholde he slew in fight, 
 
 Upon the Irish shore. 
 
 No art the poison might withstand; 
 
 No medicine could be found, 
 Till lovely Isolde's lily hand 
 
 Had probed the rankling wound. 
 
 * Quaighs — Wooden cups, composed of 
 jtaves hooped together. 
 
 With gentle hand and soothing tongue 
 
 She bore the leech's part; 
 And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung. 
 
 He paid her with his heart. 
 
 O fatal was the gift, I ween ! 
 
 For, doomed in evil tide. 
 The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen, 
 
 His cowardly uncle's bride. 
 
 Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard, 
 
 In fairy tissue wove; 
 Where lords, and knights, and Indie* 
 bright, 
 
 In gay confusion strove. 
 
 The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale, 
 High reared its glittering head; 
 
 And Avalon's enchanted vale 
 In all its wonders spread. 
 
 Brangwain was there, and Segramore, 
 And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye; 
 
 Of that famed wizard's mighty lore, 
 O who could sing but he? 
 
 Through many a maze the winning song 
 
 In changeful jiassion led, 
 Till bent at length the listening throng 
 
 O'er Tristrem's dying bed. 
 
 His ancient wounds their scars expand. 
 With agony his heart is wrung; 
 
 O where is Isolde's lilye hand. 
 And where her .soothing tongue? 
 
 Shccomes ! shccomes ! — likeflashof flame 
 
 Can lovers' footsteps fly: 
 She comes ! she conies ! — she only came 
 
 To see her Tristrcm die. 
 
 She saw him die; her latest sigh 
 Joined in a kiss his parting breath, 
 
 The gentlest pair that Britain bare. 
 United are in death. 
 
 There paused the harp: its lingering sound 
 
 Died slowly on the ear; 
 The silent guests still bent around. 
 
 For still they seemed to hear. 
 
 Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak : 
 Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh; 
 
Part III. 
 
 THOMAS THE RHYMER. 
 
 387 
 
 But half ashamed, the rugged cheek 
 Did many a gauntlet dry. 
 
 On Leader 'sstream and Learmont'stower, 
 
 The mists of evening close; 
 In camp, in castle, or in bower, 
 
 Each warrior sought repose. 
 
 Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent, 
 Dreamed o'er the woeful tale; 
 
 When footsteps light, across the bent, 
 The warrior's ear assail. 
 
 He starts, he wakes : — " What, Richard, 
 ho! 
 
 Arise, my page, arise ! 
 What venturous wight, at dead of night, 
 
 Dare step where Douglas lies? " — 
 
 Then forth they rushed : by Leader's tide, 
 A selcouth * sight they see — 
 
 A hart and hind pace side by side, 
 As white as snow on Fairnalie.t 
 
 Beneath the moon, with gesture proud. 
 They stately move and slow; 
 
 Nor scare they at the gathering crowd. 
 Who marvel as they go. 
 
 To Learmont's tower a message sped, 
 
 As fast as page might run; 
 And Thomas started from his bed. 
 
 And soon his clothes did on. 
 
 First he woxe pale, and then woxe red; 
 
 Never a word he spake but three: — 
 " My sand is run; my thread is spun; 
 
 This sign regardeth me." 
 
 The elfin harp his neck around. 
 In minstrel guise, he hung; 
 
 * Wondrous. 
 
 t An ancient seat upon the Tweed in Selkirk- 
 shire. 
 
 And on the wind, in doleful sound, 
 Its dying accents rung. 
 
 Then forth he went; yet turned him oft 
 
 To view his ancient hall : 
 On the gray tower, in lustre soft, 
 
 The autumn moonbeams fall. 
 
 And Leader's waves, like silver sheen, 
 Danced shimmering in the ray; 
 
 In deepening mass, at distance seen. 
 Broad Soltra's mountains lay. 
 
 " Farewell, my fathers' ancient tower ! 
 
 A long farewell," said he : 
 " The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power. 
 
 Thou never more shalt be. 
 
 " To Learmont's name no foot of earth 
 
 Shall here again belong. 
 And, on thy hospitable hearth, 
 
 The hare shall leave her young. 
 
 " Adieu ! adieu ! " again he cried, 
 All as he turn'd him roun' — 
 
 " Farewell to Leader's silver tide ! 
 Farewell to Ercildoune ! " 
 
 The hart and hind approached the 
 place, 
 
 As lingering yet he stood; 
 And there, before Lord Douglas' face, 
 
 With them he crossed the flood. 
 
 Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown 
 steed. 
 
 And spurred him the Leader o'er; 
 But, though he rode with lightning speed. 
 
 He never saw them more. 
 
 Some said to hill, and some to glen. 
 Their wondrous course had been; 
 
 But ne'er in haunts of living men 
 Again was Thomas seen. 
 
CONTRIBUTION'S TO MINSTRELSY. 
 
 GLENFINLAS; OR, LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.* 
 
 The simple tradition, upon whicli the following stanzas are founded, runs thus : While 
 two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bothy (a hut built for the pur- 
 pose 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 ut- 
 tered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and 
 singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the siren who attached 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 devoured by the fiend into whose 
 toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called the Glen of the Green Women. 
 
 Glenlinlas is a tract of forest-ground, lying in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from 
 (!aliender in Menteith. It was formerly a royal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of 
 Moray. This country, as well as the adjacent 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 Trosachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Ben- 
 voirlich, 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 Stir- 
 ling. 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. 
 
 This ballad first appeared in the Tales of Wonder, by Lewis. 
 
 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' ! t 
 The pride of Albin's line is o'er, 
 
 And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree; 
 We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald 
 more ! — 
 
 O, sprung from great Macgillianore, 
 The chief that never fear'd a foe. 
 
 How matchless was thy broad claymore, 
 How deadly thine unerring bow ! 
 
 Well can the Saxon widows tell, t 
 How, on theTeith's resounding shore, 
 
 The boldest Lowland warriors fell. 
 As down from Lenny's pass you bore. 
 
 Bui o'er his hills, in festal day, 
 
 How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane- 
 tree, ^ 
 Wiiile youths and maids the light strath- 
 spey 
 So nimbly danced with Highland glee ! 
 
 Cheer'd 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
 Twas 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. 
 
 Full many a spell to him was known, 
 W^hich wandering spirits shrink to hear; 
 
 And many a lay of potent tone. 
 Was never meant for mortal ear. 
 
 For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood, 
 High converse with the dead they hold. 
 
 * Coronach — is the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged of the clan. 
 
 * O hone a rie' — " Alas for the chief ! " 
 
 t The term Sassenach, or Saxon, is apjilied bv the Higlilanders to their Low Country neighbors. 
 
GLENFINLAS ; OR, LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. 389 
 
 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 scour 'd the deep Glenfinlas glen. 
 
 No vassals wait their sports to aid, 
 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. 
 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 
 
 Steep'd heathy bank and mossy stone. 
 
 The moon, half-hid in silvery flake. 
 Afar her dubious radiance shed, 
 
 Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes 
 And resting on Benledi's head. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Wiiat, 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 
 
 The fairest of our mountain maids, 
 The daughters of the proud Glengyle. 
 
 " Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart, 
 And dropp'd 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. 
 
 " Touch but thy harp, thou soon shall see 
 The lovely Flora of Glengyle, 
 
 Unmindful of her charge and me, 
 
 Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear andsmile. 
 
 " Or, if she choose a melting tale. 
 
 All underneath the greenwood bough. 
 
 Will good St. 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, 
 Responsive to the panting breath, 
 
 Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. 
 
 " E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe, 
 Where sunk myhopes 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 dash'd and torn, 
 
 Far on the rocky Colonsay. 
 
 "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. 
 As down Benvoirlich's side they 
 wound, 
 Heard'st but the pibroch,t answering 
 brave 
 To many a target clanking round. 
 
 * Titrians — ihs full Highland dress, made of 
 the checkered stuff so termed. 
 
 t Pibroch — a piece of martial music, adapted 
 to the Highland bagpipe. 
 
390 
 
 CONTRIBUTIONS TO ^MINSTRELSY. 
 
 " I heard the groans, I niark'd the tears, 
 I saw the wound his bosom bore, 
 
 When on the serried Saxon spears 
 He pour'd 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 ! 
 
 "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? 
 
 " Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe, 
 Clangillian's Chieftain ne'er shall fear; 
 
 His blood shall bound at rapture's glow. 
 Though doom'd 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 call'd his dogs, and gay withdrew. 
 
 Within an hour return'd each hound; 
 
 In rush'd the rousers of the deer; 
 They howl'd in melancholy sound. 
 
 Then closely couch'd beside the Seer. 
 
 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 press'dtoMoy,theymarktheir fears 
 By shivering limbs and stifled growl. 
 
 Untouch'd, the harp began to ring, 
 As softly, slowly, oped the door; 
 
 And shook responsive every string, 
 As light a footstep press'd the floor. 
 
 And by the watch-fire's glimmering light. 
 Close by the minstrel's side was seen 
 
 A huntress maid, in beauty bright. 
 All dropping wet her robes of green. 
 
 All dropping wet her garments seem; 
 
 Chill'd was her cheek, her bosom bare. 
 As, bending o'er the dying gleam. 
 
 She wrung the moisture from her hair. 
 
 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 : 
 
 "'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 thismorn webore, 
 
 And haply met, while wandering here, 
 The son of great Macgillianore. 
 
 " 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, ray own sad vow to keep. 
 Here will I pour my midnight prayer, 
 W'hich still must rise when mortals 
 sleep." — 
 
 " O first, for pity's gentle sake, 
 
 Guide a lone wanderer on her way ! 
 
 For I must cross the haunted brake. 
 And reach my father's towers ere day." 
 
GLENFINLAS ; OR, LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. 
 
 391 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 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 quidc his color went and came, 
 As fear and rage alternate rose. 
 
 " And thou ! when by the blazing oak 
 I lay, to her and love resign'd, 
 
 Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke. 
 Or sail'd 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 — 
 Th^ Jre, the Monarch of the Mine." 
 
 He mutter'd thrice St. Oran's rhyme, 
 And thrice St. Fillan's powerful 
 prayer; * 
 
 Then turn'd him to the eastern clime. 
 And sternly shook his coal-black hair. 
 
 And, bending o'er the 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 wax'd 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; 
 
 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. 
 
 Next dropp'd from high a mangled 
 arm; 
 
 The fingers strain'd a 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, 
 Stream'd 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' dreaVy glen ! 
 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. 
 
 O hone a rie' ! O hone a rie' ! 
 
 The pride of Albin s line is o'er ! 
 And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree; 
 
 We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more ! 
 
 Lewis's collection produced also what Scott 
 iustly calls his " first serious attempts in verse ; ' 
 and of these the earliest appears to have been the 
 Glenfinlas. Here the scene is laid in the most 
 favorite district of his favorite Perthshire High- 
 lands; and the Gaelic tradition on which it is 
 founded was far more likely to draw out the 
 secret strength of his genius, as well as to arrest 
 the feelings of his countrymen, tlian any sub- 
 ject with which the stores of C^erman diableru 
 could have supplied him. — Life 0/ Scott, vol. 
 ii., P 25- 
 
392 
 
 CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 Smaylho'me, or Smallholm Tower, the scene of the following ballad, is situated on the 
 * northern boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called Sandiknow- 
 Crags, the prof)erty of Hugh Scott, Esq., of Harden [Lord Polwarth], The tower is a 
 high square building, surrounded by an outer wall, now ruinous. The circuit of the outer 
 court, being defended on three sides by a precipice and morass, is accessible only from the 
 west, by a steep and rocky path. The apartments, as is usual in a Border keep, or fortress, 
 are placed one above another, and communicate by a narrow stair : on the roof are two 
 bartizans, or platforms, for defence or pleasure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the 
 outer an iron gate; the distance between them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of 
 the wall. From the elevated situation of Smaylho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in 
 every direction. Among the crags by which it is surrounded, one, more eminent, is called 
 the Watchfold, and is said to have been the station of a beacon, in the times of war with 
 England. Without the tower<ourt is a ruined chapel. Brotherstone is a heath, in the 
 neighborhood of Smaylho'me Tower. 
 
 This ballad was first printed in Mr. Lewis's Tales of Wonder. It is here published 
 with some additional illustrations, pirticularly an account of the battle of Ancrani Moor ; 
 which seemed proper in a work upon Border antiquities. The catastrophe of the tale is 
 founded upon a well-known Irish tradition. The ancient fortress and its vicinity formed 
 the scene of the Editor's infancy, and seemed to claim from him this attempt to celebrate 
 them in a Border tale. 
 
 The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with clay, 
 
 He spurr'd his courser on. 
 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 
 helmet was laced. 
 And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore : 
 At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel 
 sperthe, 
 Full ten pound weight and more. 
 
 The Baron return'd in three days' space. 
 And his looks were sad and sour; 
 
 And weary was his courser's pace, 
 As he reach'd his rocky tower. 
 
 He came not from where Ancram Moor ' 
 Ran red with English blood; 
 
 Where the Douglas true, and the Iwld 
 Buccleuch, 
 'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. 
 
 * The plate-jack is coat-armor; the vaunt- 
 brace or wam-brace, armor for the body ; the 
 sperthe, a battle-ax. 
 
 Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd. 
 
 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 hiin 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; 
 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 ihuu 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 Watchfold; 
 For, from height to height, the beacons 
 bright 
 Of the English foemen told. 
 
THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 393 
 
 "The bittern clamor'd (roni the moss. 
 The wind blew loud and shrill; 
 
 Yet the craggy pathway she did cross 
 To the eiry Beacon Hill. 
 
 " I watch'd 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 tire she came. 
 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 watch'd the secret pair. 
 On the lonesome Beacon Hill. 
 
 "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'll undo, to her knight so 
 true. 
 On the eve of good St. John.' — 
 
 *' ' I cannot come; I must not come: 
 
 I dare not come to thee; 
 On the eve of St. John I must wander 
 alone : 
 
 In thy bower I may not be.' — 
 
 •' ' Now, out on thee, fainthearted knight ! 
 
 Thou shouldst not say me nay; 
 For the eveis sweet, andwhen lovers meet, 
 
 Is worth the whole summer's day. 
 
 " ' And I'll chain the blood-hound, and 
 the warder shall not sound, 
 And rushes shall be strew'd onthestair: I 
 
 So, by the black-rood stone,*and by holv 
 St. John, 
 I conjure thee, my love, to be there ! ' 
 
 " ' 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 a chamber 
 to the east. 
 And my footstep he would know.' — 
 
 "'O fear not the priest, who sleepeth 
 to the east ! 
 For to Dryburgh t 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 turn'd him around, and grimly he 
 frown'd; 
 Then he laugh'd right scornfully — 
 • 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 boW 
 Baron's brow, 
 Yxoxn the dark to the blood-red high; 
 " Now, tell me the mien of the knight 
 thou hast seen. 
 For, by Mary, he shall die ! " — 
 
 " His arms shone full bright, in the bea 
 con's red light: 
 His plume it was scarlet and blue; 
 On his shield was a hound, in a silver 
 leash bound. 
 And his crest was a branch of the yew.' 
 
 • The black-rood of Melrose was a crucifix of 
 black marble, and of superior sanctity. 
 
 t Dr>'burgh Abbey stands on the banks of the 
 Tweed.' After its 'dissolution, it became the 
 property of the Haliburtons of Newmains, and 
 jifter^vards the seat of the E^ls of Buchan. 
 
394 
 
 CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 
 
 " Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot- 
 
 Loud dost thou lie to me ! 
 For that knight is cold, and low laid in 
 the mould, 
 All under the Eildon-tree." * — 
 
 "Yet hear but my word, my noble lord ! 
 
 For I heard her name his name; 
 And that lady bright she called the knight 
 
 Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! " 
 
 rhe bold Baron's brow then changed, I 
 trow, 
 Froip high blood-red to pale — 
 "The grave is deep antl dark — and the 
 corpse is stiff and stark — 
 So I may not trust thy tale. 
 
 " Where fair Tweed flows round holy 
 Melrose, 
 And Eildon slopes to the plain, 
 Full three nights ago, by some secret 
 foe, 
 That gay gallant was slain. 
 
 "The varying light deceived thy sight, 
 And the wild winds drown 'd the name; 
 
 For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the 
 white monks do sing, 
 For Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! " 
 
 He pass'd 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; 
 
 Ix)ok'd over hill and vale; 
 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 ! 
 
 * Eildon is a high hill, terminatinp; in three 
 v;onical summits, immediately above the town of 
 Melrose, where are the admired ruins of a mag- 
 nificeut monastery. Kildon-tree is said to be 
 the spot where Thomas tlic Rhymer uttered 
 prophecies. 
 
 What news, what news, from Ancram 
 fight? 
 What news from the bold Buc- 
 cleuch? " — 
 
 " The Ancram moor is red with gore, 
 
 For many a Southron fell; 
 And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, 
 
 To watch our beacons well." — 
 
 The lady blush'd red, but nothing she 
 said: 
 Nor added the Baron a word : 
 Then she stepp'd down the stair to her 
 chamber fair, 
 And so did her moody lord. 
 
 In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron 
 toss'd and turn'd. 
 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 malin-bell. 
 
 The night was well-nigh done. 
 When a heavy sleep on that baron fell, 
 
 On the eve of good St. John. 
 
 The lady look'd through the chambei 
 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. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's 
 fair strand. 
 Most foully slain, I fell; J 
 
 And my restless sprite, on the beacon's | 
 height. 
 For a space is dooni'd to dwell, 
 
CADYOIV CASTLE. 
 
 395 
 
 "At our trysting-place.for a certain space, 
 
 I must wander to and fro: 
 But I had not had power to come to thy 
 bower, 
 
 Hadst thou not conjured me so." 
 
 Love master'dfear — her brow shecross'd; 
 
 " How, Richard, hast thou sped? 
 And art thou saved, or art thou lost? " — 
 
 The vision shook his head ! 
 
 " Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; 
 
 So bid thy lord believe : 
 That lawless love is guilt above. 
 
 This awful sign receive. 
 
 He laid his left palm on an oaken beam: 
 His right upon her hand; 
 
 The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, 
 For it scorch'd like a fiery brand. 
 
 The sable score, of fingers four. 
 Remains on that board impress'd; 
 
 And for evermore that lady wore 
 A covering on her wrist.^ 
 
 There is a nun in Dryburgh bower, 
 
 Ne'er looks upon the sun; 
 There is a monk in Melrose tower. 
 
 He speaketh word to none. 
 
 That nun, who ne'er beholds the day,* 
 That monk, who speaks to none — 
 That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady 
 
 gay, 
 
 That monk the bold Baron. 
 
 CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 The ruins of Cadyow or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of 
 Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two miles above 
 its junction with tlie Clyde. It was dismantled, in the conclusion of the Civil Wars, during 
 the reign of the unfortunate Mary, to whose cause the house of Hamilton devoted them 
 selves witii a generous zeal, whicii occasioned their temporary obscurity, and very nearly 
 their total ruin. The situation of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and 
 creeping shrubs, and overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree. 
 In the inunediate vicinity of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of the Cale- 
 donian Forest, which anciently extended through the south of Scotland, from the eastern 
 to the Atlantic (Jcean. Some of these trees measure twenty-five feet and upwards, in cir- 
 cumference ; and the state of decay, in which they now appear, shows that they may have 
 witnessed the rites of the Druids. The whole scenery is included in the magnificent and' 
 extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. There was long preserved in this forest the breed 
 of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity occasioned their being extirpated, about forty 
 years ago.* Their appearance was beautiful, Ijeing milk-white, with black muzzles, horns, 
 and hoofs. The bulls are descrilied by ancient authors as having white manes ; but those 
 of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture with the tame breed.f 
 
 In detailing the death of the Regent Murray, which is made the subject of the following 
 ballad, it would Ix; injustice to my readers to use other words than those of Dr. Robertson, 
 whose acctiunt of that memorable event forms a beautiful piece of historical painting. 
 
 " Hamilton of Hothwellhaugh was the person who committed this barbarous action. He 
 had Ixien condemned to death soon after the battle of Langsidc, as we have already related, 
 and owed his life to the Regent's clemency. But part of his estate had been bestowed upon 
 one of the Regent's favorites,^ who seized his house, and turned out his wife, naked, in a 
 cold night, into the open fields, where, Ijefore next morning, she became furiously mad. 'J'his 
 injury made a deejier impression on him than the benefit he had received, and from that 
 moment he vowed to be revenged of the Regent. Party rage strengthened and inflamed 
 
 * The editor of the edition of 1833 says that a magnificent herd of these cattle still remained till 
 about that time in Cadyow Forest. 
 
 t Thev were formerly kept in the park of Drumlanrig, and are still to be seen at Chillingham 
 Castle in Northun)bcrl.uid. 
 
 t This wns .Sir James Uellenden, Lord Justice-Clerk, whose shameful and inhuman rapacity 
 occasioned the catastroplie in the text. — Spottiswooub. 
 
396 CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 
 
 his fHlvate tesentment. His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded the enterprise. The 
 maxim of that age justified the most desperate course he could take to obtain vengeance. 
 He foUowed the Regent for some time, and watched for an opportunity to strike the blow. 
 He resoh-ed at last to wait till his enemy should arri^'e at Linlithgow, through which he 
 was to pass in his way from Stirling to Edinburgh. He took his stand in a wooden gal- 
 Very, * which had a window towards the street ; spread a feather-bed on the Hoor. to hinder 
 the noise of his feet from being heard, hung up a black cloth behind him, that his shadow 
 might not be observed from without, and. after all this preparation, calmly expected the 
 Regent's approach, who had lodged, during the night, in a house not far distant. Some 
 indistinct information of the danger which threatened him had been conveyed to the Regent, 
 and he paid so much regard to it that he resoWed to return by the same gate through which 
 he had entered, and to fetch a compass round the town. But. as the crowd about the gate 
 was great, and he himself unacquainted with fear, he proceeded directly along the street ' 
 and the throng of people obliging him to move very slowly, gave the assassin time to takr 
 so true an aim, that he shot him. with a single bullet, through the lower part of his belly 
 and killed the horse of a gentleman who rode on his other side. His followers instantly 
 endeavored to break into the house whence the blow had come ; but they found the dooi 
 strongly banicaded, and, before it could be forced open. Hamilton had mounted a flee* 
 horsct which stood ready for him at a back passage, and was got far beyond their reach. 
 The R^ent died the same night of his wound.*' —History of Siotland. book v. 
 
 Bothwellhangh rode straight to Hamilton, where he was received in triumph ; for the 
 ashes of tl»e houses in Clydesdale, which had been burned by Murray's army, were yet 
 smoking ; and party prejudice, the haUts of the age, and the enormity of the provocation, 
 seemed to his kinsmen to justify the deed, .^fter a short abode at Hamilton, this fierce 
 and determined man left Scotland, and served in France, under the f>atronage of the family 
 of Guise, to whom he was doubtless recommended by having avenged the cause of their 
 niece, Queen Mary, apon her ungrateful brother. De Thou has recorded that an attempt 
 was made to eag^e him to assassinate Caspar de Coligni, the famous admiral of France. 
 and the buckler oithe Huguenot cause. But the character of Bothwellhaugh was mistaken. 
 He was no mercenary trader in blood, and rejected the offer with contempt and indignation. 
 He had no authority, he said, from Scotland to commit murders in France ; he had avenged 
 his own just quarrel, but he would neither for price nor prayer avenge that of another man. 
 — TkuaHus, chap. 46. 
 
 The R^ent's death happened 23rd January, 1569. It is applauded or stigmatized, by 
 contemporary historians, according to their religious or party prejudices. The triumph 
 of Blackwood is unbounded. He not only extols the pious feat of Bothwellhaugh, '• who,'' 
 he observes, ''satisfied with a single ounce of lead, him whose sacrilegious avarice had 
 stripped the metropolitan church of St. Andrews of its covering ; " but he ascribes it to im- 
 mediate divine inspiration, and the escape of Hamilton to little less than the miraculous 
 interfoence of the Deity. — Jebb, voL ii. p. 263. With equal injustice, it was, by others. 
 made the ground of a general national reflection ; for, when Mather urged Bemey to assas- 
 sinate Burleigh, and quoted the example of Poltrot and Bothwellhaugh, the other conspira- 
 tor answered " that neyther Poltrot nor Hambleton did attempt their enterpryse without 
 some reason or consideration to lead them to it ; as the one, by hyre, and promise of prefer- 
 ment or rewarde; the other, upon desperate mind of revenge, for a lyttle wrong done unto 
 him, as the i^iort goethe, according to the vyle traj'terous disposysyon of the hoole natyon 
 of the Scottes." — Murdin's StaU Papers, vol. i. p. 197. 
 
 Addrased to the Ri^ HonorabU Lady Anru Hamilion.X 
 
 When' princely Hamilton's abode ] Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, 
 
 Ennobled Cadyow 's Gothic towers, j So sweetly rung each vaulted wall. 
 
 The song went round, the goblet flow'd, \ And echoed light the dancer's bound. 
 And revel sped the laughing hours. ( As mirth and music cheer'd the hall. 
 
 * The iKHise to wbidi this pnqecdng gaUerv was attached was the property of the Archbishop of 
 St. Andrews, a natural brother to the Doke of Chitelherault, and uncle to Bothwellhaugh. Tliis, 
 ainoB^ many other circamstanoes, seems to ennce the aid which Bothwellhaugh receiv^ from his 
 clan in effecting his porpose. 
 
 t The gift of Lotd John Hamilton, Commendator of Arbroath. 
 
 X Eldest HanghtfT of Ar chib al d, 9th Duke of Hamilton. 
 
CAD row CASTLE. 
 
 397 
 
 But Cadyow*s towers, in ruin laid. 
 And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er. 
 
 Thrill to the music of the shade. 
 Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. 
 
 Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame. 
 You bid me tell a minstrel tale. 
 
 And tune my harp, of Border frame. 
 On the wild banks of Evandale. 
 
 For thou, from scenes of courtly pride. 
 From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst 
 turn. 
 
 To draw oblivion's pall aside. 
 
 And mark the long-forgotten urn. 
 
 Then, noble maid ! at thy command. 
 Again the crumbled halls shall rise. 
 
 Lo ! as on Evan's banks we stand. 
 The past returns — the present flies. 
 
 Where, with the rock's wood-ooTer'd 
 side. 
 
 Were blended late the ruins green. 
 Rise turrets in fantastic pride, 
 
 .\nd feudal banners flaunt between : 
 
 \VTiere the rude torrent's brawling course. 
 Was shagg'd with thorn and tangling 
 sloe. 
 
 The ashler buttress braves its force. 
 And ramparts frown in battled row. 
 
 'Tis night — the shade of keep and spire 
 Obscurely dance on Evan's stream; 
 
 And on the wave the warder's fire 
 Is checkeririg the moonlight beam. 
 
 Fades slow their light; the east is gray; 
 
 The weary warder leaves his tower; 
 Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds 
 bay. 
 
 And merry hunters quit the bower. 
 
 The drawbridge falls — they hurry out — 
 Clatters each plank and swinging chain. 
 
 As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout 
 
 Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein. 
 
 First v>f his troop, the Chief rode on;* 
 His shouting merry-men throngbehind ; 
 
 • The head of ihe fainilv of Hamilton, at this 
 period, was James, Eari ot Arran. Duke ol ChStel- 
 
 The steed of princely Hamilton 
 
 Was fleeter than the mountain wind. 
 
 From the thick copse the roebucks bound. 
 The startled red-deer scuds the plain. 
 
 For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound 
 Has roused the mountain haunts again. 
 
 Through the huge oaks of Evandale, 
 Whose limbs a thousand years have 
 worn. 
 
 What sullen roar comes down the gale. 
 And drowns the hunter's pealii^ horn ? 
 
 Mightiest of all the beasts of chase. 
 That roam in woody Caledon, 
 
 Crashing the forest in his race. 
 
 The Mountain Bull comes thimderii^ 
 
 Fierce, on the hunter's quiver'd band. 
 He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow. 
 
 Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the 
 sand. 
 And tosses h^h his mane of snow. 
 
 Aim'd well, the Chieftain's lance has 
 flown; 
 Stni^ling in blood the savage lies; 
 His roar is sunk in hoUow groan — 
 Sound, merry huntsman ! sound the 
 pryu .' ' 
 
 Tis noon — against the knotted oak 
 
 The hunters rest the idle spear; 
 Ctirls through the trees the slender 
 smoke. 
 Where yeoman dig^t the woodland 
 cheer. 
 
 Proudly the Chieftain mark'd his clan. 
 On greenwood lap all careless thrown. 
 
 Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man 
 That bore the name of Hamilton. 
 
 " XNTiy fills not Bothwellhaugh his place. 
 Still wont our weal and woe to share? 
 
 Why comes he not our sport to grace? 
 WTiy shares he not our hunter's 
 fare!" — 
 
 hennlt. in FnuKje, and first peer d the Scottiih 
 realm. In 1569 he was appointed by 0»e««Maiy 
 ho- Ueutenaot.eeneial in Soodaitd. niMler the sin 
 gular title of her adopted father. 
 
398 
 
 CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 
 
 Stern Claud replied,^ with darkening 
 face, 
 
 (Gray Paisley's haughty lord was he,) 
 "At merry feast, or buxom chase. 
 
 No more the warrior wilt thou see. 
 
 " Few suns have set since Woodhouselee ^ 
 Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets 
 foam, 
 When to his hearths, in social glee, 
 The war-worn soldier turn'd him 
 home. 
 
 " Thefe, wan from her maternal throes. 
 His Margaret, beautiful and mild, 
 
 Sate in her bower, a pallid rose. 
 
 And peaceful nursed her new-born 
 child. 
 
 '* O change accursed ! past are those 
 days; 
 
 False Murray's ruthless spoilers came. 
 And, for the heart's domestic blaze. 
 
 Ascends destruction's volumed flame. 
 
 " What sheeted phantom wanders wild, 
 Where mountain Eske through wood- 
 land flows, 
 
 Her arms enfold a shadowy child — 
 Oh! is it she, the pallid rose? 
 
 *' The wilder'd traveller sees her glide. 
 And hears her feeble voice with awe — 
 
 ' Revenge,' she cries, ' on Murray's pride ! 
 And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh ! ' " 
 
 He ceased — and cries of rage and grief 
 Burst mingling from the kindred band, 
 
 And half arose the kindling Chief, 
 And half unsheathed his Arran brand. 
 
 But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and 
 rock. 
 
 Rides headlong with resistless speed. 
 Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke 
 
 Drives to the leap his jaded steed;* 
 
 Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs 
 glare. 
 As one some vision'd sight that saw. 
 Whose hands are bloody, loose his 
 hair ? — 
 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! 'tis Bothwellhaugh. 
 
 From gory selle,* and reeling steed. 
 Sprung the fierce horseman with a 
 bound, 
 
 And, reeking from the recent deed, 
 He dash'd his carbine on the ground. 
 
 Sternly he spoke: — " ' Tis sweet to 
 hear 
 
 In good greenwood the bugle blown. 
 But sweeter to Revenge's ear, 
 
 To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 
 
 " Your slaughter'd quarry proudly trode. 
 At dawning morn, o'er dale and down. 
 
 But prouder base-born Murray rode 
 Through old Linlithgow's crowded 
 town. 
 
 " From the wild Border's humbled side,^ 
 In haughty triumph marched he. 
 
 While Knox relax'd his bigot pride, 
 And smiled, the traitorous pomp to 
 see. 
 
 " But can stern Power, with all his vaunt. 
 Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, 
 
 The settled heart of Vengeance daunt, 
 Or change the purpose of Despair ! 
 
 " With hackbut bent,^ my secret stand. 
 
 Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, 
 And mark'd, where, mingling in his 
 band, 
 Troop'd Scottish pikes and English 
 bows. 
 
 " Dark Morton,! girt with many a spear, 
 Murder's foul minion, led the van; 
 
 And clash'd their broadswords in the 
 rear 
 The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan." 
 
 " Glencairn and stout Parkhead * were 
 nigh. 
 
 Obsequious at their Regent's rein, 
 And haggard Lindesay's iron eye, 
 
 That saw fair Mary weep in vain.^ 
 
 * Selle — saddle. A word used by Spenser 
 and other ancient authors. 
 
 t Of this noted person, it is enough to say, 
 that lie was acti\'e in the murder of David Kizzio, 
 and at least privy to that of Damley. 
 
THE GRAY BROTHER. 
 
 399 
 
 parts — the charger 
 
 " Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove. 
 Proud Murray's plumage floated high; 
 
 Scarce could his trampling charger move. 
 So close the minions crowded nigh.i" 
 
 " From the raised visor's shade, his eye, 
 Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along. 
 
 And his steel truncheon, waved on high, 
 Seem'd marshalling the iron throng. 
 
 " But yet his sadden'd brow confessed 
 A passing shade of doubt and awe; 
 
 Some fiend was whispering in his breast, 
 ' Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh ! ' 
 
 " The death-shot 
 springs — 
 Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! 
 And Murray's plumy helmet rings — 
 — Rings on the ground, to rise no 
 more. 
 
 ♦' What joy the raptured youth can feel, 
 To hear her love the loved one tell — 
 
 Or he, who broaches on his steel 
 The wolf, by whom his infant fell ! 
 
 " But dearer to my injured eye 
 To see in dust proud Murray roll. 
 
 And mine was ten times trebled joy, 
 To hear him groan his felon soul. 
 
 " My Margaret's spectre glided near. 
 With pride her bleeding victim saw; 
 
 And shriek'd in his death-deafen 'd ear, 
 ' Remember injured Bothwellhaugh !' 
 
 " Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault ! 
 
 Spread to the wind thy banner'd tree ! « 
 Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow !— 
 
 Murray is fall'n, and Scotland free!" 
 
 Vaults every warrior to his steed; 
 
 Loud bugles join their wild acclaim : — 
 " Murray is fall'n, and Scotland freed ! 
 
 Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of 
 flame! " 
 
 But, see ! the minstrel vision fails — 
 The glimmering spears are seen no 
 more, 
 
 The shouts of war die on the gales. 
 Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. 
 
 For the loud bugle, pealing high, 
 The blackbird whistles down the 
 
 And sunk in ivied ruins lie 
 
 The banner'd towers of Evandale. 
 
 For chiefs, intent on bloody deed, 
 And vengeance shouting o'er the slain, 
 
 Lo ! high-born Beauty rules the steed. 
 Or graceful guides the silken rein. 
 
 And long may Peace and Plenty own 
 The maids who list the minstrel's tale; 
 
 Nor e'er a ruder guest be known 
 On the (air banks of Evandale ! 
 
 THE GRAY BROTHER. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 The imjjerfect state of this ballad, which was written several years ago. is not a cir- 
 cumstance affected for the purpose of giving it that f>eculiar interest which is often found 
 to arise from ungratified curiosity. On the contrary, it was the Editor's intention to have 
 completed the tale, if he had found himself able to succeed to his own satisfaction. Yield- 
 ing to the opinion of persons, whose judgment, if not biased by the partiality of friendship, 
 is entitled to deference, he has preferred inserting these verses as a fragment, to his inten- 
 tion of entirely suppressing them. 
 
 The tradition upon which the tale is founded, regards a house upon the barony of Gil- 
 merton, near I,asswade. in Mid-Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton Grange, 
 Was originally named Burndale, from the following tragic adventure. The barony of Gil- 
 "i)erton belonged, of yore, to a gentleman named Heron, wlio had one beautiful daughter. 
 
 * An oak, half-sawn, with the motto through, is an ancient cognizance of the family of UamilloQ. 
 
400 
 
 CONTRIBUTIOXS TO MINSTRELSY. 
 
 This young lady was seduced by the Abbot of Newbattle, a richly endowed abbey, upon 
 the banks of the South Esk, now a seat of the Marquis of Lothian. Heron came to the 
 knowledge of this circumstance, and learned also that the lovers carried on their guilty 
 intercourse by the connivance of the lady's nurse, who lived at this house of Gtlmerton 
 Grange, or Burndale. He formed a resolution of bloody vengeance, undeterred by the 
 supposed sanctity of the clerical character, or by the stronger claims of natural affection. 
 Choosing, therefore, a dark and windy night, when the objects of his vengeance were 
 engaged in a stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns and other combustibles, 
 which he had caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to a pile of glowing ashes 
 the dwelling, with all its inmates.* 
 
 The scene with which the ballad opens, was suggested by the following curious passage, 
 extracted from the life of Alexander Peden, one of the wandering and persecuted teachers 
 of the sect of Cameronians, during the reign of Charles II. and his successor, James. This 
 person was supposed by his followers, and, perhaps, really beHeved himself, to be pos- 
 sessed of supernatural gifts; for the wild scenes which ^they frequented, and the constant 
 dangers which were incurred through their proscription, deepened upon their minds the 
 gloom of superstition, so general in that age: — 
 
 " About the same time he [Peden] came to Andrew Normand's house, in the parish of 
 AUoway, in the shire of Ayr, being to preach at night in his barn. After he came in, he 
 halted a little, leaning upon a chair-back, with his face covered ; when he lifted up his 
 head, he said, ' They are in this house that I have not one word of salvation unto ; ' he 
 halted a little again, saying, ' This is strange, that the devil will not go out, that we may 
 begin our work. ' Then there was a woman went out, ill-looked upon almost all her life, 
 and to her dying hour, for a witch, with many presumptions of the same. It escaped me, 
 in the former passages, what John Murhead (whom I have often mentioned) told me, that 
 when he came from Ireland to Galloway, he was at family-worship, and giving some notes 
 of the Scripture read, when a very ill-looking man came, and sat down within the door, at 
 the back of the Italian [partition of the cottage] : immediately he halted and said, ' There 
 is some unhappy body just now come into this house. I charge him to go out, and not 
 stop my mouth ! ' This person went out, and he insisted {vient on), yet he saw him 
 neither come in nor go out." — The Life and Prophecies of Mr. Alexander Peden, lale 
 Minister of the Gospel at New Glenlnce, in Galloway, part ii., § 26. 
 
 A friendly correspondent remarks, " that the incapacity of proceeding in the p)erform- 
 ance of a religious duty, when a contaminated person is present, is of much higher antiq- 
 uity than the era of the Rev. Mr. Alexander Peden." — Vide Hygini Fabulas. cap. 26. 
 " Medea Corintho exiil, Athenas, ad ^geutn Pandionis filiunt devenit in hospitium, eique 
 nupsit. 
 
 " Postea sacerdos Diaruz Medeam exagitare capit, regique negabat sacra caste 
 
 facere posse, eo quod in ea civitate esset tnulier venejica et scelerata ; tunc exulatur." 
 
 While through vaultedroof and aislesaloof, 
 The holy accents rung. 
 
 At the holiest word he quiver'd for (ear, 
 And falter'd in the sound — 
 
 And when he would the chalice rear, 
 He dropp'd it to the ground. 
 
 " The breath of one of evil deed 
 Pollutes our sacred day; 
 
 He has no portion in our creed, 
 No part in what I say. 
 
 " A being, whom no blessed word 
 To ghostly peace can bring; 
 
 • This tradition was communicated to me by John Clerk, Esq., of Eldin, author of an " Essay 
 upon Naval Tactics," who will be remembered by posterity as having taught the genius of Britain 
 to concentrate her thunders, and to launch them against her foes with an unerring aim. 
 
 The Pope he was saying the high, high 
 mass, 
 All on St. Peter's day, 
 With the power to him given, by the 
 saints in heaven, 
 To wash men's sins away. 
 
 The Pope he was saying the blessed mass, 
 And the people kneel'd around. 
 
 And from each man's soul his sins did 
 pass, 
 As he kissed the holy ground. 
 
 And all, among the crowded throng, 
 Was still both limb and tongue. 
 
THE GRAY BROTHER. 
 
 40t 
 
 A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd, 
 Recoils each holy thing. 
 
 "Up, up, unhappy! haste, arise! 
 
 My adjuration fear ! 
 I charge thee not to stop my voice. 
 
 Nor longer tarry here ! " 
 
 Amid them all a pilgrim kneel'd, 
 
 In gown of sackcloth gray; 
 Far journeying from his native field, 
 
 lie first saw Rome that day. 
 
 I'Dr forty days and nights so drear, 
 
 1 ween he had not spoke. 
 And, save with bread and water clear. 
 
 His fast he ne'er had broke. 
 
 Amid the penitential flock, 
 
 Seem'd none more bent to pray; 
 
 But, when the Holy Father spoke, 
 He rose and went his way. 
 
 Again unto his native land 
 
 His weary course he drew. 
 To Lothian's fair and fertile strand. 
 
 And Pentland's mountains blue. 
 
 His unblest feet his native seat. 
 Mid Esk's fair woods, regain; 
 
 Through woods more fair no stream more 
 sweet 
 Rolls to the eastern main. 
 
 ArLcl lords to meet the pilgrim came. 
 
 And vassals bent the knee; 
 For all mid Scotland's chiefs of fame, 
 Was none more famed than he. 
 
 And boldly for his country, still, 
 
 In battle he had stood. 
 Ay, even when on the banks of Till 
 
 Her noblest pour'd their blood. 
 
 Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet ! 
 
 By Esk's fair streams that run. 
 O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep. 
 
 Impervious to the sun. 
 
 There the rapt poet's step may rove. 
 And yield the muse the day; 
 
 There Beauty, led by timid Love, 
 May shun the tell-tale ray; 
 
 From that fair dome, where suit is paid 
 
 By blast of bugle free,i 
 To Auchendinny's hazel glade,- 
 
 And haunted Woodhouselee. 
 
 Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,' 
 
 And Roslin's rocky glen,* 
 Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,* 
 
 And classic Hawthornden?* 
 
 Yet never a path, from day to day. 
 The pilgrim's footsteps range, 
 
 Save but the solitary way 
 To Burndale's ruin'd grange. 
 
 A woeful place was that, I ween, 
 
 As sorrow could desire; 
 For nodding to the fall was each crum- 
 bling wall, 
 
 And the roof was scathed with fire. 
 
 It fell upon a summer's eve. 
 
 While, on Carnethy's head. 
 The last faint gleams of the sun's low 
 beams • 
 
 Had streak'd the gray with red; 
 
 And the convent bell did vespers tell, 
 
 Newbattle's oaks among. 
 And mingled with the solemn knell 
 
 Our Ladye's evening song; 
 
 The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell. 
 Came slowly down the wind. 
 
 And on the pilgrim's ear they fell. 
 As his wonted path he did find. 
 
 Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was. 
 
 Nor ever raised his eye. 
 Until he came to that dreary place. 
 
 Which did all in ruins lie. 
 
 He gazed on the walls, so scathed with 
 fire. 
 
 With many a bitter groan — 
 And there was aware of a Gray Friar, 
 
 Resting him on a stone. 
 
 " Now, Christ thee save ! " said the Gray 
 Brother; 
 
 " Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." 
 But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, 
 
 Nor answer again made he. 
 
462 
 
 CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 
 
 " O come ye from east, or come ye from 
 west, 
 Or bring reliques from over the sea; 
 Or come ye from the shrine of St. James 
 the divine. 
 Or St. John of Beverley?" 
 
 " I come not from the shrine of St. James 
 
 the divine, 
 
 Nor bring reliques from over the sea; 
 
 I bring but a curse from our father, the 
 
 Pope, 
 
 Which forever will cling to me." — 
 
 •' Now, woeful pilgrim, say not so ! 
 
 But kneel thee down to me, 
 And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin, 
 
 That absolved thou mayst be." — 
 
 " And who art thou, thou Gray 
 Brother, 
 That I should shrive to thee. 
 When He, to whom are given the keys 
 of earth and heaven. 
 Has no power to pardon me ? " — 
 
 " Oh I am sent from a distant clime, 
 
 Five thousand miles away, 
 And all to absolve a foul, foul crime. 
 
 Done here 'twixt night and day." 
 
 The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand, 
 
 And thus began his saye — 
 When on his neck an ice-cold hand 
 
 Did that Gray Brother laye. 
 
BALLADS 
 
 {TRANSLATED OR IMITATED) 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN, Etc. 
 
 WILLIAM AND HELEN. 
 
 [1796.] 
 
 IMITATED FROM THE "LENORE" OF BURGER. 
 
 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 return'd to dry 
 The tears his love had shed. 
 
 Our gallant host was homeward bound 
 
 With many a song of joy; 
 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. 
 
 Full many a maid her true-love met. 
 And sobb'd in his embrace. 
 
 And fluttering joy in tears and smiles 
 Array'd 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. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The martial band is past and gone ; 
 
 She rends her raven hair. 
 And in distraction's bitter mood 
 
 She weeps with wild despair. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " O rise, my child," her mother said, 
 
 " Nor sorrow thus in vain; 
 A perjured lover's fleeting heart. 
 
 No tears recall again." — 
 
 403 
 
404 
 
 BALLADS FROM TILE GERMAN. 
 
 " O mother, what is gone, is gone, 
 What's lost for ever lorn : 
 
 Death, death alone can comfort me; 
 O had I ne'er been born ! 
 
 "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; 
 " 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 ! 
 His will, that turn'd 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 pray'd for William's sake. 
 And all my prayers were vain." — 
 
 " O take the sacrament, my child, 
 And check these tears that flow; 
 
 By resignation's humlale prayer, 
 O hallow'd be thy woe ! " — 
 
 "No sacrament can quench this fire, 
 Or slake this scorching pain; 
 
 No sacrament can bid the dead 
 Arise and live again. 
 
 " O break, my heart, — O lireak at once ! 
 Be thou my god, Despair ! 
 
 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; 
 Impute it not, I pray ! 
 
 " Forbear, my child, this desperate woe, 
 
 And turn to God and grace; 
 Well can devotion's heavenly glow 
 
 Convert thy bale to bliss." — 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " 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. 
 And through the glimmering lattice shone 
 
 The twinkling of the star. 
 
 Tlien, 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. 
 
 XXVI. 
 And hark ! and hark ! a knock — Tap ! 
 
 tap! 
 A rustling stifled noise; — 
 Door-latch and tinkling staples ring; — 
 At length a whispering voice : — 
 
WILLIAM AND HELEN. 
 
 405 
 
 XX vn. 
 " Awake, awake, arise, my love ! 
 
 How, Helen, dost thou fare? 
 Wakest thou, or slecp'st? laugh'st thou, 
 or weep'st? 
 Hast thought on me, my fair?" — 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " My love ! my love ! — so late by night ! 
 
 I waked, I wept for thee: 
 Much have I borne since dawn of morn; 
 
 Where William, could'st thou be ! " — 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " 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 " — 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 "Let the wind howl thro' hawthorn bush ! 
 
 This night we must away; 
 The steed is wight, the spur is bright; 
 
 I cannot stay till day. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " 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 ! 
 Thebellstrikestwelve — dark,dismalhour ! 
 
 O wait, rny love, till day ! " — 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 "Look here, look here — the moon 
 shines clear — 
 Full fast I ween we ride; 
 
 * /??«^ ^ to dress. /?«»<«? ^ to prepare one's 
 self for a journey. 
 
 Mount and away ! for ere the day 
 We reach our bridal bed. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " The black barb snorts, the bridle rings; 
 
 Haste, busk, and bor le, and seat' 
 thee! 
 The feast is made, the chaml)er spread, 
 
 The bridal guests await thee." — 
 
 XXXVI. 
 Strong love prevail'd: She busks, she 
 bounes. 
 She mounts the barb behind. 
 And round her darling William's waist 
 Her hly arms she twined. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And, hurry ! hurry ! off they rode, 
 
 As fast as fast might be; 
 Spurn'd from the courser's thundering 
 heels 
 
 The flashing pebbles flee. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And on the right, and on the left. 
 Ere they could snatch a view. 
 
 Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and 
 plain. 
 And cot, and castle, flew. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 "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? 
 
 XL. 
 " What yonder rings? what yonder sings? 
 
 Why shrieks the owlet gray? " 
 " 'Tis death-bells' clang, 'tis funeral 
 song, 
 The body to the clay. 
 
 " 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. 
 
4o6 
 
 BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 •' Come with thy choir, thou coffin'd 
 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: 
 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? " — 
 *' 'Tis distant far, low, damp, and chill. 
 
 And narrow, trustless maid." — 
 
 "No room for me? " — " Enough for 
 both; — 
 Speed, speed, my barb, thy course ! " 
 O'er thundering bridge, through boiling 
 surge, 
 He drove the furious horse. 
 
 XLVII. 
 Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they 
 rode,* 
 Splash ! splash ! along the sea; 
 The scourge is wight, the spur is bright. 
 The flashing pebbles flee. 
 
 * In the preface to the edition of " William 
 and Helen, published anonymously in 1796, Sir 
 Walter Scott says : — " The first two lines of the 
 forty-seventh stanza, descriptive of the speed of 
 the lovers, may perhaps bring to the recollection 
 of many a passage extremely similar in a transla- 
 rion of " Lenore," which first appeared in the 
 Monthly Magazine. In justice to himself, the 
 translator thinks it his duty to acknowledge that 
 his curiosity was first attracted to this truly 
 romantic story by a gentleman, who having 
 heard " Lenore " once read in manuscript, could 
 only recollect the general outlines, and a part of 
 a couplet which, from the singularity of its 
 
 XLVIII. 
 Fled past on right and left how fast 
 
 Each forest, grove, and bower ! 
 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 ! " 
 
 " O William, let them be ! — 
 
 " See there, see there ! What yonder 
 swings 
 
 And creaks mid whistling rain? " — 
 " Gibbet and steel, th' accursed wheel; 
 
 A murderer in his chain. — 
 
 " 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 hdzel bush 
 The wild career attends. 
 
 Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode, 
 Splash ! splash ! along the sea; 
 
 The scourge is red, the spur drops blood. 
 The flashing pebbles flee. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 How fled what moonshine faintly 
 show'd ! 
 
 How fled what darkness hid ! 
 How fled the earth beneath their feet. 
 
 The heaven above their head ! 
 
 structure and frequent recurrence, had remained 
 impressed upon his memory. If, from des|>air 
 of rendering the passage so happily, the property 
 of another has been invaded, the translator 
 makes the only atonement now in his pwwer 
 by restoring it thus publicly to the rightful 
 owner. 
 
THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 
 
 407 
 
 LV. 
 «'Dost fear? dost fear? The n 
 shines clear, 
 And well the dead can ride; 
 Does faithful Helen fear for them?' 
 " O leave in peace the dead ! " — 
 
 " Barb ! barb ! methinks I hear the cock; 
 
 The sand will soon lie run: 
 Barb! Barb! I smell the morning air; 
 
 The race is wellnigh done." — 
 
 Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode ; 
 
 Splash ! splash ! along the sea; 
 The scourge is red, the spur drojjs blood, 
 
 The flashing pebbles flee. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 " 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 liirds of midnight, scared; 
 
 And rustling like autumnal leaves 
 Unhallowed ghosts were heard. 
 
 O'er many a tomb and tombstone pale 
 
 He spurr'd the fiery horse, 
 Till sudden at an open grave 
 
 He check'd 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. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 The eyes desert the naked skull. 
 The mould'ring flesh the bone. 
 
 Till Helen's lily arms entwine 
 A ghastly skeleton. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The furious barb snorts fire and foam. 
 
 And, with a tearful 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: 
 
 " E'en when the heart's with anguish 
 cleft. 
 
 Revere the doom of Heaven, 
 Her soul is from her lx)dy reft: 
 
 Her spirit is forgiven ! " 
 
 THE WILD HUNTSMAN.* 
 [1796.] 
 
 This is a translation, or rather an imitation, of the Wilde Jager of the German \>oc\. 
 BUrger. The tradition upon which it is founded bears, that formerly a Wildgrave, or keeper 
 of a royal forest, named Falkenburg, was so much addicted to the pleasures of tlie chase, 
 and otherwise so extremely profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed 
 amusement on the Sabbath, and other days consecrated to religious duty, hut accompanied 
 it with the most unheard of oppression upon the poor peasants who were under his vassal- 
 
 • Published (1796) wi'h " William and Helen," enn'tled " The Chase." 
 
4o8 
 
 BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 age. When this second Nimrod died, the people adopted a superstition, founded probably 
 on the many various uncouth sounds heard in the depth of a German forest during the 
 silence of the night. They conceived they still heard the cry of the \Vildgrave"s hounds ; 
 and the well known cheer of the deceased hunter, the sounds of his horse's feet, and the 
 rustling of the branches before the game, the pack, and the sportsmen, are also distinctly 
 discriminated ; but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible. Once, as a benighted Chasseur 
 heard this infernal chase pass by him, at the sound of the halloo, with which the Spectre 
 Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could not refrain from crying " Gluck zit Falkcnbiirg ! " 
 [Good sport to ye, Falkenburg !] " Dost thou wish me good sport .■■ " answered a hoarse 
 voice ; " thou shalt share the game ; " and there was thrown at him what seemed to be a 
 huge piece of foul carrion. The daring Chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, 
 and never jierfectly recovered the personal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, 
 though told with some variations, is universally believed all over Germany. 
 
 The French had a similar tradition concerning an aerial hunter, who infested the forest 
 of Fontainebleau. 
 
 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 brush, the brier, the 
 brake ; 
 While answering hound, and horn, and 
 steed. 
 The mountain echoes startling wake. 
 
 The beams of God's own hallow'd day 
 Had painted yonder spire with gold. 
 
 And, calling sinful man to pray, 
 
 Loud, long, and deep the bell had 
 toll'd: 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ? " 
 
 " Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell," 
 Cried the fair youth, with silver voice; 
 
 " And for devotion's choral swell 
 Exchange the rude unhallow'd noise. 
 
 " To-day the ill-omen'd 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." 
 
 The Wildgrave spurr'd 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-brow'd 
 friend; 
 
 Halloo, halloo ! and, hark away ! " 
 
 The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light. 
 O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill; 
 
 And on the left and on the right. 
 
 Each stranger Horseman foUow'd still. 
 
 Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn, 
 .>\ stag more white than mountain snow, 
 
 And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn, 
 " Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho ! " 
 
 A heedless wretch has cross'd the way; 
 He gasps the thundering hoofs below; 
 
THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 
 
 409 
 
 But, live who can, or die who may, 
 Still, " Forward, forward !" on they go. 
 
 See, where yon simple fences meet, 
 A field with Autumn's blessings 
 crown'd; 
 
 See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, 
 A husbandman with toil embrown'd: 
 
 " O mercy, mercy, noble lord ! 
 
 Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, 
 " Earn'd by the sweat these brows have 
 pour'd. 
 
 In scorching hour of fierce July." — 
 
 Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads, 
 The left still cheering to the prey; 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 solitud'j appear'd; 
 
 He seeks the shelter of the crowd; 
 Amid the flock's domestic herd 
 
 His harmless head he hopes to shroud. 
 
 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 ! " — 
 
 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. 
 
 " Unmanner'd 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 ! " 
 
 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 appal, — 
 
 Again he starts, new-nerved by fear. 
 
 With blood besmear'd, and white with 
 foam. 
 
 While big the tears of anguish pour, 
 He seeks, amid the forest's gloom, 
 
 The humble hermit's hallow'd bower, 
 
 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 pour'd his prayer: — 
 
 " Forbear with blood God'shousetostain; 
 Revere his altar, and forbear ! 
 
 "The meanest brute has rights to plead. 
 Which, wrong'd by cruelty, or pride. 
 
 Draw vengeance on the ruthless head: — 
 Be warn'd 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. 
 
4IO 
 
 BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN 
 
 *' 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 ! ' ' 
 
 He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, 
 "Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! " 
 
 But off, on whirlwind's pinion 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 reign'd alone. 
 
 Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around; 
 
 He strove in vain to wake his horn. 
 In vain to call; for not a sound 
 
 Could from his anxious lips be borne. 
 
 He listens for his trusty hounds; 
 
 No distant baying reach'd 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' hardcn'd 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." 
 
 IVas hush'd : One flash, of sombre glare, 
 With yellow tinged the forests brown; 
 
 Uprose the Wildgrave's bristling hair. 
 And horror chill'd each nerve and bone. 
 
 Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill; 
 
 A rising wind began to sing; 
 And louder, louder, louder still. 
 
 Brought storm and tempest on its wing. 
 
 Earth heard the call; — her entrails rend; 
 
 From yawning rifts, with many a yell, 
 Mix'd 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; 
 
 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 cavern'd space. 
 At midnight's witching hour, ascend. 
 
 This is the horn, and hound, and horse, 
 That oft the lated peasant hears; 
 
 Appall'd, 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, " Holl*' ho ! " 
 
THE FIRE-KING. 
 
 4" 
 
 THE FIRE-KING. 
 
 " The blessings of the evil Genii, which are curses, were upon him. " — Eastern Tale. 
 
 [1801.] 
 
 This ballad was written at the request of Mr. Lewis, to be inserted in his Tales of 
 Wonder* It is the third in a series of four ballads, on the subject of Elementary Spirits. 
 The story is, however, partly historical ; for it is recorded, that during the struggles of the 
 Latin kingdom of Jerusalem, a Knight-Templar, called Saint Alban, deserted to the Sara- 
 cens, and defeated the Christians in many combats, till he was finally routed and slain, in 
 a conflict with King Baldwin under the walls of Jerusalem. 
 
 Bold knights and fair dames, to my harp 
 
 give an ear, 
 Of love, and of war, and of wonder to 
 
 hear, 
 And you haply may sigh, in the midst of 
 
 your glee. 
 At the tale of Gjunt Albert, and fair 
 
 Rosalie. 
 
 O see you that castle, so strong and so 
 
 high? 
 And see you that lady, the tear in her eye ? 
 And see you that palmer, from Palestine's 
 
 land. 
 The shell on his hat, and the staff in his 
 
 hand ? — 
 
 "Now palmer, gray palmer, O tell unto 
 
 me, 
 What news bring you home from the Holy 
 
 Countrie? 
 And how goes the warfare by Galilee's 
 
 strand? 
 And how fare our nobles, the flower of 
 
 the land? " — 
 
 "O well goes the warfare by Galilee's 
 wave. 
 
 For Gilead, and Nablous, and Ramah we 
 have; 
 
 And well fare our nobles by Mount Leba- 
 non, 
 
 For the Heathen have lost, and the Chris- 
 tians have won." 
 
 A fair chain of gold mid her ringlets there 
 
 hung; 
 O'er the palmer's gray locks the fair chain 
 
 has she flung : 
 
 " O palmer, gray palmer, this chain be 
 
 thy fee. 
 For the news thou hast brought from the 
 
 Holy Countrie. 
 
 " And, palmer, good palmer, by Galilee's 
 wave, 
 
 O saw ye Count Albert, the gentle and 
 brave ? 
 
 When the Crescent went back, and the 
 Red-cross rush'd on, 
 
 O saw ye him foremost on Mount Leba- 
 non? " — 
 
 "O lady, fair lady, the tree green it 
 
 grows; 
 O lady, fair lady, the stream pure it flows; 
 Your castle stands strong, and your hopes 
 
 soar on high; 
 But, lady, fair lady, all blossoms to die. 
 
 " The green boughs they wither, the thun- 
 derlx)lt falls. 
 
 It leaves of your castle but levin-scorch'd 
 walls; 
 
 The pure stream runs muddy; the gay 
 hope is gone; 
 
 Count Albert is prisoner on Mount Leba- 
 non." 
 
 O she's ta'en a horse, should be fleet at 
 
 her speed; 
 And she's ta'en a sword, should be sharp 
 
 at her need; 
 And she has ta'en shipping for Palestine's 
 
 land. 
 To ransom Count Albert from Soldanrie's 
 
 hand. 
 
 • Published in i8oi. 
 
412 
 
 BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN: 
 
 Small thought had Count Albert on fair 
 Rosalie, 
 
 Small thought on his faith, or his knight- 
 hood, had he: 
 
 A heathenish damsel his light heart had 
 won, 
 
 The Soldan's fair daughter of Mount 
 Lebanon. 
 
 " O Christian, brave Christian, my love 
 
 wouldst thou be, 
 Three things must thou do ere I hearken 
 
 to thee; 
 Our laws and our worship on thee shalt 
 
 thou take, 
 And this thou shalt first do for Zulema's 
 
 sake. 
 
 " And, next, in the cavern, where burns 
 
 evermore 
 The mystical flame which the Curdmans 
 
 adore, 
 Alone, and in silence, three nights shalt 
 
 thou wake. 
 And this thou shalt next do for Zulema's 
 
 sake. 
 
 " And, last, thou shalt aid us with coun- 
 sel and hand, 
 
 To drive the Frank robber from Pales- 
 tine's land; 
 
 For my lord and my love then Count 
 Albert I'll take, 
 
 When all this is acconiplish'd for Zulema's 
 sake." 
 
 He has thrown by his helmet, and cross- 
 handled sword. 
 
 Renouncing his knighthood, denying his 
 Lord; 
 
 He has ta'en the green caftan, and turban 
 put on, 
 
 For the love of the maiden of fair Leba- 
 non. 
 
 And in the dread cavern, deep, deep under 
 
 ground. 
 Which fifty steel gates and steel portals 
 
 surround, 
 He has watch'd until daybreak, but sight 
 
 saw he none. 
 Save the flame burning bright on its altar 
 
 of stone. 
 
 Amazed was the Princess, the Soldan 
 
 amazed, 
 Sore murmur'd the priests as on Albert 
 
 they gazed; 
 They search'd all his garments, and, 
 
 under his weeds, 
 They found, and took from him, his rosary 
 
 beads. 
 
 Again in the cavern, deep, deep under 
 
 ground. 
 He watch'd the lone night, while the 
 
 winds whistled round; 
 Far off was their murmur, it came not 
 
 more nigh. 
 The flame burn'd unmoved, and naught 
 
 else did he spy. 
 
 Loud murmur'd the priests, and amazed 
 was the King, 
 
 While many dark spells of their witch- 
 craft they sing; 
 
 They search'd Albert's body, and, lo ! on 
 his breast 
 
 Was the sign of the Cross, by his father 
 impress'd. 
 
 The priests they erase it with care and 
 
 with pain. 
 And the recreant return'd to the cavern 
 
 again; 
 But, as he descended, a whisper there 
 
 fell: 
 It was his good angel, who bade him 
 
 farewell ! 
 
 High bristled his hair, his heart flutter'd 
 and beat. 
 
 And he turn'd him five steps, half re- 
 solved to retreat; 
 
 But his heart it was harden'd, his pur- 
 pose was gone. 
 
 When he thought of the Maiden of fair 
 Lebanon. 
 
 Scarce pass'dhe the archway, the thresh- 
 old scarce trode. 
 
 When the winds from the four points of 
 heaven were abroad; 
 
 They made each steel portal to rattle and 
 
 ring. 
 And, borne on the blast, came the dr»*ad 
 P'ire-King, 
 
THE FTRE-KING. 
 
 413 
 
 Full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he 
 drew nigh, 
 
 The fire on the altar blazed bickering and 
 high; 
 
 In volcanic explosions the mountains pro- 
 claim 
 
 The dreadful approach of the Monarch 
 of Flame. 
 
 Unmeasured in height, undistinguish'd 
 
 in form, 
 His breath it was lightning, his voice it 
 
 was storm; 
 I ween the stout heart of Count Albert 
 
 was tame. 
 When he saw in his terrors the Monarch 
 
 of Flame. 
 
 In his hand a broad falchion blue-glim- 
 mer'd through smoke. 
 
 And Mount Lebanon shook as the mon- 
 arch he spoke : — 
 
 " With this brand shalt thou conquer, 
 thus long, and no more, 
 
 Till thou bend to the Cross, and the Vir- 
 gin adore." 
 
 The cloud-shrouded Arm gives the wea- 
 pon; and see ! 
 
 The recreant receives the charm'd gift 
 on his knee; 
 
 The thunders growl distant, and faint 
 gleam the fires, 
 
 As, borne on the whirlwind, the phan- 
 tom retires. 
 
 Count Albert has arm'd him the Paynim 
 
 among. 
 Though his heart it was false, yet his 
 
 arm it was strong; 
 And the Red-cross wax'd faint, and the 
 
 Crescent came on, 
 From the day he commanded on Mount 
 
 Lebanon. 
 
 From Lebanon's Forests to Galilee's 
 
 wave, 
 The sands of Samaar drank the blood of 
 
 the brave; 
 Till the Knights of the Temple and 
 
 Knights of Saint John, 
 With Salem's King Baldwin, against him 
 
 came on. I 
 
 The war-cymbals clatter'd, the trumpets 
 
 replied. 
 The lances were couch'd, and they closed 
 
 on each side; 
 And horsemen and horses Count Albert 
 
 o'erthrew. 
 Till he pierced the thick tumult King 
 
 Baldwin unto. 
 
 Against the charm'd blade which Count 
 Albert did wield. 
 
 The fence had been vain of the King's 
 Red-cross shield; 
 
 But a Page thrust him forward the mon- 
 arch before, 
 
 And cleft the proud turban the renegade 
 wore. 
 
 So fell was the dint, that Count Albert 
 stoop'd low 
 
 Before the cross'd shield, to his steel 
 saddle-bow; 
 
 And scarce had he bent to the Red-cross 
 his head, — 
 
 ^' Bottne Grace, N^otre Dame!'''' he un- 
 wittingly said. 
 
 Sore sigh'd the charm'd sword, for its 
 virtue was o'er. 
 
 It sprung from his grasp, and was never 
 seen more; 
 
 But true men have said, that the light- 
 ning's red-wing 
 
 Did waft back the brand to the dread 
 Fire-King. 
 
 He clench'd his set teeth, and his gaunt- 
 
 leted hand; 
 He stretch'd, with one buffet, that Page 
 
 on the strand; 
 As back from the stripling the broken 
 
 casque roU'd, 
 You might see the blue eyes, and the 
 
 ringlets of gold. 
 
 .Short time had Count Albert in horror 
 
 to stare 
 On those death-swimming eyeballs and 
 
 blood-clotted hair; 
 For down came the Templars, like Ce- 
 
 dron in flood, 
 And dyed their long lances in Saracen 
 
 blood. 
 
414 
 
 BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 The Saracens, Curdmans, and Ishmaelites 
 yield 
 
 To the scallop, the saltier, and crossletcd 
 shield; 
 
 And the eagles were gorged with the in- 
 fidel dead, 
 
 From Bethsaida's fountains to Naphtha- 
 li's head. 
 
 The Battle is over on Bethsaida's plain. — 
 
 Oh, who is yon Paynim lies stretch'd mid 
 the slain? 
 
 And who is yon Page lying cold at his 
 knee? 
 
 Oh, who but Count Albert and fair Rosa- 
 lie ! — 
 
 The Lady was buried in Salem's bless'd 
 bound, 
 
 The Count he was left to the vulture and 
 hound : 
 
 Her soul to high mercy Our Lady did 
 bring; 
 
 His went on the blast to the dread Fire- 
 King. 
 
 Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can tell. 
 How the Red-cross it conquer'd, the 
 
 Crescent it fell : 
 And lords and gay ladies have sigh'd, 
 
 mid their glee, 
 At the tale of Count Albert and fair 
 
 Rosalie. 
 
 FREDERICK AND ALICK 
 
 [iSoi.] 
 
 This tale is imitated rather than translated, from a fragment introduced in Goethe's 
 "Claudina von Villa liella," wlien; it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage 
 the attention of the family, while Ills companions break into the castle. It owes any little 
 merit it may possess to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely 
 lude state, and who, after some material improvements, piiblislied it in his Tales of 
 Wonder. 
 
 Frederick leaves the land of France, 
 Homeward hastes his steps to measure, 
 
 Careless casts the parting glance 
 On the scene of former pleasure. 
 
 Joying in his prancing steed. 
 
 Keen to prove his untried blade, 
 
 Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead 
 Over mountain, moor, and glade. 
 
 Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn, 
 
 Lovely Alice wept alone; 
 Mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn, 
 
 Hope, and peace, and honor flown. 
 
 Mark her breast's convulsive throbs, 
 See, the tear of anguish flows ! — 
 
 Mingling soon with bursting sobs. 
 Loud the laugh of frenzy rose. 
 
 Wild she cursed, and wild she pray'd; 
 Seven long days and nights are o'er; 
 
 Death and pity brought his aid, 
 As the village bell struck four. 
 
 Far from her, and far from France, 
 Faithless Frederick onward rides; 
 
 Marking, blithe, the morning's glance 
 Mantling o'er the mountain's sides. 
 
 Heard ye not the boding sound. 
 As the tongue of yonder tower, 
 
 Slowly, to the hills around. 
 
 Told the fourth, the fated hour? 
 
 .Starts the steed, and snuffs the air. 
 Yet no cause of dread appears; 
 
 Bristles high the rider's hair. 
 
 Struck with strange, mysterious fears 
 
 Desperate as his terrors rise. 
 In the steed the spur he hides; 
 
 From himself in vain he flies; 
 Anxious, restless, on he rides. 
 
THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH. 
 
 415 
 
 Seven long days, and seven long nights, 
 Wild he wander'd, woe the while ! 
 
 Ceaseless care, and causeless fright. 
 Urge his footsteps many a mile. 
 
 Dark the seventh sad night descends; 
 
 Rivers swell and rain-slreams pour, 
 While the deafening thunder lends 
 
 All the terrors of its roar. 
 
 WY-ary, wet, and spent with toil. 
 
 Where his head shall Frederick hide ? 
 
 Where, but in yon ruin'd aisle. 
 By the lightning's flash descried. 
 
 To the portal, dank and low, 
 
 Fast his steed the wanderer bound : 
 
 Down a ruin'd staircase slow. 
 Next his darkling way he wound. 
 
 Long drear vaults before him lie ! 
 
 Glimmering lights are seen to glide ! — 
 " Blessed Mary, hear my cry ! 
 
 Deign a sinner's steps to guide ! " 
 
 Often lost their quivering beam. 
 Still the lights move slow before. 
 
 Till they rest their ghastly gleam 
 Right against an iron door. 
 
 Thundering voices from within, 
 Mix'd with peals of laughter, rose; 
 
 As they fell, a solemn strain 
 
 Lent its wild and wondrous close ! 
 
 Midst the din, he seem'd to hear 
 Voice of friends, by din removed; — 
 
 Well he knew that solemn air, 
 'Twas the lay that Alice loved. — 
 
 Hark ! for now a solemn knell. 
 
 Four times on the still night broke; 
 
 Four times, at its deaden'd swell. 
 Echoes from the ruins spoke. 
 
 As the lengthened clangors die. 
 
 Slowly opes the iron door ! 
 Straight a banquet met his eye. 
 
 But a funeral's form it wore ! 
 
 Coffins for the seats extend; 
 
 All with black the board was spread; 
 Girt by parent, brother, friend, 
 
 Long since numbered with the dead ! 
 
 Alice, in her grave-clothes bound. 
 Ghastly, smiling, points a seat; 
 
 All arose, with thundering sound; 
 All the expected stranger greet. 
 
 High their meagre arms they wave. 
 Wild their notes of welcome swell : — 
 
 " Welcome, traitor, to the grave ! 
 Perjured, bid the light farewell! " 
 
 THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH.* 
 
 [1818.] 
 
 These verses are a literal translation of an ancient Swiss ballad upon the battle of Sem- 
 pach, fought 9th July, 1386, teing the victory by which the Swiss cantons establislied tlieir 
 independence: the author, Albert Tchudi, denominated the Souter, from his profession of 
 a slioemaker. He was a citizen of Lucerne, esteemed liighly among his countrymen, both 
 for his powers as a Afcister-Singer, or minstrel, and his courage as a soldier. 
 
 The circumstance of their being written f:)y a poet returning from the well-fought field 
 he describes, and in which his country's fortune was secured, may confer on Tchudi's verses 
 an interest which they are not entitled to claim from their poetical merit. But ballad 
 poetry, the more literally it is translated, the more it loses its simplicity, without acquirin;:; 
 either grace or strength ; and therefore, some of the faults of the verses must be imjjuted l) 
 the translator's feeling it a duty to keep as closely as possible to his original. The vari- 
 ous puns, rude attempts at pleasantry, and disproportioned episodes must be set down 
 to Tchudi's account, or to the taste of his age. 
 
 * First published in Blackwood, Feb. 1818. 
 
4l6 
 
 BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 The military antiquary will derive some amusement from the minute particulars which 
 the martial poet has recorded. The mode in which the Austrian men-at-arms received the 
 charge of the Swiss, was by forming a phalanx, which they defended with their long lances. 
 The gallant Winkelricd, who sacrificed his own life by rushing among the spears, clasping 
 in his arms as many as he could grasp, and thus opening a gap in those iron battalions, is 
 celebrated in Swiss history. When fairly mingled together, tlie unwieldy length of their 
 weapons, and cumbrous weight of their defensive armor, rendered the Austrian men-at- 
 arms a very unequal match for the light-armed mountaineers. The victories obtained by 
 the Swiss over the German chivalry, hitherto deemed as formidable on foot as on horse- 
 back, led to important changes in the art of war. The poet describes the Austrian knights 
 and squires as cutting the peaks from their boots ere they could act upon foot, in allusion 
 to an inconvenient piece of foppery, often mentioned in the Middle Ages. Leopold III., 
 Archduke of Austria, called " the handsome man-at-arms," was slain in the battle of Sem- 
 pach, with the flower of his chivalry. 
 
 'TWAS when among our linden-trees 
 The bees had housed in swarms, 
 
 (And gray-hair'd peasants say that these 
 Betoken foreign arms,) 
 
 Thenlook'd we down to Willisow, 
 
 The land was all in flame; 
 We knew the Archduke Leopold 
 
 With all his army came. 
 
 The Austrian nobles made their vow, 
 So hot their heart and bold : — 
 
 "On Svvitzer carles we'll trample now, 
 And slay both young and old." 
 
 With clarion loud, and banner proud. 
 
 From Zurich on the lake. 
 In martial pomp and fair array, 
 
 Their onward march they make. 
 
 "Now list, ye lowland nobles all — 
 Ye seek the mountain strand, 
 
 Nor wot ye what shall be your lot 
 In such a dangerous land. 
 
 " I rede ye, shrive ye of your sins. 
 
 Before ye farther go, 
 A skirmish in Helvetian hills 
 
 May send your souls to woe." — 
 
 "But where now shall we find a priest 
 Our shrift that he may hear ? ' ' 
 
 " The Switzer priest* has ta'en the field, 
 He deals a penance drear. 
 
 " Right heavily upon your head 
 He'll lay his hand of steel; 
 
 * All the Swiss priests able to bear arms 
 fought in this strife for their native land. 
 
 And with his trusty partisan 
 Your absolution deal." — 
 
 'Twas on a Monday morning then; 
 
 The corn was steep'd in dew, . 
 And merry maids had sickles ta'en, 
 
 When the host to Sempach drew. 
 
 The stalwart men of fair Lucerne 
 
 Together have they join'd; 
 The pith and core of manhood stern. 
 
 Was none cast looks behind. 
 
 It was the Lord of Hare-castle, 
 And to the Duke he said : — 
 
 " Yon little band of brethren true 
 Will meet us undismay'd." — 
 
 " O Hare castle, t thou heart of hare ! " 
 Fierce Oxenslern replied. — 
 
 " Shalt see then how the game will fare," 
 The taunted knight replied. 
 
 There was lacing then of helmets bright. 
 
 And closing ranks amain; 
 The peaks they hew'd from their boot- 
 points, 
 
 Might well-nigh load a wain.t 
 
 And thus they to each other said : — 
 
 "Yon handful down to hew 
 Will be no boastful tale to tell. 
 
 The peasants are so few." 
 
 t Hasen-stein in the original : literally Hare- 
 stone. 
 
 X The boots of this period had long points at 
 the toes; so long that in the time of Richard II. 
 they were chained up to the knees. Of course 
 they greatly impeded the wearer's movements o8 
 foot. 
 
THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH. 
 
 417 
 
 The gallant Swiss Confederates there 
 
 They pray'd to God aloud, 
 And he display'd his rainbow fair 
 
 Against a swarthy cloud. 
 
 Then heart and pulse throbb'd more and 
 more 
 
 With courage firm and high. 
 And down the good Confederates bore 
 
 On the Austrian chivalry. 
 
 The Austrian Lion* 'gan to growl, 
 
 And toss his mane and tail; 
 And ball, and shaft, and crossbow bolt, 
 
 Went whistling forth like hail. 
 
 Lance, pike, and halbert mingled there. 
 The game was nothing sweet; 
 
 The boughs of many a stately tree 
 Lay shiver'd at their feet. 
 
 The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast. 
 So close their spears they laid; 
 
 It chafed the gallant Winkelried, 
 Who to his comrades said : — 
 
 " I have a virtuous wife at home, 
 
 A wife and infant son; 
 I leave them to my country's care, — 
 
 This field shall soon be won. 
 
 "These nobles lay their spears right 
 thick. 
 
 And keep full firm array, 
 Yet shall my charge their order break. 
 
 And make my brethren way." 
 
 He rush'd against the Austrian band. 
 
 In desperate career. 
 And with his body, breast, and hand. 
 
 Bore down each hostile spear. 
 
 Four lances splinter'd on his crest. 
 
 Six shiver'd in his side; 
 Still on the serried files he press'd — 
 
 He broke their ranks, and died. 
 
 This patriot's self-devoted deed 
 Pirst tamed the Lion's mood, 
 
 And the four forest cantons freed 
 From thraldom by his blood. 
 
 * A puu on the Archduke's name, Lco-pold. 
 
 Right where his charge had made a 
 lane 
 
 His valiant comrades burst, 
 With sword, and ax, and partisan, 
 
 And hack, and stab, and thrust. 
 
 The daunted Lion 'gan to whine. 
 
 And granted ground amain. 
 The Mountain Bull t he l^nt his brows. 
 
 And gored his sides again. 
 
 Then lost was banner, spear, and shield. 
 
 At Sempach in the flight. 
 The cloister vaults at Kbnig's-field 
 
 Hold many an Austrian knight. 
 
 It was the Archduke Leopold, 
 
 So lordly would he ride. 
 But he came against the Switzer churls. 
 
 And they slew him in his pride. 
 
 The heifer said linto the bull : 
 
 " And shall I not complain? 
 There came a foreign nobleman 
 
 To milk me on the plain. 
 
 " One thrust of thine outrageous horn 
 Has gall'd the knight so sore. 
 
 That to the churchyard he is borne 
 To range our glens no more." 
 
 An Austrian noble left the stour. 
 And fast the flight 'gan take; 
 
 And he arrived in luckless hour 
 At Sempach on the lake. 
 
 He and his squire a fisher call'd, 
 (His name was Hans von Rot,) 
 
 " For love, or meed, or charity, 
 Receive us in thy boat ! " 
 
 Their anxious call the fisher heard. 
 
 And, glad the meed to win. 
 His shallop to the shore he steer'd, 
 
 And took the flyers in. 
 
 And while against the tide and wind 
 
 Hans stoutly rowed his way, 
 The noble to his follower sign'd 
 
 He should the boatman slay. 
 
 t A pun on the Urus, or wild-bull, which gave 
 name to the Canton of Uri. 
 
4i8 
 
 BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 The fisher's back was to them turn'd, 
 The squire his dagger drew, 
 
 Hans saw his shadow in the lake, 
 The boat he overthrew. 
 
 He 'whelm'd the boat, and as they strove, 
 He stunn'd them with his oar: — 
 
 " Now, drink ye deep, my gentle sirs. 
 You'll ne'er stab boatman more. 
 
 " Two gilded fishes in tlie lake 
 This morning have I caught, 
 
 Their silver scales may much avail. 
 Their carrion flesh is naught." 
 
 It was a messenger of woe 
 
 Has sought the Austrian land : - — 
 
 " Ah ! gracious lady, evil news ! 
 My lord lies on the strand. 
 
 " At Sempach, on the battle-field. 
 His bloody corpse lies there." — 
 
 " Ah, gracious God !" the lady cried, 
 " What tidings of despair ! " 
 
 Now would you know the minstrel wight 
 
 Who sings of strife so stern, 
 Albert the Souter is he hight, 
 
 A burgher of Lucerne. 
 
 A merry man was he, I wot, 
 
 The night he made the lay. 
 Returning from the bloody spot. 
 
 Where God had judged the day. 
 
 THE NOBLE MORINGER.* 
 
 AN ANCIENT BALLAD. 
 
 [1819.] 
 
 The original of these verses occurs In a collection of Gorman popular songs entitle(5 
 " .Sammlung Deutschen Volkslieder," Berlin, 1807. The legend turns on an incident not 
 peculiar to (jermany, and which, jjerhaps, was not unlikely to happen when crusaders 
 abode long in the Holy Land, and their disconsolate dames received no tidings of their 
 fate. 
 
 I. III. 
 
 O, WILT, you hear a knightly tale of old 
 
 Bohemian day? 
 It was the noble Moringer in wedlock bed 
 
 he lay; 
 He halsed and kiss'd his dearest dame, 
 
 that was as sweet as May, 
 And said, " Now, lady of my heart, 
 
 attend the words I say. 
 
 " 'Tis I have vow'd a pilgrimage unto a 
 
 distant shrine. 
 And I must seek Saint Thomas-land, and 
 
 leave the land that's mine; 
 Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, 
 
 so thou wilt pledge thy fay. 
 That thou for my return wilt wait seven 
 
 twelve-months and a day." 
 
 Then out and spoke that Lady bright, 
 
 sore troubled in her cheer: — 
 "Now tell me true, thou noble knight, 
 
 what order takest thou here; 
 And who shall lead thy vassal band, and 
 
 hold thy lordly sway, 
 And be thy lady's guardian true when 
 
 thou art far away?" 
 
 Out spoke the noble Moringer: — " Of 
 that have thou no care, 
 
 There's many a valiant gentleman of me 
 holds living fair; 
 
 The trustiest shall rule my land, my vas- 
 sals and my state, 
 
 And lie a guardian tried and true to thee, 
 my lovely mate. 
 
 * Composed during Sir Walter Scott's severe and alarming illness of April, i8iq, and dictated in 
 the intervals of exquisite pain to his daughter Sophia and his friend William Laidlaw. It was pub- 
 lished in the Edinburgh Annual Register, 1819. 
 
THE NOBLE MORTNGER. 
 
 419 
 
 " As Christian-man, I needs must keep 
 
 the vow which I have plight, 
 When I am far in foreign land, remember 
 
 thy true knight; 
 And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, for 
 
 vain were sorrow now, 
 But grant thy Moringer his leave, since 
 
 God hath heard his vow." 
 
 It was the noble Moringer from bed he 
 
 made him boune. 
 And met him there his Chamberlain, with 
 
 ewer and with gown; 
 He flung his mantle on his back, 'twas 
 
 furr'd with miniver. 
 He dipp'd his hand in water cold and 
 
 bathed his forehead fair. 
 
 " Now hear," he said, " Sir Chamberlain, 
 
 true vassal art thou mine. 
 And such the trust that I repose in that 
 
 proved worth of thine. 
 For seven years shalt thou rule my towers, 
 
 and lead my vassal train. 
 And pledge thee for my lady's faith till 
 
 I return again." 
 
 The Chamberlain was blunt and true, and 
 
 sturdily said he : — 
 " Abide, my lord, and rule your own, and 
 
 take this rede from me : 
 That woman's faith's a brittle trust. — 
 
 Seven twelve-months didst thou say ? 
 I'll pledge me for no lady's truth beyond 
 
 the seventh fair day." 
 
 The noble Baron turn'd him round, his 
 
 heart was full of care; 
 His gallant Esquire stood him nigh, he 
 
 was Marstetten's heir. 
 To whom he spoke right anxiously : — ■ 
 
 " Thou trusty squire to me, 
 Wilt thou receive this weighty trust when 
 
 I am o'er the sea? 
 
 "To watch and ward my castle strong, 
 
 and to protect my land. 
 And to the hunting or the host to lead my 
 
 vassal band; 
 And pledge thee for my lady's faith till 
 
 seven long years are gone. 
 And guard her as Our Lady dear was 
 
 guarded by Saint John." 
 
 Marstetten's heir was kind and true, but 
 
 fiery, hot, and young. 
 And readily he answer made with too 
 
 presumptuous tongue: — 
 "My noble lord, cast care away, and on 
 
 your journey wend. 
 And trust this charge to me until your 
 
 pilgrimage have end. 
 
 " Rely upon my plighted faith, which 
 shall be truly tried. 
 
 To guard your lands, and ward your 
 towers, and with yjour vassals ride; 
 
 And for your lovely Lady's faith, so vir- 
 tuous and so dear, 
 
 I'll gage my head it knows no change, 
 be absent thirty year." 
 
 The noble Moringer took cheer when 
 thus he heard him speak, 
 
 And doubt forsook his troubled brow, 
 and sorrow left his cheek; 
 
 A long adieu he bids to all — hoists top- 
 sails, and away, 
 
 And wanders in Saint Thomas-land seven 
 twelve-months and a day. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It was the noble Moringer within an or- 
 chard slept. 
 
 When on the Baron's slumbering sense a 
 boding vision crept; 
 
 And whisper'd in his ear a voice: — 
 " 'Tis time. Sir Knight, to wake. 
 
 Thy lady and thy heritage anqther mas- 
 ter take. 
 
420 
 
 BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 " Thy tower another banner knows, thy 
 steeds another rein, 
 
 And stoop them to another's will thy 
 gallant vassal train ; 
 
 And she, the Lady of thy love, so faith- 
 ful once and fair, 
 
 This night within thv father's hall she 
 weds Marstetten's heir." 
 
 It is the noble Moringer starts up and 
 
 tears his beard : — 
 " O would that I had ne'er been born I 
 
 what tidings have I heard? 
 To lose my lordship and my lands the 
 
 less would be mv care. 
 But, God ! that e'er a squire untrue 
 
 should wed my Lady fair. 
 
 " O good Saint Thomas, hear," he pray'd, 
 
 " my patron Saint art thou, 
 A traitor robs me of my land even while 
 
 I pay my vow I 
 My wife he brings to infamy that was so 
 
 pure of name. 
 And I am far in foreign land, and must 
 
 endure the shame." 
 
 XVIII. 
 It was the good Saint Thomas, then, who 
 
 heard his pilgrim's prayer, 
 And sent a sleep so deep and dead that 
 
 it o'erpower'd his care; 
 He waked in fair Bohemian land OTjt- 
 
 stretch'd beside a rill, 
 High on the right a castle stood, low on 
 
 the left a mill. 
 
 The Moringer he started up as one from 
 
 spell unbound, 
 And dizzy with surprise and joy gazed 
 
 wildly all around: — 
 " I know my fathers' ancient towers, the 
 
 mill, the stream I know. 
 Now blessed be my patron Saint who 
 
 cheer'd his pilgrim's woe ! " 
 
 He leant upon his pilgrim staff, and to 
 
 the mill he drew. 
 So alter 'd was his goodly form that none 
 
 their master knew; 
 The Baron to the miller said: — " Good 
 
 friend, for charity, 
 Tell a poor palmer in your land what 
 
 tidings may there be ? " 
 
 The miller answer'd him again : — " He 
 
 knew of little news, 
 Save that the Lady of the land did a new 
 
 bridegroom choose; 
 Her husband died in distant land, such 
 
 is the constant word. 
 His death sits heavy on our souls, he was 
 
 a worthy Lord. 
 
 " Of him I held the little mill which wins 
 
 me living free, 
 God rest the Baron in his grave, he still 
 
 was kind to me ! 
 And when Saint Martin's tide comes 
 
 round, and millers take their toll. 
 The priest that prays for Moringer shall 
 
 have both cope and stole." 
 
 It was the noble Moringer to climb the 
 
 ' hill began, 
 
 And stood before the bolted gate a woe 
 and weary man : — 
 
 *' Now help me, every saint in heaven 
 that can compassion take. 
 
 To gain the entrance of my hall this woe- 
 ful match to break." 
 
 His very knock it sounded sad, his call 
 
 was sad and slow. 
 For heart and head, and voice and hand, 
 
 were heavy all with woe; 
 And to the warder thus he spoke : — 
 
 " Friend to thy Lady say, 
 A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land craves 
 
 harbor for a day. 
 
THE NOBLE MORINGER. 
 
 421 
 
 " I've wander'd many a weary step, my 
 
 strength is well-nigh done, 
 And if she turn me from her gate I'll 
 
 see no morrow's sun; 
 I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, a 
 
 pilgrim's bed and dole. 
 And for the sake of Moringer's, her 
 
 once-loved husband's soul." 
 
 It was the stalwart warder then he came 
 
 his dame before : — 
 " A pilgrim, worn and travel-toil'd, 
 
 stands at the castle-door; 
 And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, 
 
 for harbor and for dole, 
 And for the sake of Moringer thy noble 
 
 husband's soul," 
 
 The Lady's gentle heart was moved : — 
 
 " Do up the gate," she said, 
 " And bid the wanderer welcome be to 
 
 banquet and to bed; 
 And since he names my husband's name, 
 
 so that he lists to stay. 
 These towers shall be his harborage a 
 
 twelvemonth and a day." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 It was the stalwart warder then undid the 
 
 portal broad; 
 It was the noble Moringer that o'er the 
 
 threshold strode: — 
 " And have thou thanks, kind Heaven," 
 
 he said, " though from a man of sin, 
 That the true lord stands here once more 
 
 his castle-gate within." 
 
 Then up the halls paced Moringer, his 
 
 step was sad and slow ; 
 It sat full heavy on his heart, none 
 
 seem'd their Lord to know; 
 He sat him on a lowly bench, oppress'd 
 
 with woe and wrong. 
 Short space he sat, but ne'er to him 
 
 seem'd little space so long. 
 
 Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, 
 
 and come was evening hour. 
 The time was nigh when new-made brides 
 
 retire to nuptial bower; 
 " Our castle's wont," a brides-man said, 
 
 " hath been both firm and long. 
 No guest to harbor in our halls till he 
 
 shall chant a song." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Tlien spoke the youthful bridegroom 
 
 there, as he sal by the bride : — 
 "My merry minstrel folk," quoth he, 
 
 " lay shalm and harp aside; 
 Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, the 
 
 castle's rule to hold. 
 And well his guerdon will I pay with 
 
 garment and with gold." — 
 
 " Chill flows the lay of frozen age," 
 'twas thus the pilgrim sung, 
 
 " Nor golden meed nor garment gay un- 
 locks his heavy tongue; 
 
 Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at 
 board as rich as thine, 
 
 And by my side as fair a bride with all 
 her charms was mine. 
 
 ' ' But time traced furrows on my face, and 
 
 I grew silver-hair'd. 
 For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, 
 
 she left this brow and beard; 
 Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I 
 
 tread life's latest stage. 
 And mingle with your bridal mirth the 
 
 lay of frozen age." 
 
 It was the noble Lady there this woeful 
 
 lay that hears. 
 And for the aged pilgrim's grief her eye 
 
 was dimm'd with tears; 
 She bade her gallant cupbearer a golden 
 
 beaker take. 
 And bear it to the palmer poor to quaff 
 
 it for her sake. 
 
422 
 
 BALLADS FROM TLIE G EH MA AT. 
 
 It was the noble Moringer that dropp'd 
 
 amid the wine 
 A bridal ring of burning gold so costly 
 
 and so fine: 
 Now listen, gentles, to my song; it tells 
 
 you but the sooth, 
 "Twas with that very ring of gold he 
 
 pledged his bridal truth. 
 
 Then to the cupbearer he said: — " Do 
 
 me one kindly deed, 
 And should my better days return, full 
 
 rich shall be thy meed; 
 Bear back the golden cup again to yonder 
 
 bride so gay. 
 And crave her of her courtesy to pledge 
 
 the palmer gray." 
 
 The cupbearer was courtly bred, nor was 
 
 the boon denied; 
 The golden cup he took again, and bore 
 
 it to the bride : — 
 "Lady," he said, "your reverend guest 
 
 sends this, and bids me pray. 
 That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge 
 
 the palmer gray." 
 
 The ring hath caught the Lady's eye, she 
 
 views it close and near; 
 Then might you hear her shriek aloud : — 
 
 "The Moringer is here ! " 
 Then might you see her start from seat, 
 
 while tears in torrents fell. 
 But whether 'twas for joy or woe, the 
 
 ladies best can tell. 
 
 But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, 
 
 and every saintly power. 
 That had return'd the Moringer before 
 
 the midnight hour; 
 
 And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that 
 
 never was there bride, 
 That had like her preserved her troth, or 
 
 been so sorely tried. 
 
 " Yes, here I claim the praise," she said, 
 
 "to constant matrons due. 
 Who keep the troth that they have plight, 
 
 so steadfastly and true; 
 For count the term howe'er you will, see 
 
 that you count aright. 
 Seven twelve-months and a day are out, 
 
 when bells toll twelve to-night." 
 
 It was Marstetten then rose up, his fal- 
 chion there he drew; 
 
 He kneel 'd before the Moringer, and 
 down his weapon threw : — 
 
 " My oath and knightly faith are broke," 
 these were the words he said, 
 
 " Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, 
 and take thy vassal's head." 
 
 XLII. 
 
 The noble Moringer he smiled, and then 
 
 aloud did say : — 
 " He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd 
 
 seven twelve-months and a day; 
 My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame 
 
 speaks her sweet and fair, 
 I give her for the bride you lose, and name 
 
 her for my heir. 
 
 " The young bridegroom hath youthful 
 
 bride, the old bridegroom the old. 
 Whose faith was kept till term and tide 
 
 so punctually were told; 
 But blessings on the warder kind that 
 
 oped my castle gate. 
 For had I come at morrow tide, I came 
 
 a day too late." 
 
THE ERL-KING. 
 
 423 
 
 THE ERL-KING. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. 
 
 The Erl-King — Erlen-Konig, or Alder- King — is a goblin that haunts the Black Forest in Thuringia.- 
 To be read by a candle particularly long in the snuff. 
 
 O, WHO rides by night thro' the woodland 
 
 so wild? 
 It is tlie 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 
 
 says; — • 
 " 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? " — 
 " lie still, my heart's darling — my child, 
 
 be at case; 
 It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' 
 
 the trees." 
 
 KRL-KING. 
 
 " O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest 
 
 boy? 
 My daughter shall tend thee with care 
 
 and with joy; 
 She shall liear 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 
 
 thro' the rain? " — 
 "O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it 
 
 full soon; 
 It was the gray willow that danced to the 
 
 moon." 
 
 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 spurr'd 
 thro' the wild, 
 
 Clasping close to his bosom his shudder- 
 ing child; 
 
 He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in 
 dread. 
 
 But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was 
 dead! " 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 JUVENILE LINES. 
 
 FROM VIRGIL. 
 
 1782. ^TAT. 11. 
 
 " Scott's autobiography tells us that his trans- 
 lations in verse from Horace and Virgil were 
 often approved by Dr. Adams [Rector of the 
 High School, Kdinburgh). One of these little 
 pieces, written in a weak, boyish scrawl, within 
 pencilled marks still visible, had been carefully 
 preserved by his mother; it was found folded up 
 in a cover, inscribed by the old lady, — " Afy 
 li'a/ler^sjirst lines, 1782." — Lockiiart, /.//!• 0/ 
 Scott, vol. i. p. 129. 
 
 In awful ruins /Etna thunders nigh, 
 And sends in pitchy whirlwinds to the sky 
 Black clouds of smoke, which still as 
 
 they aspire, 
 From their dark sides there bursts the 
 
 glowing fire; 
 At other times huge balls of fire are 
 
 toss'd, 
 That lick the stars, and in the smoke are 
 
 lost; 
 Sometimes the mount, with vast convul- 
 sions torn, 
 Emits huge rocks, which instantly are 
 
 borne 
 With loud explosions to the starry skies, 
 riie stones made liquid as the huge mass 
 
 flies, 
 Then back again with greater weight 
 
 recoils. 
 While M\n:\ thundering from the bottom 
 
 boils. 
 
 ON A THUNDER STORM. 
 
 1783. — yEt. 12. 
 
 "In Scott's Introduction to the l.ay, he al- 
 ludes to an original effusion of these ' school- 
 boy days,' prompted by a thiuider-slorm, which 
 he says ' was much approved of, luitil a malevo- 
 lent critic sprung up in the shape of an apothe- 
 cary's bluc-buskined wife,' etc. These lines, 
 and another short piece, ' On the Setting Sun,' 
 were lately found wrapped up in a cover, in- 
 scribed by Dr. Adams, ' Walter Scott, July, 
 ,783.'" 
 
 Loui) o'er my head though awful thunders 
 
 roll. 
 And vivid lightnings flash from pole to 
 
 pole. 
 Yet 'tis thy voice, my God, that bids them 
 
 fly. 
 
 1 hy arm directs those lightnings through 
 
 the sky. 
 Then let the good thy mighty name revere, 
 And harden'd sinners thy just vengeance 
 
 fear. 
 
 ON THE SETTING SUN. » 
 
 1783- 
 Those evening clouds, that setting ray. 
 And beauteous tints, serve to display 
 
 Their groat Creator's praise; 
 Then let the short-lived thing call'd man, 
 Whose life's comprised within a span. 
 
 To Him his homage raise. 
 
 We often praise the evening clouds, 
 
 And tints so gay and lx>ld. 
 But seldom think upon our God, 
 
 Who tinged these clouds with gold. 
 
 424 
 
THE VIOLET, 
 
 425 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 These lines were first published in the Eng- 
 lish Minstrelsy, 1810. They were written in 
 1797, on occasion of the poet's disappointment 
 in love. — See Li/e 0/ Scott, vol. i. p. 333. 
 
 The violet in her green-wood bower, 
 Where birchen boughs with hazels 
 mingle, 
 
 May boast itself the fairest flower 
 In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. 
 
 Though fair her gems of azure hue, 
 Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclin- 
 
 I've seen an eye of lovelier hue. 
 
 More sweet through wat'ry 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 
 Reinain'd the tear of parting sorrow. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL. 
 
 Written in 1797, on an excursion from Gills- 
 .'and, in Cumberland. See Li/e, vol. i. p. 365. 
 
 Take these flowers which, purple waving. 
 On the ruin'd rampart grew, 
 
 Where, the sons of freedom braving, 
 Rome's imperial standards flew. 
 
 Warriors from th6 breach of danger 
 Pluck no longer laurels there; 
 
 They but yield the passing stranger 
 Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair. 
 
 WAR-SONG. 
 
 OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT 
 DRAGOONS.* 
 
 1797. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 * Written during the apprehension of an inva- 
 sion, this song appeared originally in the Scott's 
 Afii^azine'm 1802. .Sir Walter was then Quarter- 
 master of the Edinburgh Light Cavalry. 
 
 From high Dunedin's towers we come, 
 
 A band of brothers true; 
 Our casques the leopard's spoils surround. 
 With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd; 
 
 We boast the red and blue.t 
 
 Though tamely couch'd to Gallia's frown 
 
 Dull Holland's tardy train; 
 Their ravish'd toys tho' Romans mourn; 
 Tho' gallant Switzers vainly spurn. 
 
 And, foaming, gnaw the chain; 
 
 Oh! had they mark'ii the avenging call 
 
 Their brethren's murder gave, + 
 Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown. 
 Nor patriot valor, desperate grown. 
 Sought freedom in the grave ! 
 
 Shiill 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, unbought, 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. 
 
 t The roj'al colors. 
 
 t The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss 
 Guards on the fatal loth of August, 1792. 
 
426 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 To horse ! to horse ! the sabres gleam; 
 
 High sounds our bugle-call; 
 Combined by honor's sacred tie, 
 Our word is Laivs ami Liberty ! 
 
 March forward, one and all ! 
 
 THE BARD'S INCANTATION. 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVA- 
 SION IN THE AUTUMN OF 1S04. 
 
 The forest of Glenniure is drear, 
 
 It is all of black pine and the dark oak- 
 tree; 
 And the midnight wind, to the mountain 
 deer, 
 Is whistling the forest lullaby; 
 The moon looks thro' the drifting storm. 
 But the troubled lake reflects not her form, 
 For the waves roll whitening to the land, 
 And dash against the shelvy strand. 
 There is a voice among the trees, 
 
 That mingles with the groaning oak — 
 That mingles with the stormy breeze. 
 And the lake-waves dashing against the 
 rock; — 
 There is a voice within the wood, 
 The voice of the bard in fitful mood. 
 His song was louder than the blast. 
 As the bard of Glenmorc thro' the forest 
 past: — 
 
 " Wake ye from your sleep of death, 
 Minstrels and bards of other days ! 
 For the midnight wind is on the heath. 
 
 And the midnight meteors dimly blaze : 
 The Spectre with his Bloody Hand,* 
 Is wandering through the wild woodland : 
 The owLand the raven are mute for dread. 
 And the time is meet to awake the dead ! 
 
 " Souls of the mighty, wake and say, 
 To what high strain your harps were 
 strung, 
 When Lochlin plow'd her billowy way, 
 
 And on your shores her Norsemen flung ? 
 Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood, 
 Skill'd to prepare the raven's food, 
 All, by your harpings, doom'd to die 
 On bloody Largs and Loncarty.t 
 
 * The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a 
 sp'rit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand. 
 
 t Where the Nor^vegian invader of Scotland 
 received two bloody defeats. 
 
 " Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange 
 
 Upon the midnight breeze sail liy; 
 Nor through the pines, with whistling 
 change 
 Mimic the harp's wild harmony? 
 Mute are ye now ? — Ve ne'er were mute, 
 When Murder with his bloody foot, 
 And Rapine with his iron hand. 
 Were hovering near yon mountain strand. 
 
 " O yet awake the strain to tell. 
 
 By every deed in song enroll 'd. 
 By every chief who fought or fell. 
 
 For Alljion's weal in battle bold: — 
 From Coilgach, X fir^t who roU'd his car 
 Thro' the deep ranks of Roman war. 
 To him, of veteran memory dear. 
 Who victor died on Alxiukir. 
 
 •' By all their swords, by all their scars, 
 By all their names, a mighty spell, 
 By all their wounds, by all their wars. 
 
 Arise, the mighty strain to tell ! 
 For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, 
 More impious han the heathen Dane, 
 More grasping han all-grasping Rome, 
 Gaul's raveninj- legions hither come ! " — 
 
 The wind is husti'd, and still the lake: — ■ 
 Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears, 
 Bristles my hair, my sinews quake. 
 
 At the dread voice of other years : — 
 "When targets clash'd, anil bugles rung, 
 And blades round warriors' heads were 
 
 flung. 
 The foremost of the band were we. 
 And hymn'd the joys of Liberty ! " 
 
 HELVELLYN. 
 1805. 
 
 In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of 
 talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished 
 by losing his way on the mountain Helvcllyn. 
 His remains were not discovered till three months 
 afterwards, when thev were found guarded by a 
 faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant dur- 
 ing frequent solitary rambles through the wilds 
 of Cumberland and Westmoreland. 
 
 I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty 
 Helvellyn, 
 Lakes and mountains beneath me 
 gleam 'd misty and wide; 
 
 % The GaJgacus of Tacitus. 
 
THE DYING BARD. 
 
 427 
 
 All was still, save by fits, when the eagle 
 was yelling. 
 And starting around me the echoes re- 
 plied. 
 
 On the right, Striden-edge round the Red- 
 tarn was bending, 
 
 And Catchedicam its left verge was de- 
 fending. 
 
 One huge nameless rock in the front was 
 ascending. 
 When I mark'd the sad spot where the 
 wanderer had died. 
 
 Dark green was that spot mid the brown 
 
 mountain-heather. 
 Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay 
 
 stretch'd in decay. 
 Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd 
 
 to weather. 
 Till the mountain winds wasted the 
 
 tenantless clay. 
 Noryetquitedesertedjtho' lonely extended. 
 For, faithful in death, his mute favorite 
 
 attended. 
 The much-loved remains of her master 
 
 defended, 
 And chased the hill-fox and the raven 
 
 away. 
 
 How long didst thou think that his silence 
 
 was slumber? 
 When the wind waved his garment, 
 
 how oft didst thou start? 
 How many long days and long weeks 
 
 didst thou number. 
 Ere he faded before thee, the friend of 
 
 thy heart? 
 And, oh ! was it meet, that — no requiem 
 
 read o'er him — 
 No mother to weep, and no friend to de- 
 plore him, 
 And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd 
 
 before him — 
 Unhonor'd the Pilgrim from life should 
 
 depart ? 
 
 When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant 
 has yielded. 
 The tapestry waves dark round the dim- 
 lighted hall; 
 With scutcheons of silver the coffin is 
 shielded, 
 And pages stand mute by the canopied 
 pall; 
 
 Thro' the courts, at deep midnight, the 
 
 torches are gleaming; 
 In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners 
 
 are beaming. 
 Far adown the long aisle sacred music is 
 
 streaming, [fall. 
 
 Lamenting a Chief of the people should 
 
 But meeter for thee, gentle lover of 
 
 nature, 
 To lay down thy head like the meek 
 
 mountain Iamb, 
 When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff 
 
 huge in stature, 
 And draws his last sob by the side of 
 
 his dam. 
 And more stately thy couch by this desert 
 
 lake lying. 
 Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover 
 
 flying. 
 With one faithful friend but to witness 
 
 thy dying. 
 In the arms of Helvellyn and Catche- 
 dicam. 
 
 THE DYING BARD. 
 1806. 
 
 Air — Daffydz GangToen. 
 
 The Welsh tradition tiears, that a Bard, on 
 his death-ljed, demanded his harp, and played 
 the air to which these verses are adapted ; re- 
 questing that it might be performed at his 
 funeral. 
 
 I. 
 
 Din AS Em LINN, lament; for the moment 
 is nigh, 
 
 When mute in the woodlands thine echoes 
 shall die : 
 
 No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall 
 rave. 
 
 And mix his wild notes with the wild dash- 
 ing wave. 
 
 II. 
 In spring and in autumn thy glories of 
 
 shade 
 Unhonor'd shall flourish, unhonor'd shall 
 
 fade; 
 For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the 
 
 tongue, 
 That view'd them with rapture, with 
 
 rapture that sung. 
 
428 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Thy sons, Dinas Emiinn, may march in 
 their pride. 
 
 And chase the proud Saxon from Presta- 
 tyn's side; 
 
 But where is the harp shall give life to 
 their name? 
 
 And where is the bard shall give heroes 
 their fame? 
 
 And oh, Dinas Emiinn, thy daughters so 
 
 fair, 
 Who heave the white bosom, and wave 
 
 the dark hair; 
 What tuneful enthusiast shall worship 
 
 their eye. 
 When half of their charms with Cadwallon 
 
 shall die? 
 
 Then adieu, silver Teivi ! I quit thy loved 
 
 scene. 
 To join the dim choir of the bards who 
 
 have been; 
 With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin 
 
 the Old, 
 And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold. 
 
 And adieu, Dinas Emiinn ! still green be 
 thy shades, 
 
 Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless 
 thy maids ! 
 
 And thou, whose faint warblings my weak- 
 ness can tell. 
 
 Farewell, my loved Harp, my last treas- 
 ure, farewell ! 
 
 THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE. 
 1806. 
 
 A:r — The War-Song of the Men of Gla- 
 morga?i. 
 
 The Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, 
 and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, 
 were usually unable to encounter the shock of 
 the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, how- 
 ever, they were successful in repelling the in- 
 vaders ; and the following verses are supposed 
 to celebrate a defeat of Ci.ark, Earl of Striguil 
 and Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron of 
 
 Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire. 
 Rymny is a stream which divides the counties 
 of Monmouth and Glamorgan : Caerphili, the 
 scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its 
 banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient 
 castle. 
 
 Red glows the forge in Slriguil's bounds. 
 And hammers din, and anvil sounds. 
 And armorers, with iron toil. 
 Barb many a steed for battle's broil. 
 Foul fall the hand which bends the 
 
 steel 
 Around the courser's thundering heel, 
 That e'er shall dint a sable wound 
 On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground ! 
 
 From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of 
 
 morn, 
 Was heard afar the bugle horn; 
 And forth in banded pomp and pride, 
 .Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride. 
 They swore their banners broad should 
 
 gleam. 
 In crimson light, on Rymny's stream; 
 They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel 
 The Norman charger's spurning heel. 
 
 And sooth they swore — the sun arose. 
 And Rymny's wave witii crimson glows; 
 For Clare's red banner, floating wide, 
 Roll'd down the stream to Severn's 
 
 tide! 
 And sooth they vow'd — the trampled 
 
 green 
 Show'd where hot Neville's charge had 
 
 been: 
 In every sable hoof-tramp stood 
 A Norman horseman's curdling blood ! 
 
 Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil, 
 That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian 
 
 broil ; 
 Their orphans long the art may rue. 
 For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe. 
 No more the stamp of armed steed 
 Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead; 
 Nor trace be there, in early spring. 
 Save of the Fairies' emerald ring. 
 
THE MAID OF TORO, 
 
 429 
 
 THE MAID OF TORO. 
 1806. 
 
 O, LOW shone the sun on the fair lake of 
 Toro, 
 And weak were the whispers that waved 
 the dark wood, 
 All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sor- 
 row, 
 Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept 
 to the Hood : — 
 " O saints ! from the mansions of bliss 
 lowly bending; 
 Sweet Virgin ! who hearest the suppli- 
 ant's cry. 
 Now grant my petition, in anguish ascend- 
 ing : 
 My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die ! " 
 
 All 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 
 conflict's dread rattle. 
 And the chase's wild clamor, came 
 loading the gale. 
 Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so 
 dreary; 
 Slowly approaching a warrior was 
 seen; 
 Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so 
 weary, 
 Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his 
 mien. 
 
 *'0 save thee, fair maid, for our armies 
 are flying ! 
 O save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian 
 is low ! 
 Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry 
 is lying, 
 And fast through the woodland ap- 
 proaches the foe." 
 Scarce could he falter the tidings of sor- 
 row, 
 And scarce could she hear them, be- 
 numb'd with despair: 
 And when the sun sank on the sweet lake 
 of Toro, 
 Forever heset to the Brave and the Fair. 
 
 THE PALMER. 
 
 1806. 
 
 " O OPEN the door, some pity to show, 
 Keen blows the northern wind ! 
 
 The glen is white with the drifted snow, 
 And the path is hard to find. 
 
 " No outlaw seeks your castle gate. 
 From chasing the King's deer. 
 
 Though even an outlaw's wretched state 
 Might claim compassion here. 
 
 ** A weary Palmer, worn and weak, 
 
 I wander for my sin; 
 O open, for Our Lady's sake ! 
 
 A pilgrim's blessing win ! 
 
 "I'll give you pardons from the Pope, 
 And reliques from o'er the sea; 
 
 Or if for these you will not ope, 
 Yet open for charity. 
 
 "The hare is crouching in her form. 
 
 The hart beside the hind; 
 An aged man, amid the storm. 
 
 No shelter can I find. 
 
 " You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar. 
 Dark, deep, and strong is he. 
 
 And I must ford the Ettrick o'er 
 Unless you pity me. 
 
 " The iron gate is bolted hard. 
 
 At which I knock in vain; 
 The owner's heart is closer barr'd. 
 
 Who hears me thus complain. 
 
 "Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant. 
 
 When old and frail you Ik, 
 You never may the shelter want. 
 
 That's now denied to me." 
 
 The Ranger on his couch lay warm. 
 And heard him plead in vain; 
 
 But oft amid December's storm. 
 He'll hear that voice again: 
 
 For lo, when through the vapors dark. 
 
 Morn shone on Ettrick fair, 
 A corpce amid the elders rank, 
 
 The Palmer welter'd there. 
 
4%<i 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. 
 
 1806. 
 
 There is a tradition in Tweeddale, that, when 
 Neidpath Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited 
 by the Earls of March, a mutual passion sub- 
 sisted between a daughter of that noble family, 
 and a son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Kttrick 
 Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuit- 
 able by her parents, the young man went 
 abroad. During his absence, the lady fell into 
 a consumption ; and at length, as the only 
 means of saving her life, her father consented 
 that her lover should be recalled. On the day 
 when he was expected to pass through Peebles, 
 on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, 
 though much exhausted, caused herself to be 
 carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, 
 belonging to the family, that she might see him 
 as he rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness 
 gave such force to her organs, that she is said to 
 have distinguished his horse's footsteps at an 
 incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared 
 for the change in her appearance, and not ex- 
 pecting to see her in that place, rode on without 
 recognizing her, or even slackening his pace. 
 The lady was unable to support the shock ; and, 
 after a short struggle, died in the arms of her 
 attendants. There is an incident similar to this 
 traditional tale in Count Hamilton's " Fleur 
 d'fipine." 
 
 O lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 
 
 And lovers' ears in hearing; 
 And love, in life's extremity, 
 
 Can lend an hour of cheering. 
 Disease had been in Mary's bower. 
 
 And slow decay from mourning. 
 Though now she sits on Neidpath 's tower. 
 
 To watch her love's returning. 
 
 All sunk and dim her eyes so liright. 
 
 Her form decay'd by pining. 
 Till througii her wasted hand, at night. 
 
 You saw the taper shining; 
 By fits, a sultry hectic hue. 
 
 Across her cheek was flying; 
 By fits, so ashy pale she grew. 
 
 Her maidens thought her dying. 
 
 Yet keenest powers to see and hear, 
 
 Seem'd in her frame residing; 
 Before the watch-dog prick'd his car. 
 
 She heard her lover's riding; 
 Ere scarce a distant form was kcnn'd. 
 
 She knew, and waved to greet him; 
 And o'er the battlement did bend. 
 
 As on the wing to meet him. 
 
 He came — he pass'd — a heedless gaze, 
 As o'er some stranger glancing; 
 
 Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, 
 Lost in his courser's prancing — 
 
 The castle arch, whose hollow tone 
 Returns each whisper spoken, 
 
 Could scarcely catch the feeble moan, 
 Which told her heart was broken. 
 
 WANDERING WILLIE. 
 
 1806. 
 All joy was bereft me the day that you 
 left me. 
 And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon 
 wide sea; 
 O weary betide it ! I wander Ijeside it, 
 And bann'd it for parting my Willie 
 and me. 
 
 Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy 
 fortune, 
 Oft fought the squadrons of France and 
 of Spain; 
 Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at 
 parting. 
 Now I hae gotten my Willie again. 
 
 When the sky it was mirk, and the winds 
 they were wailing, 
 I sat on the beach wi" the tear in my ee. 
 And thought o' the bark where my 
 Willie was sailing. 
 And wish'd that the tempest cculd a' 
 blaw on me. 
 
 Now that thy gallant ship rides at her 
 mooring. 
 Now that my wanderer's in safety at 
 hame. 
 Music to me were thewildest wind's roaring 
 That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the 
 dark ocean faem. 
 
 When the lights they did blaze, and the 
 guns they did rattle. 
 And blithe was each heart for the great 
 victory. 
 In secret I wept for the dangers of battle. 
 And thy glory itself was scarce comfort 
 to me. 
 
 But now shall thou tell, while I eagerly 
 listen. 
 Of each bold adventure, and every 
 brave scar; 
 
HUNTING SONG. 
 
 43' 
 
 And trust me, I'll smile, though my een 
 they may glisten; 
 For sweet after danger's the tale of the 
 war. 
 
 And oh, how we doubt when there's dis- 
 tance 'tween lovers. 
 When there's naething to speak to the 
 heart thro' the ee; 
 How often the kindest and warmest prove 
 rovers. 
 And the love of the faithfullest ebbs 
 like the sea. 
 
 Till, at times — could I help it ? — I pined 
 and I ponder'd 
 If love could change notes like the bird 
 on the tree — 
 Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae 
 wander'd. 
 Enough, thy leal heart has been con- 
 stant to me. 
 
 Welcome from sweeping o'er sea and 
 
 through channel, 
 
 H ardships and danger despising for fame, 
 
 Furnishing story for glory's bright annal. 
 
 Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and 
 
 hame; 
 
 Enough, now thy story in annals of glory 
 Has humbled the pride of France, Hol- 
 land, and Spain; 
 No more shalt thou grieve me, no more 
 shalt thou leave me, 
 I never will part with my Willie again. 
 
 HUNTING SONG.* 
 1808. 
 Wakkn, lords and ladies gay, 
 On the mountain dawns the day; 
 All the jolly chase is here. 
 With hawk, and horse, a^id hunting-spear ! 
 Hounds are in their couples yelling, 
 Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 
 Merrily, merrily, mingle they : — 
 " Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 
 The mist has left the mountain gray, 
 
 * Published in the continuation of Strutt's cu- 
 rious romance called " Queeuhoo Hall, " 1808. 
 
 Springlets in the dawn are steaming, 
 Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; 
 And foresters have busy been, 
 To track the buck in thickets green; 
 Now we come to chant our lay : — 
 " Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 To the green-wood haste away; 
 We can show you where he lies. 
 Fleet of foot, and tall of size; 
 We can show the marks he made 
 When, 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; 
 You shall see him brought to bay: — 
 " Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 Louder, louder chant the lay, 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 
 
 Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee. 
 
 Run a course as well as we; 
 
 Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, 
 
 Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk : 
 
 Think of this, and rise with day. 
 
 Gentle lords and ladies gay. 
 
 HEALTH TO LORD MELVILLE, t 
 1806. 
 Air — Carrick/ergus. 
 Since here we are set in array round the 
 table, 
 Five hundred good fellows well met in 
 a hall, 
 Come listen, brave boys, and I'll sing as 
 I'm able, 
 How innocence triumph'd, and pride 
 got a fall. 
 
 But push round the claret — 
 Come, stewards, don't spare it — 
 With rapture you'll drink to the toast 
 that I give : 
 Here, boys, 
 Off with it merrily — 
 Melville forever, and long may he live ! 
 
 What were the Whigs doing, when boldly 
 pursuing, 
 Pitt banish'd Rebellion, gave Treason 
 a string? 
 
 t A I'.roadside printed at the time of Lord 
 Melville's acquittal. 
 
432 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Why, they swore on their honor, for 
 Arthur O'Connor, 
 And fought hard for Despard against 
 country and king. 
 
 Well, then, we knew, boys, 
 Pitt and Melville were true 
 boys. 
 And the tempest was raised by the friends 
 of Reform. 
 Ah, woe ! 
 
 Weep to his memory; 
 Low lies the Pilot that weather'd the 
 storm ! 
 
 And pray, don't you mind when the 
 Blues first were raising, 
 And we scarcely could think the house 
 safe o'er our heads? 
 When villains and coxcombs, French 
 politics praising, 
 Drove peace from our tables and sleep 
 from our beds? 
 
 Our hearts they grew bolder 
 When, musket on shoulder, 
 Stepp'd forth our old Statesman example 
 to give. 
 
 Come, boys, never fear. 
 Drink the Blue Grenadier — 
 Here's to old Harry, and long may he 
 live ! 
 
 They would turn us adrift; though rely, 
 sir, upon it — 
 Our own faithful chronicles warrant us 
 that 
 The free mountaineer and his bonny blue 
 bonnet 
 Have oft gone asfarasthe regular's hat. 
 We laugh at their taunting. 
 For all we are wanting 
 Is license our life for our country to give. 
 Off with it merrily. 
 Horse, foot, and artillery. 
 Each loyal Volunteer, long may he live ! 
 
 ' Tis not us alone, boys — the Army and Navy 
 Have each got a slap mid their politic 
 pranks; 
 Cornwallis cashier'd, that watch'd win- 
 ters to save ye. 
 And the Cape call'd a bauble, unworthy 
 of thanks. 
 
 But vain is their taunt; 
 No soldier shall want 
 
 Thethanksthathiscountrytovalorcangive. 
 
 Come, boys. 
 
 Drink it off merrily, — 
 Sir David and Popham, and long may 
 they live ! 
 
 And then our revenue — Lord knows how 
 they view'd it, 
 While each petty statesman talked 
 lofty and big; 
 But the beer-tax was weak, as if Whit- 
 bread had brew'd it. 
 And the pig-iron duty a shame to a pig. 
 In vain is their vaunting; 
 Too surely there's wanting 
 What judgment, experience, and steadi- 
 ness give : 
 Come, boys, 
 Drink it off merrily, — 
 Health to sage Melville, and long may 
 he live ! 
 
 Our King, too — our princess — I dare 
 not say more, sir, — 
 May Providence watch them with mercy 
 and might ! 
 While there's one Scottish hand that can 
 wag a claymore, sir. 
 They shall ne'er want a friend to stand 
 up for their right. 
 
 Be damn'd he that dare not, — 
 For my part, I'll spare not 
 To beauty afflicted a tribute to give : 
 Fill it up steadily. 
 Drink it off readily — 
 Here's to the Princess, and long may 
 she live ! 
 
 And since we must not set Auld Reekie 
 in glory. 
 And make her brown visage as light as 
 her heart;* 
 Till each man illumine hisownuppcrstory, 
 Nor law-book nor lawyer shall force 
 us to part. 
 
 In Grenville and Spencer, 
 And some few good men, sir. 
 High talents we honor, slight difference 
 forgive; 
 
 But the Brewer we'll hoax, 
 Tallyho to the Fox, 
 And drink Melville forever, as long as 
 we live ! 
 
 * The Edinburgh magistrates refused to per. 
 mit illuminations. 
 
EPITAPH. 
 
 433 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 1808. 
 
 Designed for a monument in Lichfield 
 Cathedral, at the Imrial-place of the 
 family of Miss Sexvard. 
 
 Amid these aisles, where once his pre- 
 cepts show'd 
 
 The Heavenward pathway which in life 
 he trod, 
 
 This simple tablet marks a Father's bier. 
 
 And those he loved in life, in death are 
 near ; 
 
 For him, for them, a Daughter bade it rise, 
 
 Memorial of domestic charities. 
 
 Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the 
 marljle spread. 
 
 In femalegrace the willow droopsher head; 
 
 Why on her branches, silent and unstrung. 
 
 The minstrel harp is emV)lematic hung; 
 
 What poet's voice is smothered here in 
 dust. 
 
 Till waked to join the chorus of the 
 just, — 
 
 Lo ! one brief line an answer sad sup- 
 plies, 
 
 Honor'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here 
 Seward lies. 
 
 Her worth, her warmth of heart, let 
 friendship say, — 
 
 Go seek her genius in her living lay. 
 
 THE RESOLVE. 
 
 IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM. 
 
 Published in the " Edinburgh Annual 
 Register." 
 
 1808. 
 
 Mv wayward fate I needs must plain, 
 
 Though lx)otless be the theme. 
 I loved, and was beloved again, 
 
 Yet all was but a dream; 
 For, as her love was quickly got, 
 
 So it was quickly gone; 
 No more I'll bask in flame so hot, 
 
 But coldly dwell alone. 
 
 Not maid more bright than maid was e'er 
 
 My fancy shall beguile, 
 By flattering word or feigned tear. 
 
 By gesture, look, or smile: 
 
 No more I'll call the shaft fair shot. 
 
 Till it has fairly flown, 
 Nor scorch me at a flame so hot; — 
 
 I'll rather freeze alone. 
 
 Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy, 
 
 In cheek, or chin, or brow, 
 And deem the glance of woman's eye 
 
 As weak as woman's vow : 
 I'll lightly hold the lady's heart. 
 
 That is but lightly won ; 
 I'll steel my breast to beauty's art, 
 
 And learn to live alone. 
 
 The flaunting torch soon blazes out, 
 
 The diamond's ray abides; 
 The flame its glory hurls about, 
 
 The gem its lustre hides: 
 Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine, 
 
 And glow'd a diamond stone. 
 But, since each eye may see it shine, 
 
 I'll darkling dwell alone. 
 
 No waking dream shall tinge my thought 
 
 With eyes so bright and vain ; 
 No silken net, so lightly wrought, 
 
 Shall tangle me again : 
 No more I'll pay so dear for wit, 
 
 I'll live upon mine own; 
 Nor shall wild passion trouble it, — 
 
 I'll rather dwell alone. 
 
 And thus I'll hush my heart to rest : — 
 
 "Thy loving labor's lost; 
 Thou shalt no more be wildly blest, 
 
 To be so strangely crost : 
 The widow'd turtles mateless die. 
 
 The phoenix is but one; 
 They seek no loves — no more will I — 
 
 I'll rather dwell alone." 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY OF "THE FAMII/S 
 LEGEND." 
 
 1809. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear expiring Summer's sigh. 
 Thro' forests tinged with russet, wail and 
 
 die; 
 'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to heai 
 Of distant music, dying on the car; 
 
434 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand 
 We list the legends of our native land, 
 Link'd'as they come with every tender tie, 
 Memorials dear of youth and infancy. 
 
 Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, 
 Wake keen remembrance in each hardy 
 
 son. 
 Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, 
 Or till Acadia's* winter-fetter'd soil. 
 He hears with throbbing heart and mois- 
 
 ten'd eyes. 
 And, as he hears, what dear illusions rise ! 
 It opens on his soul his native dell. 
 The woods' wild waving, and the water's 
 
 swell; 
 Tradition's theme, the tower that threats 
 
 the plain. 
 The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain; 
 The cot, beneath whose simple porch were 
 
 told. 
 By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old. 
 The infant group, that hush'd their sports 
 
 the while. 
 And the dear maid who listen'd with a 
 
 smile. 
 The wanderer, while the vision warms his 
 
 brain. 
 Is denizen of Scotland once again. 
 
 Are such keen feelings to the crowd 
 confined. 
 And sleep they in the Poet's gifted mind? 
 Oh no ! For She, within whose mighty page 
 Each tyrant Passionshowshiswoeandrage, 
 Has felt the wizard influence they inspire. 
 And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. 
 Yourselves shall judge — whoe'er has 
 
 raised the sail 
 By Mull's dark coast, has heard this even- 
 ing's tale. 
 The plaided boatman, resting on his oar. 
 Points to the fatal rock amid the roar 
 Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er 
 
 to-night 
 Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; 
 Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give 
 Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe 
 
 and live; 
 More proudly yet, should Caledon approve 
 The filial token of a Daughter's love. 
 
 * Acadia, or Nova Scotia. 
 
 THE POACHER. 
 
 Written in imitation of Crabbe, and 
 published in the Edinburgh Annual 
 Register of 1809. 
 
 Welcome, grave Stranger, to our green 
 
 retreats. 
 Where health with exercise and freedom 
 
 meets ! 
 Thrice welcome. Sage, whose philosophic 
 
 plan 
 By Nature's limits metes the rights of 
 
 man ! 
 Generous as he, who now for freedom 
 
 bawls, 
 Now gives full value for true Indian 
 
 shawls: 
 O'er court, o'er custom-house, his shoe 
 
 who flings, 
 Now bilks excisemen, and now bullies 
 
 kings ! 
 Like his, I ween, thy comprehensive mind 
 Holds laws as mouse-traps baited for man- 
 kind ; 
 Thine eye, applausive, each sly vermin 
 
 sees. 
 That balks the snare, yet battens on the 
 
 cheese ; 
 Thine ear has beard, with scorn instead 
 
 of awe. 
 Our buck-skinn'd justices expound the 
 
 law. 
 Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires the 
 
 pain. 
 And for the netted partridge noose the 
 
 swain ; 
 And thy vindictive arm would fain have 
 
 broke 
 The last light fetter of the feudal yoke, 
 To give the denizens of wood and wild. 
 Nature's free race, to each her free-born 
 
 child. 
 Hence hast thou mark'd, with grief, fair 
 
 London's race 
 Mock'd with the Ixion of one poor Easter 
 
 chase. 
 And long'd to send them forth as free as 
 
 when 
 Pour'd o'er Chantilly the Parisian train. 
 When musket, pistol, blunderbuss, com- 
 bined. 
 And scarce the field-pieces were left be. 
 
 hind ! 
 
THE POACHER. 
 
 435 
 
 A squadron's charge each leveret's heart 
 
 dismay'd, 
 On every covey fired a bold brigade; 
 La douce Humanite approved the sport, 
 For great the alarm indeed, yet small the 
 
 hurt; 
 Shouts patriotic solemnized the day. 
 And Seine re-echo'd Vive la Liber te ! 
 But mad Citoyen, meek Monsieur again, 
 With some few added links resumes his 
 
 chain. 
 Then, since* such scenes to France no 
 
 more are known. 
 Come, view with me a hero of thine own ! 
 One, whose free actions vindicate thecause 
 Of sylvan liberty o'er feudal laws. 
 
 Seek we yon glades, where the proud 
 
 oak o'ertops 
 Wide-waving seas of birch and hazel 
 
 copse. 
 Leaving between deserted isles of land. 
 Where stunted he?th is patch'd with 
 
 ruddy sand. 
 And lonely on the waste the yew is seen. 
 Or straggling hollies spread a brighter 
 
 green. 
 Here, little worn, and winding dark and 
 
 steep. 
 Our scarce-mark'd path descends yon 
 
 dingle deep: 
 Follow — but heedful, cautious of a 
 
 trip, • — 
 In earthly mire philosophy may slip. 
 Step slow and wary o'er that swampy 
 
 steam, 
 Till, guided by the charcoal's smothering 
 
 steam, 
 We reach the frail yet barricaded door 
 Of hovel form'd for poorest of the poor; 
 No hearth the fire, no vent the smoke re- 
 ceives. 
 The walls are wattles, and the covering 
 
 leaves; 
 For, if such hut, our forest statutes say. 
 Rise in the progress of one night and day 
 (Tho' placed where still the Conqueror's 
 
 bests o'erawe, 
 And his son's stirrup shines the badge of 
 
 law),* 
 
 * In the forest courts the presiding judge 
 used to wear as a badge of officer an antique stir- 
 rup, said to have been that of William Rufus. 
 
 The builder claims the unenviable boon, 
 To tenant dwelling, framed as slight and 
 
 soon 
 As wigwam wild, that shrouds the native 
 
 frore 
 On the bleak coast of frost-barr'd Labra- 
 
 dor.t 
 
 Approach, and through the unlatticed 
 
 window peep — 
 Nay, shrink not back, the inmate is 
 
 asleep; 
 Sunk mid yon sordid blankets, till the sun 
 Stoop to the west, the plunderer's toils 
 
 are done. 
 Loaded and primed, and prompt for des- 
 perate hand. 
 Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand; 
 While round the hut are in disorder laid 
 The tools and lx)oty of his lawless trade; 
 For force or fraud, resistance or escape. 
 The crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and the 
 
 crape. 
 His pilfer'd powder in yon nook he 
 
 hoards. 
 And the filch'd lead the church's roof 
 
 affords — 
 (Hence shall the rector's congregation 
 
 fret. 
 That while his sermon's dry his walls are 
 
 wet.) 
 The fish-spear barb'd, the sweeping nets 
 
 are there. 
 Doe-hides, and pheasant plumes, and 
 
 skins of hare. 
 Cordage for toils, and wiring for the snare. 
 Barter'd for game from chase or warren 
 
 won. 
 Yon cask holds moonlight, J run wlien 
 
 moon was none; 
 And late-snatch 'd spoils lie stow'd in 
 
 hutch apart, 
 To wait the associate higgler's evening 
 
 cart. 
 
 Look on his pallet foul, and mark his 
 rest : 
 What scenes perturb'd are acting in his 
 breast ! 
 
 + The New Forest, Hampshire, is now disfor- 
 ested, and its laws, etc., are become things ot the 
 past. 
 
 t A cant term for smuggled spirits. 
 
436 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 His sable brow is wet and wrung with 
 
 pain, 
 And his dilated nostril toils in vain; 
 For short and scant the breath each effort 
 
 draws, 
 And 'twixt each effort Nature claims a 
 
 pause. 
 Beyond the loose and sable neckcloth 
 
 stretch'd, 
 His sinewy throat seems by convulsion 
 
 twitch'd. 
 While the tongue falters, as to utterance 
 
 loth, 
 Sounds of dire import, — watchword, 
 
 threat, and oath. 
 Tho' stupefied by toil, and drugg'd with 
 
 gin, 
 The body sleep, the restless guest within 
 Now plies on wood and wold his lawless 
 
 trade. 
 Now in the fangs of justice wakes dis- 
 
 may'd. — 
 
 " Was that wild start of terror and 
 
 despair. 
 Those bursting eyeballs, and that wilder'd 
 
 air, 
 Signs of compunction for a murder'd 
 
 hare? 
 Uo the locks bristle and the eyebrows 
 
 arch. 
 For grouse or partridge massacred in 
 
 March ? " . 
 
 No, scoffer, no ! Attend, and mark with 
 
 awe, 
 There is no wicket in the gate of law ! 
 He, that would e'er so lightly set ajar 
 That awful portal, must undo each bar: 
 Tempting occasion, hal)it, passion, pride, 
 Will join to storm the breach, and force 
 
 the barrier wide. 
 
 That ruffian, whom true men avoid and 
 dread. 
 
 Whom bruisers, poachers, smugglers, 
 call Black Ned, 
 
 Was Edward Mansell once; — the light- 
 est heart 
 
 That ever play'd on holiday his part ! 
 
 The leader he in every Christmas game. 
 
 The harvest-feast grew blither when he 
 came, 
 
 And liveliest on the chords the bow did 
 
 glance. 
 When Edward named the tune and led 
 
 the dance. 
 Kind was his heart, his passions quick 
 
 and strong, 
 Hearty his laugh, and jovial was his song; 
 And if he loved a gun, his father swore : — 
 " 'Twas but a trick of youth would soon 
 
 be o'er, 
 Himself had done the same some thirty 
 
 years before." ^ 
 
 But he whose humors spurn law's awful 
 
 yoke, 
 Must herd with those by whom law's 
 
 l>onds are broke. 
 The common dread of justice soon allies 
 The clown, who robs the warren, orexcise. 
 With sterner felons train'd to act more 
 
 dread, 
 Even with the wretch by whom his fellow 
 
 bled. 
 Then, — as in plagues the foul conta- 
 gions pass. 
 Leavening and festering the corrupted 
 
 mass, — 
 Guilt leagues with guilt, while mutual 
 
 motives draw. 
 Their hope impunity, their fear the law; 
 Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous 
 
 the same. 
 Till the revenue balk'd, or pilfer'd game. 
 Flesh the young culprit, and exampleleads 
 To darker villany, and direr deeds. 
 
 Wild howl'd the wind the forest glades 
 along. 
 
 And oft the owl renew'd her dismal song; 
 
 Around the spot where erst he felt the 
 wound. 
 
 Red William's spectre walk'd his mid- 
 night round. 
 
 When o'er the swamp he cast his blight- 
 ing look. 
 
 From the green marshes of the stagnant 
 brook 
 
 The bittern's sullen shout the sedges 
 shook ! 
 
 The waning moon, with storm -presaging 
 gleam. 
 
 Now gave and now withheld her doubt- 
 ful beani; 
 
SONG. 
 
 437 
 
 The old Oak stoop 'd his arms, then flung 
 
 them high, 
 Bellowing and groaning to the troubled 
 
 sky — 
 'Twas then, that, couch'd amid the brush- 
 wood sere. 
 In Malwood-walk young Mansell watch'd 
 
 the deer: 
 The fattest buck received his deadly 
 
 shot — ' 
 
 The watchful keeper heard, and sought 
 
 the spot. 
 Stout were their hearts, and stubborn 
 
 was their strife, 
 O'erpower'd at length the Outlaw drew 
 
 his knife ! 
 Next morn a corpse was found upon the 
 
 fell — 
 The rest his waking agony may tell 1 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified 
 air. 
 That your spring-time of pleasure is 
 tiown, 
 Nor bid me to maids that are younger 
 repair. 
 For those raptures that still are thine 
 own. 
 
 Though April his temples may wreathe 
 with the vine, 
 Its tendrils in infancy curl'd, 
 'Tis the ardor of August matures us the 
 wine, 
 Whose life-blood enlivens the world. 
 
 Though thy form, that was fashion'd as 
 light as a fay's. 
 Has assumed a proportion more round. 
 And thy glance, that was bright as a fal- 
 con's at gaze, 
 Looks soberly now on the ground, — 
 
 Enough, after absence to meet me 
 again, 
 Thy slei)s still with ecstasy move; 
 Enough, that those dear sober glances 
 retain 
 For me the kind language of love. 
 
 THE BOLD DRAGOON; 
 
 OK, THE PLAIN OF BADAJOZ. 
 I8l2. 
 
 'TwAS a Marechal of France, and he fain 
 
 would honor gain. 
 And he long'd to take a passing glance 
 at Portugal from Spain; 
 With his flying guns this gallant gay, 
 And boasted corps d'armee -r- 
 O he fear'd not our dragoons, with their 
 long swords, boldly riding, 
 Whack, fal de ral, etc. 
 
 To Campo Mayor come, he had quietly 
 
 sat down. 
 Just a fricassee to pick, while his soldiers 
 sack'd the town. 
 When, 'twas peste ! morbleu ! niott 
 
 Gittiral, 
 Hear the English bugle-call ! 
 And behold the light dragoons, with their 
 long swords, boldly riding, 
 Whack, fal de ral, etc. 
 
 Right about went horse and foot, artillery 
 
 and all, 
 And, as the devil leaves a house, they 
 tumbled through the wall;* 
 They took no time to seek the door. 
 But, best foot set before — 
 O they ran from our dragoons, with their 
 long swords, boldly riding. 
 Whack, fal de ral, etc. 
 
 Those valiant men of France they had 
 
 scarcely fled a mile. 
 When on their flank there soused at once 
 the British rank and file : 
 For Long, De Grey, and Otway, then 
 Ne'er minded one to ten. 
 But came on like light dragooiis, with 
 their long swords, boldly riding, 
 Whack, fal de ral, etc. 
 
 Three hundred British lads they made 
 
 three thousand reel. 
 Their hearts were made of English oak, 
 
 their swords of SheflSeld steel, 
 
 * In their hasty evacuation of Catnpo Mayor 
 the Frencli pulled down a part of the rampart, 
 and mardied out ou the glacis. 
 
438 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Their horses were in Yorkshire bred, 
 And Beresford them led; 
 So huzza for brave dragoons, with their 
 long swords, boldly riding, 
 Whack, fal de ral, etc. 
 
 Then here's a health to Wellington, to 
 
 Beresford, to Long, 
 And a single word of Bonaparte before 
 I close my song: 
 The eagles that to fight he brings 
 Should serve his men with wings. 
 When they meet the bold dragoons, with 
 their long swords, boldly riding, 
 Whack, fal de ral, etc. 
 
 ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE. 
 1814. 
 
 " In the beginning of the year 1692, an action 
 of unexampled barbarity disgraced the govern- 
 ment of King William III. in Scotland. In the 
 August preceding, a proclamation had been is- 
 sued offering an indemnity to such insurgents 
 as should take the oaths to the King and Queen, 
 on or before the last day of December; and the 
 chiefs of sucli tribes as liad been in arms for 
 James, soon after took advantage of the procla- 
 mation. But Macdonald of Glencoe was pre- 
 vented by accident, rather than by design, from 
 tendering his submission within the limited 
 time. In the end of December he went to 
 Colonel Hill, who commanded the garrison in 
 Fort William, to take the oaths of allegiance to 
 the government ; and the latter having furnislied 
 him with a letter to Sir Colin Campbell, sheriff 
 of the county of Argyle, directed him to repair 
 immediately to Inverary, to make his submis- 
 sion in a legal manner before that magistrate. 
 But the way to Inverary lay through almost 
 impassable mountains, the season was extremely 
 rigorous, and the whole country was covered 
 with a deep snow. So eager, however, was 
 Macdonald to take the oaths before the limited 
 time should expire, that, though the road lay 
 within half a mile of his own house, he stopped 
 not to visit his family, and, after various ob- 
 structions, arrived at Inverary. The time had 
 elapsed, and the sheriff hesitated to receive his 
 submission ; but Macdonald prevailed by his im- 
 portunities, and even tears, in inducmg that 
 functionary to administer to him the oath of 
 allegiance, and to certify the cause of his delay. 
 At this time Sir John Dalrymple, afterwards 
 Earl of Stair, being in attendance upon William 
 as Secretary of State for Scotland, took advan- 
 tage of Macdonald's neglecting to take the oath 
 within the time prescribed, and procured from 
 the King a warrant of military execution against 
 that chief and his whole clan. This was done at 
 the instigation of the Earl of Breadalbane, whose 
 
 lands the Glencoe men had plundered, and 
 whose treachery to government in negotiating 
 with the Highland clans, Macdonald himself had 
 exposed. The King was accordingly jiersuaded 
 that Glencoe was the main obstacle to the pacifi- 
 cation of the Highlands; and the fact of the 
 unfortunate chief's submission having been con- 
 cealed, the sanguinary orders for proceeding to 
 military execution against his clan were in conse- 
 quence obtained. The warrant was both signed 
 and countersigned by the King's own hand, and 
 the Secretary ui-ged the oflficers who commanded 
 in the Highlands to execute their orders with 
 the utmost rigor. Campbell of Glenlyon, a 
 captain in Argyle's regiment, and two subalterns, 
 were ordered to repair to Glencoe on the first 
 of I'ebruary with a hundred and twenty men. 
 Campbell, being uncle to young Macdonald's 
 wife, was received by the father with all manner 
 of friendship and hospitality. The men were 
 lodged at free quarters in the houses of his ten- 
 ants, and received the kindest entertainment. 
 Till the 13th of the month the troops lived in the 
 utmost harmony and familiarity with the people ; 
 and on the very night of the massacre the officers 
 passed the evening at cards in Macdonald's 
 house. In the night. Lieutenant Lindsay, with 
 a party of soldiers, called in a friendly manner 
 at his door, and was instantly admitted. Mac- 
 donald, while in the act of rising to receive his 
 guest, was shot dead through the back with two 
 bullets. His wife had already dressed ; but she 
 was stripped naked by the soldiers, who tore the 
 rings off her fingers with their teeth. The 
 slaughter now became general, and neither age 
 nor infirmity was spared. Some women, in de- 
 fending their children, were killed ; boys implor- 
 ing mercy were shot dead by officers on whose 
 knees they hung. In one place nine persons, as 
 they sat enjoying themselves at table, were 
 butchered by the soldiers. In Inverriggon, 
 Campbell's own quarters, nine men were first 
 bound by the soldiers, and then shot at intervals 
 one by one. Nearly forty persons were mas- 
 sacred by the troops; and several who fled to 
 the mountains perished by famine and the in- 
 clemency of the season. Those who escaped 
 owed their lives to a tempestuous night. Lieu- 
 tenant-Colonel Hamilton, who had received the 
 charge of the execution from Dalrymple, was on 
 his march with four hundred men, to guard all 
 the passes from the valley of Glencoe; but he 
 was obliged to stop by the severity of the weather, 
 which proved the safety of the unfortunate clan. 
 Next day he entered the valley, laid the houses 
 in ashes, and carried away the cattle and spoil, 
 which were divided among the officers and 
 soldiers." — Article "Britain;" Encyc. Bri- 
 taunica. — Ncdu Edition. 
 
 " O TELL me. Harper, wherefore flow 
 Thy wayward notes of wail and woe, 
 Far down the desert of Glencoe, 
 
 Where none may list their melody? 
 Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly, 
 Or to the dun-deer glancing by. 
 Or to the eagle, that from high 
 
 Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy? " — • 
 
FdR .-/' T/IAT AN' A' THAT. 
 
 439 
 
 " No, not to these, for they have rest, — 
 The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest. 
 The stag his lair, the erne her nest, 
 
 Abode of lone security. 
 But those for whom I pour the lay. 
 Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain 
 
 Not this deep dell, that shrouds from 
 day, 
 Could screen from treacherous cruelty. 
 
 "Their flag was furl'd, and mute their 
 
 drum, 
 The very household dogs were dumb, 
 Unwont to bay at guests that come 
 
 In guise of hospitality. 
 His blithest notes the piper plied. 
 Her gayest snood the maiden tied. 
 The dame her distaff flung aside. 
 
 To tend her kindly housewifery. 
 
 " The hand that mingled in the meal, 
 At midnight drew the felon steel. 
 And gave the host's kind breast to feel 
 
 Meed for his hospitality ! 
 The friendly hearth which warm'd that 
 
 hand, 
 At midnight arm'd it with the brand, 
 That bade destruction's flames expand 
 
 Their red and fearful blazonry. 
 
 " Then woman's shriek was heard in 
 
 vain. 
 Nor infancy's unpitied plain. 
 More than the warrior's groan, could 
 
 gain 
 Respite from ruthless butchery ! 
 The winter wind that whistled shrill. 
 The snows that night that cloaked the 
 
 hill, 
 Though wild and pitiless, had still 
 P'ar more than Southern clemency. 
 
 " Long have my harp's best notes been 
 
 gone. 
 Few are its strings, and faint their tone. 
 They can but sound in desert lone 
 
 Their gray-hair'd master's misery. 
 Were each gray hair a minstrel string. 
 Each chord should imprecations fling. 
 Till startled Scotland loud should ring: — 
 
 ' Revenge for blood and treachery! ' " 
 
 FOR A' THAT AN' A' THAT.* 
 
 A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. 
 
 .JV 
 
 I»I4. 
 
 Though right be aft put down by strength. 
 
 As mony a day we saw that. 
 The true and leilfu' cause at length 
 
 Shall bear the grie for a' that. 
 For a' that an' a' that. 
 
 Guns, guillotines, and a' that. 
 The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right, 
 
 Is queen again for a' that ! 
 
 We'll twine her in a friendly knot 
 
 With England's Rose, and a' that; 
 The Shamrock shall not be forgot. 
 
 For Wellington made braw that. 
 The Thistle, though her leaf be rude. 
 
 Yet faith we'll no misca' that. 
 She shelter'd in her solitude 
 
 The Fleur-de-lis, for a' that. 
 
 The Austrian vine, the Prussian Pine 
 
 (For Blucher's sake, hurra that). 
 The Spanish Olive, too, shall join. 
 
 And bloom in peace for a' that. 
 Stout Russia's Hemp, so surely twined 
 
 Around our wreath we'll draw that. 
 And he that would the cord unbind. 
 
 Shall have it for his gra-vat ! 
 
 Or, if to choke sae puir a sot, . 
 
 Your pity scorn to thraw that. 
 The Devil's elbow be his lot. 
 
 Where he may sit and claw that. 
 In spite of slight, in spite of might. 
 
 In spite of brags, an' a' that, 
 The lads that battled for the right. 
 
 Have won the day, an' a' that ! 
 
 There's ae bit spot I had forgot, 
 
 America they ca' that; 
 A coward plot her rats had got 
 
 Their father's flag to gnaw that; 
 Now see it fly top-gallant high, 
 
 Atlantic winds shall blaw that. 
 And Yankee loon, beware your croun, 
 
 There's kames in hand to claw that ! 
 
 * Sung at the first meeting of the Pitt Oub of 
 
 Scotland. 
 
440 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 For on the land, or on the sea. 
 Where'er the. breezes blaw that. 
 
 The British flag shall bear the grie 
 And win the day for a' that ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE 
 PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 1814. 
 
 O, DREAD was the time, and more dread- 
 ful the omen. 
 When the brave on Marengo lay 
 slaughter'd in vain, 
 And beholding bro.id Europe bow'd down 
 by her foemen, 
 Pitt closed in his anguish the map of 
 her reign ! 
 Not the fate of broad Europe could bend 
 his brave spirit 
 Totakeforhiscountrythesafetyofsh.ime, 
 0,then in hertriumph remember his merit. 
 And hallow the goblet that flows to his 
 name. 
 
 Round the husbandman's head, while he 
 traces the furrow. 
 The mists of the winter may mingle 
 with rain, 
 He may plough it with lalxtr, and sow it 
 in sornjw, 
 And sigh while he fears he has sow'd 
 it in vain; 
 He may die ere his children shall reap in 
 their gladness, 
 But the blithe harvest-home shall re- 
 member his claim; 
 And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd 
 with sadness, 
 While they hallow the goblet that flows 
 to his name. 
 
 Though anxious and timeless, his life was 
 expended, 
 In toils for our country preserved by 
 his care, 
 Though he died ere one ray o'er the 
 nations ascended. 
 To light the long darkness of doubt 
 and despair; 
 The storms he endured in our Britain's 
 December, 
 The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'er- 
 came, 
 
 In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain 
 remember. 
 And hallow the goblet that flows to his 
 name. 
 
 Nor forget His gray head, who, all dark 
 in affliction, 
 Is deaf to the tales of our victories won, 
 And to sounds the most dear to paternal 
 affection. 
 The shout of his people applauding his 
 Son; 
 By his firmness unmoved in success and 
 disaster. 
 By his long reign of virtue, remember 
 his claim ! 
 With our tribute to Pitt join the praise 
 of his M.aster, 
 Though a tear stain the goblet that 
 flows to his name. 
 
 Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change 
 the sad measure, 
 The rites of our grief and our gratitude 
 paid, 
 To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the 
 bright treasure, 
 The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal 
 that obey'd; 
 Fill Wellington's cup till it beam like 
 his glory, 
 Forget not our own brave Dalhousie 
 and GR/EME; 
 A thousand years hence hearts shall bound 
 at their story. 
 And hallow the goblet that flows to 
 their fame. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO RANALD MACDONALD, 
 ESQ., OF STAFFA.* 
 
 I8J4. 
 
 Staffa, sprung from high Macdonald, 
 Worthy branch of old Clan-T\anald ! 
 Staffa ! king of all kind fellows ! 
 Well befall thy hills and valleys, 
 
 * Afterwards Sir Reginald Macdonald Stewart 
 Seton, of Staffa, Allanton, and Touch, Raronet. 
 He died i6th April, 183.S, in his 61st year. The 
 render will find a warm tribute to Staffa's char- 
 acter as a Highland landlord, in Scott's article 
 on Sir John Carr's Caledonian Sketches. — Mis- 
 cellnneous Prose Works, vol. xix. 
 
PHAROS loquitur". 
 
 441 
 
 Lakes and inlets, deeps and shallows, 
 Cliffs of darkness, caves of wonder. 
 Echoing the Atlantic thunder; 
 Mountains w hich the yray mist covers. 
 Where the Chieftain spirit hov«;rs. 
 Pausing while his pinions quiver, 
 StretchM to quit our land forever! 
 Each kind influence reign alx)ve thee ! 
 Warmer heart 'twixt this and Staffa, 
 Beats not, than in heart of Staffa ! 
 
 PHAROS LOQUITUR* 
 
 Far in the Iwsom of the deep. 
 
 O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep; 
 
 A ruddy gem of changeful light, 
 
 Hound on the dusky brow of night. 
 
 The seaman bids my lustre hail, 
 
 And scorns to strike his timorous sail. 
 
 LEITER IN VERSE. 
 
 ON THE VOYAGE WITH* THE COMMISSION- 
 ERS OF NORTHERN LIGHTS. 
 
 " Ok tlie letters which Scott wrote to his 
 friends during those happy six weeks, I have 
 recovered only one, and it is, tlianks to the 
 leisure of the yacht, in verse. The strong 
 and easy heroics of tlie first section prove, I 
 think, that Mr. Canning did not err when he 
 told him that if he chose he might emulate 
 even Dryden's command of that noble measure; 
 and the dancing anapaests of the second, show 
 that he could with equal facility liave rivalled 
 the gay graces of Cotton, Anstey, or Moore." — 
 Lxkluirt, Life, vol. iv., p. 372. 
 
 TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, 
 ETC. 
 
 Lighthouse Yacht, in the sound of Lerwick 
 Zetland, 8th .-Vugust, 1814. 
 
 Health to the chieftain from his clans- 
 man true ! 
 From her true minstrel, health to fair 
 Buccleuch ! 
 
 * "On the 3ot)i of July, 1814, Mr. Hamilton, 
 Mr. Erskine, and Mr. Duff, Commissioners, 
 along with Mr. (now Sir) Walter Scott, and 
 the writer, visited the Lighthouse ; the Com- 
 missioners being then on one of their voyages 
 of Inspection, noticed in the Introduction. 
 They breakfasted in the Library, when Sir 
 Walter, at the entreaty of the party, upon in- 
 scribing his name in the Album, added these 
 interesting lines." — Stevenson's Account of lite 
 Bell-Rock Lii;htliouse. 1S24. .Scott's Diary 
 of the Voy.ige is now published in the 4th 
 volume on his Life. 
 
 Health from the isles, where dewy Morn- 
 ing weaves 
 
 Her chaplet with the tints that Twilight 
 leaves; 
 
 Where late the sun scarce vanish'd from 
 the sight. 
 
 And his bright pathway graced the short- 
 lived night. 
 
 Though darker now as autumn's shades 
 extend, 
 
 The north winds whistle and the mists 
 ascend ! 
 
 Health from the land where eddying 
 whirlwinds toss 
 
 The storm-rock'd cradle of the Cape of 
 Noss! 
 
 On outstretch'd cords the giddy engine 
 slides. 
 
 His own strong arm the bold adventurer 
 guides, 
 
 And he that lists such desperate feat to 
 
 May, like the sea-mew, skim 'twixt earth 
 
 and sky, 
 And feel the mid-air gales around him 
 
 blow. 
 And see the billows rage five hundred feet 
 
 below. 
 
 Here, by each stormy peak and desert 
 shore. 
 
 The hardy islesman tugs the daring oar. 
 
 Practised alike his venturous course to 
 keep. 
 
 Through the white breakers of the path- 
 less deep. 
 
 By ceaseless peril and by toil to gain 
 
 A wretched pittance from the niggard 
 main; 
 
 And when the worn-out drudge old ocean 
 leaves, 
 
 What comfort greets him, and what hut re- 
 ceives ? 
 
 Lady ! the worst your presence ere has 
 cheer'd 
 
 (When want and sorrow fled as you ap- 
 pear'd) 
 
 Were to a Zetlander as the high dome 
 
 Of proud Drumlanrig to my humble home. 
 
 Here rise no groves, and here no gardens 
 blow. 
 
 Here even the hardy heath scarce dares 
 to grow; 
 
442 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm 
 array'd, 
 
 Stretch far to sea their giant colonnade, 
 
 With many a cavern seam'd, the dreary 
 haunt 
 
 Of the dun seal and swarthy cormorant. 
 
 Wild round their rifted brows, with fre- 
 quent cry 
 
 As of lament, the gulls and gannets fly, 
 
 And from their sable base, with sullen 
 sound, 
 
 In sheets of whitening foam the waves 
 rebound. 
 
 Yet even these coasts a touch of envy gain 
 From those whose land has known op- 
 pression's chain; 
 For here the industrious Dutchman comes 
 
 once more 
 To moor his fishing craft by Bressey's 
 
 shore ; 
 Greets every former mate and brother tar. 
 Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage of 
 
 war, 
 Tells many a tale of Gallic outrage done, 
 And ends by blessing God and Wel- 
 lington. 
 Here too the Greenland tar, afiercerguest. 
 Claims a brief hour of riot, not of rest : 
 Proves each wild frolic that in wine has 
 
 birth, 
 And wakes the land with brawls and 
 
 boisterous mirth. 
 A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's prow 
 The captive Norseman sits in silent woe, 
 And eyes the flags of Britain as they flow. 
 Hard fate of war, which bade her terrors 
 
 sway 
 His destined course, and seize so mean a 
 
 prey; 
 A bark with planks so warp'd and seams 
 
 so riven, 
 She scarce might face the gentlest air of 
 
 heaven; 
 Pensive he sits, and questions oft if none 
 Can list his speech, and understand his 
 
 moan; 
 In vain — no Islesman now can use the 
 
 tongue 
 Of the bold Norse, from whom their lin- 
 eage sprung. 
 Not thus of old the Norseman hither came. 
 Won by the love of danger or of fame; 
 
 On every storm-beat cape a shapeless 
 
 tower 
 Tells of their wars, their conquests, and 
 
 their power; 
 For ne'er f or G recia 's vales, or Latian land. 
 Was fiercer strife than for this barren 
 
 strand; 
 A race severe — the isle and ocean lords 
 Loved for its own delight the strife of 
 
 swords; 
 With scornful laugh the mortal pang 
 
 defied. 
 And blest their gods that they in battle 
 
 died. 
 
 Such were the sires of Zetland's simple 
 race, 
 
 And still the eye may faint resemblance 
 trace 
 
 In the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair. 
 
 The limbs athletic, and the long light 
 hair — 
 
 (Such was the mien, as Scald and Min- 
 strel sings. 
 
 Of fair-hair'd Harold, first of Norway's 
 Kings); 
 
 But their high deeds to scale these crags 
 confined, 
 
 Theironly warfare is with waves and wind. 
 
 Why should I talk of Mousa's castled 
 
 coast ? 
 Why of the horrors of the Sumburgh 
 
 Rost? 
 May not these bald disjointed lines suffice, 
 Penn'd while my comrades whirl the rat- 
 tling dice — 
 While down the cabin skylight lessening 
 
 shine 
 The rays, and eve is chased with mirth 
 
 and wine? 
 Imagined, while down Mousa's desert bay 
 Our well-trimm'd vessel urged her nimble 
 
 way. 
 While to the freshening breeze she lean'd 
 
 her side. 
 And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy tide ? 
 
 Such are the lays that Zetland isles 
 supply : 
 
 Drench'd with the drizzly spray and drop- 
 ping sky. 
 
 Weary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel I — 
 
LETTER IN VERSE. 
 
 443 
 
 POSTSCRIPTUM. 
 
 Kirkwall, Orkney, Aug. 13, 1814. 
 
 In respect that your Grace has com- 
 mission' d a Kraken, 
 \'ou will please be inform'd that they 
 
 seldom are taken; 
 It is January two years, the Zetland folks 
 
 say, 
 Since they saw the last Kraken in Scallo- 
 way bay; 
 He lay in the offing a fortnight or more, 
 But the devil a Zetlander put from the 
 
 shore, 
 Though bold in the seas of the North to 
 
 assail 
 The morse and the sea-horse, the gram- 
 pus and whale. 
 If your Grace thinks I'm writing the thing 
 
 that is nut, 
 You may ask at a namesake of ours, Mr. 
 
 Scott — 
 (He's not from our clan, though his 
 
 merits deserve it, 
 But springs, I'm inform'd, from the Scotts 
 
 of Scotstarvet);* 
 He question'd the folks who beheld it 
 
 with eyes, 
 But they differ'd confoundedly as to the 
 
 size. 
 For instance, the modest and diffident 
 
 swore 
 That it seem'd like the keel of a ship, and 
 
 no more — 
 Those of eyesight more clear, or of fancy 
 
 more high, 
 Said it rose like an island 'twixt ocean 
 
 and sky — 
 But all of the hulk had a steady opinion 
 That 'twas sure a live subject of Neptune's 
 
 dominion — 
 And I think, my Lord Duke, your Grace 
 
 hardly would wish. 
 To cumber your house, such a kettle of 
 
 fish. 
 Had your order related to night-caps or 
 
 hose, 
 Or mittens of worsted, there's plenty of 
 
 those. 
 
 * The Scotts of Scotstar\et, and other families 
 of the same in Fife and elsewhere, claim no kin- 
 dred with the great clan of the Border— and 
 their armonai bearings are different. 
 
 Or would you be pleased but to fancy a 
 
 whale? 
 And direct me to send it — by sea or by 
 
 mail? 
 The season, I'm told, is nigh over, but still 
 I could get you one fit for the lake at 
 
 Bow-hUl. 
 Indeed, as to whales, there's no need to 
 
 be thrifty, 
 Since one day last fortnight two hundred 
 
 and fifty. 
 Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats and 
 
 no more. 
 Betwixt Truffness and Luffness were 
 
 drawn on the shore ! 
 You'd ask if I saw this same wonderful 
 
 sight; 
 I own that I did not, but easily might — 
 For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay 
 On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of 
 
 the bay. 
 And the islesmen of Sanda were all at 
 
 the spoil. 
 AnA Jlinching, (so term it) the blubber 
 
 to boil; 
 (Ye spirits of lavender, drown the re- 
 flection 
 That awakes at the thought of this odor. 
 
 ous dissection.) 
 To see this huge marvel full fain would 
 
 we go. 
 But Wilson, the wind, and the current, 
 
 said no. 
 We have now got to Kirkwall, and needs 
 
 I must stare 
 When I think that in verse I have once 
 
 call'd it fair ; 
 'Tis a base little borough, both dirty and 
 
 mean — 
 There's nothing to hear, and there's 
 
 naught to be seen, 
 Save a church, where, of old times, a 
 
 prelate harangued. 
 And a palace that's built by an earl that 
 
 was hang'd. 
 But, farewell to Kirkwall — aboard we 
 
 are going. 
 The anchor's a-peak, and the breeres are 
 
 blowing; 
 Our commodore calls all his band to 
 
 their places, 
 And 'tis time to release you — good night 
 
 to your Graces ! 
 
44'' 
 
 MISCELLAXE O US POEMS. 
 
 BRIDAL SONG. 
 
 To the tunc of '■'■I have been a Fiddler,'''' 
 
 etc. o 
 
 1814. 
 
 " The following song, which has been since 
 borrowed by the worshipful author of the famous 
 ' History of Kryar Baton,' has been witli diffi- 
 culty deciphered. It seems to have been sung 
 on occasions of carrying home the bride." 
 
 And did you not hear of a mirth befell 
 The morrow after a wedding day, 
 
 And carrying a bride at home to dwell? 
 And away to Tewin, away, away. 
 
 The quintain was set, and the garlands 
 were made, 
 'Tis pity old customsshould ever decay; 
 And woe be to him that was horsed on a 
 jade. 
 For he carried no credit away, away. 
 
 We met a concert of fiddle-de-dees; 
 
 We set them a-cockhorse, and made 
 them play 
 The winning of Bullen, and Upsey-frees, 
 
 And away to Tewin, away, away ! 
 
 There was ne'er a lad in all the parish 
 That would go to the plough that day; 
 
 But on his fore-horse his wench he carries. 
 And away to Tewin, away, away ! 
 
 Thebutlerwas quick, andthealehedid tap. 
 The maidens did make the chamber 
 full gay; 
 
 The servants did give me a fuddling cup, 
 And I did carry't away, away. 
 
 The smith of the town his liquor so took. 
 That he was persuaded that the ground 
 look'd blue; 
 
 And I dare boldly be sworn on a book. 
 Such smith as he there's but a few. 
 
 A posset was made, and the women did 
 
 sip. 
 
 And simpering said, they could eat no 
 
 more; 
 
 Full many a maiden was laid on the lip. — 
 
 I'll say no more, but give o'er,giveo'er. 
 
 Waverley : Appendix to the General 
 Preface, 
 
 LINES BY EDWARD WAVERLEY. 
 1814. 
 
 " On receiving intelligence of his commibsinn 
 as captain of a troop of horse in Colonel Gardi- 
 ner's regiment, his tutor, Mr. Pembroke, picked 
 up about Edward's room some fragments of ir- 
 regular verse, which he appeared to have com- 
 posed under the inlUiences of the agitating feelings 
 occasioned by this sudden page being turned up 
 to liim iu the book of life." 
 
 Late, when the Autumn evening fell 
 On Mirkwood-Mere's romantic dell. 
 The lake return'd in cha.slen'd gleam. 
 The purple cloud, the golden beam: 
 Reflected in the crystal pool, 
 Headland and bank lay fair and cool; 
 The weather-tinted rock and tower. 
 Each drooping tree, each fairy flower. 
 So true, so .soft, the mirror gave, 
 As if there lay beneath the wave. 
 Secure from trouble, toil,* and care, 
 A world than earthly world more fair. 
 
 But distant winds began to wake. 
 And roused the Genius of the Lake ! 
 Hti heard the groaning of the oak, 
 And donn'd at once his sable cloak. 
 As warrior, at the battle cry. 
 Invests him with his panoply; 
 Then, as the whirlwind nearer prest, 
 He 'gan to shake his foamy crest 
 O'er furrow'd brow and blacken'd 
 
 cheek. 
 And bade his surge in thunder speak. 
 In wild and broken eddies whirl'd. 
 Flitted that fond ideal world; 
 And, to the shore in tumult tost. 
 The realms of fairy bliss were lost. 
 
 Yet, with a stern delight and strange, 
 I saw the spirit-stirring change. 
 As warr'd the wind with wave and 
 
 wood, 
 Upon the ruin'd tower I stood. 
 And felt my heart more .strongly bound, 
 Responsive to the lofty sound. 
 While, joying in the mighty roar, 
 I mourn'd that tranquil scene no more. 
 
 So, on the idle dreams of youth 
 Breaks the loud trumpet call of Truth, 
 Bids each fair vision pass away, 
 Like landscape on the lake that lay, 
 
DAVIE GELLATLF.Y'S SONGS, 
 
 445 
 
 As fnir, as flitting, and as frail, 
 
 As that which fled the Autumn gale — 
 
 Forever dead to F'ancy's eye 
 
 Be each gay form that glided by, 
 
 While dreams of love and lady's charms 
 
 Give place to honor and to arms ! 
 
 fVaver/iy, chap. v. 
 
 DAVIE GELLATLEY'S SONGS. 
 1814. 
 
 " Hb [Daft Davie Gellatley] sung with great 
 earnests »ss, and not without some taste, a 
 fragnieU of an old Scotch ditty." 
 
 False love, and hast thou play'd me this 
 
 In s» .mmer among the flowers? 
 I will lepay thee back again 
 
 In w inter among the showers. 
 Unless again, again, my love, 
 
 Unless you turn again; 
 As you with other maidens rove, 
 
 I'll smile on other men.* 
 
 The Knight's to the mountain 
 
 His bugle to wind; 
 The L.ady*s to greenwood 
 
 Her garland to bind. 
 The liower of Burd Ellen 
 
 Has moss on the floor. 
 That the step of Lord William 
 
 He silent and sure. 
 
 IVaverky, chap. ix. 
 
 " The stamping of horses was now heard in 
 tlie court, and Davie Gellatley's voice singing to 
 tlie two large deer greyhounds." 
 
 HiK away, hie away. 
 Over bank and over brae, 
 Where the copscwood is the greenest. 
 Where the fountains glisten sheenest. 
 Where the lady-fern grows strongest, 
 Where the morning, dew lies longest. 
 Where the black-cock sweetest sips it. 
 Where the fairy Latest trips it: 
 Hie to haunts right seldom seen, 
 I^xively, lonesome, cool, and green, 
 Over bank and over brae, 
 Hie away, hie away. 
 
 IVaverley, chap. xii. 
 
 * This is a genuine ancient fragment, witli 
 5om<> nlteration in the last two lines. 
 
 Young men will love thee more fair and 
 
 more fast; 
 Heard ye so merry Jhe little bird sing? 
 Old men's love the longest will last, 
 And the throstle-cock^ s head is under 
 
 his wing. 
 
 The young man's wrath is like light straw 
 
 on fire; 
 
 Heard ye so merry the little hird sing? 
 
 But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire. 
 
 And the throstle-cock's head is under 
 
 his loing. 
 
 The young man may brawl at the evening 
 board ; 
 Heard ye so merry the little Inrd sing? 
 But the old man will draw at the dawning 
 the sword. 
 And the throstle-cock' s head is under 
 his wing. 
 
 Waverley, chap. xiv. 
 
 ST. SWITHIN'S CHAIR. 
 
 1814. 
 
 On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye 
 
 to rest, 
 Ever beware that your couch be bless'd; 
 Sign it with cross, and s.ain it with bead. 
 Sing the Ave, and say the Creed. 
 
 For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag 
 
 will ride. 
 And all her nine-fold sweeping on by 
 
 her side. 
 Whether the wind sing lowly or loud, 
 Sailing through moonshine or swathed in 
 
 the cloud. 
 
 The Lady she sat in St. Swithin's Chair, 
 The dew of the night has damp'd her hair : 
 Her cheek was pale — but resolved and high 
 Was the word of her lip and the glance 
 of her eye. 
 
 She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold. 
 When his naked foot traced the midnight 
 
 wold, 
 When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode 
 
 the night. 
 And bade her descend, and her promise 
 
 plight. 
 
446 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair, 
 When the Night-Hag wings the troubled 
 
 air, 
 Questions three, when he speaks the spell. 
 He may ask, and she must tell. 
 
 The Baron has been with King Robert 
 
 his liege 
 These three long years in battle and siege ; 
 News are there none of his weal or his 
 
 woe, 
 And fain the Lady his fate would know. 
 
 She shudders and stops as the charm she 
 
 speaks: — 
 Is it the moody owl that shrieks ? ^ 
 Or is that sound, betwixt laughter and 
 
 scream, 
 The voice of the Demon who haunts the 
 
 stream ? 
 
 The moan of the wind sunk silent and 
 
 low. 
 And the roaring torrent had ceased to 
 
 flow; 
 The calm was more dreadful than raging 
 
 storm, 
 When the cold' gray mist brought the 
 
 ghastly form ! 
 
 Waverley, chap. xiii. 
 
 FLORA MACIVOR'S SONG. 
 
 1814. 
 
 There is mist on the mountain, and night 
 
 on the vale. 
 But more dark is the sleep of the sons of 
 
 the Gael. 
 A stranger commanded — it sunk on the 
 
 land, 
 Tf has frozen each heart and benumb'd 
 
 every hand ! 
 
 The dirk and the target lie sordid with 
 
 dust. 
 The bloodless claymore is but redden'd 
 
 with rust; 
 On the hill or the glen if a gun should 
 
 appear, 
 It is only to war with the heath-cock or 
 
 deer. 
 
 The deeds of our sires if our bards should 
 
 rehearse. 
 Let a blush or a blow be the meed of 
 
 their verse ! 
 Be mute every string, and be hush'd every 
 
 tone, 
 Tbat shall bid us remember the fame that 
 
 is flown. 
 
 But the dark hours of night and of slumber 
 
 are past. 
 The morn on our mountains is dawning 
 
 at last ! 
 Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the 
 
 rays. 
 And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright 
 
 in the blaze. 
 
 O high-minded Moray ! — the exiled • — 
 the dear ! — 
 
 In the blush of the dawning the Standard 
 uprear ! 
 
 Wide, wide on the winds of the north let 
 it fly. 
 
 Like the sun's latest flash when the tem- 
 pest is nigh ! 
 
 Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning 
 shall break, , 
 
 Need the harp of the aged remind you 
 to wake? 
 
 That dawn never beam'd on your fore- 
 fathers' eye. 
 
 But it roused each high chieftain to van- 
 quish or die. 
 
 O sprung from the Kings who in Islay 
 
 kept state. 
 Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengarry, 
 
 and Sleat ! 
 Combine like three streams from one 
 
 mountain of snow, 
 And resistless in union rush down on the 
 
 foe. 
 
 True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Loch- 
 
 iel. 
 Place thy targe on thy shoulder and bur. 
 
 nish thy steel ! 
 Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy 
 
 bugle's bold swell. 
 Till far Coryarrick resound to the 
 
 knell ! 
 
TO AN OAK TREE. 
 
 447 
 
 Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief 
 of Kintail, 
 
 Let the stag in thy standard bound wild 
 in the gale ! 
 
 May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fear- 
 less and free, 
 
 Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dun- 
 dee ! 
 
 Let the clan of Gray Fingon, whose off- 
 spring has given 
 
 Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to 
 heaven. 
 
 Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri 
 More, 
 
 To launch the long galley and stretch to 
 the oar ! 
 
 How Mac-Shimei will joy when their 
 
 chief shall display 
 The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of 
 
 gray ! 
 How the race of wrong'd Alpine and mur- 
 
 der'd Glencoe 
 Shall shout for revenge when they pour 
 
 on the foe ! 
 
 Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the 
 
 wild boar. 
 Resume the pure faith of the great 
 
 Calluni-More ! 
 Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the 
 
 Lake, 
 For honor, for freedom, for vengeance 
 
 awake ! 
 
 Awake on your hills, on your islands 
 
 awake ! 
 Brave sons of the mountain, the fritn, 
 
 and the lake ! 
 'Tis the bugle — but not for the chase is 
 
 the call; 
 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons — but 
 
 not to the hall. 
 
 'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest 
 or death. 
 
 When the banners are blazing on moun- 
 tain and heath; 
 
 They call to the dirk, the claymore, and 
 the targe, 
 
 To the march and the muster, the line 
 and the charge. 
 
 Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's 
 
 in his ire ! 
 May the blood through his veins flow 
 
 like currents of fire ! 
 Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires 
 
 did of yore ! 
 Or die, like your sires, and endure it no 
 
 more ! 
 
 Wavcrley, chap, xxii. 
 
 TO AN OAK TREE. 
 
 1814. 
 
 In the Churchyard of , in the High- 
 lands of Scotland, said to mark the grave 
 of Captain Wogan, killed in 1649. 
 
 Emblem of England's ancient faith. 
 Full proudly may thy branches wave, 
 
 Where loyalty lies low in death, 
 .\nd valor fills a timeless grave. 
 
 And thou, brave tenant of the tomb! 
 
 Repine not if our clime deny, 
 Above thine honor'd sod to bloom. 
 
 The flowrets of a milder sky. 
 
 These owe their birth to genial May; 
 
 Beneath a fiercer sun they pine. 
 Before the winter storm decay — 
 
 And can their worth be type of thine? 
 
 No ! for mid storms of Fate opposing. 
 Still higher swell'd thy dauntless heart. 
 
 And while Despair the scene was closing, 
 Commenced thy brief but brilliant part. 
 
 'Twas then thou sought'st on Albyn's 
 hill 
 (When England's sons the strife re- 
 sign'd), 
 A rugged race resisting still. 
 
 And unsubdued though unrefined. 
 
 Thy death's hour heard no kindred wail, 
 No holy knell thy requiem rung ! 
 
 Thy mourners were the plaided Gael, 
 Thy dirge the clamorous pibroch sung. 
 
 Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine 
 To waste life's longest term away. 
 
 Would change that glorious dawn of thine, 
 Though darken'd ere its noontide day? 
 
448 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Be thine the Tree whose dauntless boughs 
 Brave summer's drought and winter's 
 gloom ! 
 Rome bound with oak her patriots' brows. 
 As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb. 
 Waverley, chap. xxix. 
 
 FOLLOW, FOLLOW ME. 
 
 1814. 
 
 But follow, follow me, 
 
 While glow-worms light the lea, 
 
 I'll show ye where the dead should be — 
 
 Each in his shroud, 
 
 While the winds pipe loud. 
 
 And the red moon peeps dim thro ' the cl oud . 
 
 Follow, follow me ! 
 Brave should he be 
 
 That treads by night the dead man's lea ! 
 Waverley, chap. Ixiii. 
 
 FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE, 
 
 HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL. 
 
 From the Gaelic. 
 1815. 
 
 The original verses are arranged to a beauti- 
 ful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted 
 to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, 
 and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary 
 iorrams, or boat-sfmgs. They were composed 
 by the Family Bard upon the departure of the 
 Elarl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take 
 refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at 
 insurrection in favor of the Stuart family, in the 
 year 1718. 
 
 Farewell to Mackenneth, great Earl of 
 
 the North, 
 The Lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, and 
 
 Seaforth; 
 To the Chieftain this morning his course 
 
 who began. 
 Launching forth on the billows his bark 
 
 like a swan. 
 For a far foreign land he has hoisted his 
 
 sail: 
 Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of 
 
 Kintail ! 
 
 O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew. 
 May her captain be skilful, her mariners 
 true. 
 
 In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil, 
 Tho' the whirlwind should rise, ;(nd the 
 
 ocean should boil : 
 On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his 
 
 bonail,* 
 And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief 
 
 of Kintail ! 
 
 Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet south- 
 land gale ! 
 
 Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft 
 on his sail; 
 
 Be prolong'd as regret, that his vassals 
 must know, 
 
 Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their 
 woe: 
 
 Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, 
 sweet gale. 
 
 Wafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief 
 of Kintail ! 
 
 Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and 
 
 wise, 
 To measure the seas and to study the 
 
 skies : 
 May he hoist all his canvas from streamer 
 
 to deck. 
 But O ! crowd it higher when wafting him 
 
 back — 
 Till the cliffs- of Skooroora, and Conan's 
 
 glad vale, 
 Shall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief of 
 
 Kintail ! 
 
 IMITATION OF THE PRECEDING SONG. 
 
 So sung the old Bard, in the grief of his 
 
 heart. 
 When he saw his lov'd Lord from his 
 
 people depart. 
 Now mute on thy mountains, O Albyn, 
 
 are heard 
 Nor the voice of the song, nor the harp 
 
 of the bard; 
 Or its strings are but waked by the stern 
 
 winter gale 
 As they mourn for Mackenzie, last Chief 
 
 of Kintailt. 
 
 * Bonail, or Bonallez, the old Scottish phrase 
 for a feast at parting with a friend. 
 
 t (These verses were written shortly after the 
 death of Lord Seaforth, the last male representa- 
 tive uf liis illustrious bouse.) 
 
IVAJ^-SOA'C OF LACIILAN. 
 
 <M9 
 
 From the far Southland Border a Min- 
 strel came forth, 
 
 And he waited the hour that some Bard 
 of the north 
 
 His hand on the harp of the ancient 
 should cast, 
 
 And bid its wild numbers mix high with 
 the blast; 
 
 But no bard was there left in the land of 
 the Gael 
 
 To lament for Mackenzie, last Chief of 
 Kintail. 
 
 And shalt thou then sleep, did the Min- 
 strel exclaim, 
 
 Like the son of the lowly, unnoticed by 
 fame ? 
 
 No, son of Fitzgerald ! in accents of woe, 
 
 The song thou hast loved o'er thy coffin 
 shall flow, 
 
 And teach thy wild mountains to join in 
 the wail 
 
 That laments for Mackenzie, last Chief 
 of Kintail. 
 
 In vain the bright course of thy talents to 
 
 wrong. 
 Fate deadened thine ear and imprison'd 
 
 thy tongue; 
 For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose 
 The glow of the genius they could not 
 
 oppose ; 
 And who in the land of the Saxon or Gael 
 Might match with Mackenzie, High Chief 
 
 of Kintail? , 
 
 Thy sons rose around thee in light and in 
 
 love. 
 All a father could hope, all a friend could 
 
 approve ; 
 What'vails it the tale of thysorrows to tell, 
 In the spring-time of youth and of prom- 
 ise they fell ! 
 Of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a male 
 To bear the proud name of the Chief of 
 Kintail. 
 
 And thou, gentle Dame,t who must bear, 
 
 to thy grief. 
 For thy clan and thy country the cares 
 
 of a Chief, 
 
 * The Honorable I^idy Hood, daughter of 
 the last Lord Seaforth, widow of Admiral Sir 
 
 Whom brief rolling moons in six changes 
 
 have left, 
 Of thy husband, and father, and brethren 
 
 bereft; 
 To thine ear of affection, how sad is the 
 
 hail 
 That salutes thee the Heir of the line of 
 
 Kintail ! 
 
 WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN, 
 
 HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN. 
 
 From the Gaelic. 
 1815. 
 
 This song appears to be imperfect, or, at 
 least, like many of the early Gaehc poems, 
 makes a rapid transition from one subject to 
 another, from the situation, namely, of one 
 of the daughters of the clan, who opens the 
 song by lamenting the absence of her lover, to 
 an eulogium over the military glories of the 
 Chieftain. The translator has endeavored to 
 imitate the abrupt style of the original. 
 
 A WEARY month has wander'd o'er 
 Since last we parted on the shore; 
 Heaven ! that I saw thee. Love, once more, 
 
 Safe on that shore again ! — 
 "Twas valiant Lachlan gave the word : 
 Lachlan, of many a galley lord: 
 He call'd his kindred bands on board. 
 
 And launch'd them on the main. 
 
 Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone, 
 Clan-Gillian fierce in foray known; 
 Rejoicing in the glory won 
 
 In many a bloody broil : 
 For wide is heard the thundering fray. 
 The rout, the ruin, the dismay. 
 When from the twilight glens away 
 
 Clan-Gillian drives the spoil. 
 
 Woe to the hills that shall rebound 
 Our banner'd bag-pipes' maddening 
 
 sound ; 
 Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round, 
 
 Shall shake their inmost cell. 
 Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze, 
 Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays ! 
 The fools might face the lightning's blaze 
 
 As wisely and as well ! 
 
 Samuel Hood, afterwards Mrs. Stew.irt Mack- 
 enzie of Seaforth and Glasserton. 
 
450 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 SAINT CLOUD. 
 
 Paris, ^th Sepletnber, 1815. 
 
 Soft spread the southern summer night 
 
 Her veil of darksome bhie; 
 Ten thousand stars combined to light 
 The terrace of Saint Cloud. 
 
 The evening breezes gently sigh'd, 
 
 Like breath of lover true, 
 Bewailing the deserted pride 
 
 And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud. 
 
 The drum's deep roll was heard afar, 
 
 The bugle wildly blew 
 Good-night to Ihilan and Hussar, 
 
 That garrison Saint Cloud. 
 
 The startled Naiads from the shade 
 With broken urns withdrew. 
 
 And silenced was that proud cascade, 
 The glory of Saint Cloud. 
 
 We sate upon its steps of stone. 
 
 Nor could its silence rue, 
 When waked to music of our own, 
 
 The echoes of Saint Cloud. 
 
 Slow Seine might hear each lovely note 
 
 Fall light as summer dew, 
 While through the moonless air they float, 
 
 Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud. 
 
 And sure a melody more sweet 
 
 His waters never knew. 
 Though music's self was wont to meet 
 
 With Princes at Saint Cloud. 
 
 Nor then, with more delighted ear, 
 
 The circle round her drew, 
 Than ours, when gather'd round to hear 
 
 Our songstress at Saint Cloud. 
 
 Few happy hours poor mortals pass, — 
 Then give those hours their due, 
 
 And rank among the foremost class 
 Our evenings at Saint Cloud. 
 
 THE DANCE OF DEATH. 
 
 1815. 
 
 I. 
 
 Night and morning were at meeting 
 
 Over Waterloo; 
 Cocks had sung their earliest greeting; 
 
 Faint and low they crew; 
 
 For no paly beam yet shone 
 On the heights of Slount Saint John; 
 Tempest-clouds prolong'd the sway 
 Of timeless darkness over day; 
 Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower, 
 Mark'd it a predestined hour. 
 Broad and frequent through the night 
 Flashed the sheets of levin-light; 
 Muskets, glancing lightnings back, 
 Show'd the dreary bivouac 
 
 Where the soldier lay, 
 Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain. 
 Wishing dawn of morn again, 
 
 Though death should come with day. 
 
 'Tis at such a tide and hour, 
 Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, 
 And ghastly forms thro' mist and showei 
 
 Gleam on the gifted ken; 
 And then the affrighted prophet's ear 
 Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear 
 Presaging death and ruin near 
 
 Among the sons of men; — 
 Apart from Albyn's war-array, 
 'Twas then gray Allan sleepless lay; 
 Gray Allan, who, for many a day, 
 
 Plad follow'd stout and stern. 
 Where, thro' battle's rout and reel, 
 Storm of shot and hedge of steel. 
 Led the grandson of Lochiel, 
 
 Valiant Fassiefern. 
 Thro' steel and shot he leads no more. 
 Low laid mid friends' and foemen'sgore. 
 But long his na\ive lake's wild shore. 
 And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower, 
 
 And Morven long shall tell, 
 And proud Bennevis hear with awe. 
 How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras, 
 Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra 
 
 Of conquest as he fell. 
 
 Lone on the outskirts of the host, 
 The weary sentinel held post. 
 And heard, through darkness far aloof, 
 The frequent clang of courser's hoof. 
 Where held the cloak'd patrol their 
 
 course, 
 And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving 
 
 horse; 
 But there are sounds in Allan's ear, 
 Patrol nor sentinel may hear, 
 
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 
 
 45» 
 
 And sights before his eye aghast 
 Invisible to them have past, 
 
 When down the destined plain, 
 'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, 
 Wild as marsh-born meteor's glance. 
 Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance, 
 
 And dooni'd the future slain. — 
 Such forms were seen, such sounds were 
 
 heard, 
 WhenScotland's Jameshismarchprepared 
 
 For Flodden's fatal plain; 
 Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, 
 As Choosers of the Slain, adored 
 
 The yet unchristen'd Dane. 
 An indistinct and phantom band. 
 They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in 
 hand, 
 With gestures wild and dread; 
 The Seer, who watch'd them ride the 
 
 storm. 
 Saw thro' their faint and shadowy form 
 The lightning's flash more red; 
 And still their ghastly roundelay 
 Was of the coming battle-fray, 
 And of the destined dead. 
 
 IV. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Wheel the wild dance 
 While lightnings glance, 
 
 And thunders rattle loud. 
 And call the brave 
 To bloody grave, 
 
 To sleep without a shroud. 
 
 Our airy feet, 
 So light and fleet. 
 
 They do not bend the rye 
 That sinks its head when whirlwinds 
 
 rave. 
 And swells again in eddying wave, 
 
 As each wild gust blows by; 
 But still the corn. 
 At dawn of morn. 
 
 Our fatal steps that bore, 
 At eve lies waste, 
 A trampled paste 
 
 Of blackening mud and gore. 
 
 V. 
 
 Wheel the wild dance 
 While lightnings glance, 
 And thunders rattle loud, 
 
 And call the brave 
 To bloody grave, 
 
 To sleep without a shroud. 
 
 Wheel the wild dance ! 
 Brave sons of France, 
 
 For you our ring makes room; 
 Make space full wide 
 For martial pride. 
 
 For banner, spear, and plume. 
 Approach, draw near. 
 Proud cuirassier ! 
 
 Room for the men of steel ! 
 Thro' crest and plate 
 The broadsword's weight 
 
 Both head and heart shall feel. 
 
 Wheel the wild dance 
 While lightnings glance, 
 
 And thunders rattle loud, 
 And call the brave 
 To bloody grave, 
 
 To sleep without a shroud. 
 
 Sons of the spear ! 
 You feel us near 
 
 In many a ghastly dream; 
 With fancy's eye 
 Our forms you spy. 
 
 And hear our fatal scream. 
 With clearer sight 
 Ere falls the night. 
 
 Just when to weal or woe 
 Your disembodied souls take flight 
 On trembling wing — each startled 
 
 sprite 
 Our choir of death shall know. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Wheel the wild dance 
 While lightnings glance, 
 
 And thunders rattle loud, 
 And call the brave 
 To bloody grave. 
 
 To sleep without a shroud. 
 
 Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers, 
 Redder rain shall soon be ours — 
 
 Sefc the east grows wan — 
 Yield we place to sterner game. 
 Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame 
 
452 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Shall the welkin's thunders shame : 
 Elemental rage is tame 
 To the wrath of man. 
 
 At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe 
 Heard of the vision'd sights he saw, 
 
 The legend heard him say; 
 But the Seer's gifted eye was dim, 
 Deafen'd his ear, and stark his limb, 
 
 Ere closed that bloody day — ■ 
 1 le sleeps far from his Highland heath, — 
 But often of the Dance of Death 
 
 His comrades tell the tale. 
 On picket-post, when ebbs the night, 
 And waning watch-fires glow less bright. 
 
 And dawn is glimmering pale. 
 
 ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.* 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 1815. 
 
 The original of this little Romance makes 
 part of a manuscript collection of French Songs 
 (probably compiled by some young officer), which 
 was found on the field of Waterloo, so much 
 stained with clay and blood, as sufficiently to in- 
 dicate what had been the fate of its late owner. 
 The song is popular in France, and is rather a 
 good specimen of the style of composition to 
 which It belongs. The translation is strictly 
 literal. 
 
 It was Dunois, the young and brave, was 
 
 bound for Palestine; 
 But first he made his orisons before Saint 
 
 Mary's shrine: 
 *' And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven," 
 
 was still the Soldier's prayer, 
 " That I may prove the bravest knight, 
 
 and love the fairest fair." 
 
 His oath of honor on the shrine he graved 
 it with his sword. 
 
 And foUow'd to the Holy Land the ban- 
 ner of his Lord; 
 
 Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war- 
 cry fill'd the air, 
 
 " Be honor 'd aye the bravest knight, 
 beloved the fairest fair." 
 
 * " Partant pour la Syrie " was written and 
 set 10 music by Queen Hortense of Holland, the 
 daughter of Josephine, and the mother of Napo- 
 leon III. It has become the national air of 
 France. 
 
 They owed the conquest to his arm, and 
 
 then his Liege-Lord said, — 
 "The heart that has for honor beat by 
 
 bliss must be repaid. — 
 My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a 
 
 wedded pair, 
 For thou art bravest of the brave, she 
 
 fairest of the fair." 
 
 And then they bound the holy knot before 
 
 Saint Mary's shrine. 
 That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts 
 
 and hands combine; 
 And every lord and lady bright, that were 
 
 in chapel there. 
 Cried " Honor'd be the bravest knight, 
 
 beloved the fairest fair." 
 
 THE TROUBADOUR. 
 
 FROM THE SAME COLLECTION. 
 
 Also Written and Composed by Queen 
 Hortense. 
 
 1815. 
 
 Glowing with love, on fire for fame, 
 
 A Troubadour that hated sorrow, 
 Beneath his Lady's window came. 
 
 And thus he sung his last good-mor- 
 row: — 
 " My arm it is my country's right. 
 
 My heart is in my true-love's bower; 
 Gayly for love and fame to fight 
 
 Befits the gallant Troubadour." 
 
 And while he march'd with helm on head 
 
 And harp in hand, the descant rung. 
 As, faithful to his favorite maid. 
 
 The minstrel-burden still he sung: — 
 " My arm it is my country's right. 
 
 My heart is in my lady's bower; 
 Resolved for love and fame to fight, 
 
 I come a gallant Troubadour." 
 
 Even when the battle-roar was deep. 
 
 With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 
 Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, 
 
 And still was heard his warrior-lay: — 
 " My life it is my country's right, 
 
 My heart is in my lady's bower; 
 For love to die, for fame to fight, 
 
 Becomes the valiant Troubadour." 
 
FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 453 
 
 Alas ! upon the bloody field 
 
 He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, 
 But still reclining on his shield. 
 
 Expiring sung the exulting stave : — 
 " My life it is my country's right, 
 
 My heart is in my lady's bower; 
 For love and fame to fall in fight 
 
 Becomes the valiant Troubadour." 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH.* 
 
 1815. 
 
 It chanced that Cupid on a season, 
 By Fancy urged, resolved to wed. 
 
 But could not settle whether Reason 
 Or Folly should partake his bed. 
 
 What does he then? — Upon ijny life, 
 'Twas bad example for a deity — 
 
 He takes me Reason for a wife, 
 And Folly for his hours of gayety. 
 
 Though thus he dealt in petty treason, 
 He loved them both in equal measure; 
 
 Fidelity was born of Reason, 
 
 And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 On the lifting of the banner of the House 
 of Bucdetich, at a great foot-ball match 
 on Carterhatigh.\ 
 
 1815- 
 From the brown crest of Newark its sum- 
 mons extending, 
 Our signal is waving in smoke and in 
 flame; 
 And each forester blithe, from his moun- 
 tain descending, 
 Bounds light o'er the heather to join in 
 the game. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then up with the Banner, let forest 'Minds 
 fan her. 
 She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages 
 and more ; 
 
 * From the same collection as the two preced- 
 ing songs. 
 
 t The foot-ball match took place Dec. 5, 1815, 
 and was also celebrated by the Ettrick Shepherd. 
 
 In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend 
 her. 
 With heart and with hand, like our 
 fathers before. 
 
 When the Southern invader spread waste 
 and disorder. 
 At the glance of her crescents he paused 
 and withdrew. 
 For around them were marshall'd tht 
 pride of the Border, 
 The Flowers of the Forest, the bands 
 
 of BUCCLEUCH. 
 
 Then up with the Banner, etc. 
 
 A Stripling's weak hand to our revel has 
 borne her,t 
 No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no 
 spearmen surround; 
 But ere a bold foeman should scathe or 
 should scorn her, 
 A thousand true hearts would be cold 
 on the ground. 
 
 Then up with the Banner, etc. 
 
 We forget each contention of civil dissen- 
 sion. 
 And hail, Hke our brethren, Home, 
 Douglas, and Car: 
 And Elliot and Pringle in pastime 
 shall mingle. 
 As welcome in peace as their fathers 
 in war. 
 
 Then up with the Banner, etc. 
 
 Then strip, lads, and to it, tho' sharp be 
 the weather. 
 And if, by mischance, you should hap- 
 pen to fall, 
 There are worse things in life than a 
 tumble on heather. 
 And life is itself but a game at foot-ball. 
 Thett up with the Banner, etc. 
 
 And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe 
 measure 
 To each Laird and each Lady that 
 witness'd our fun, 
 And to every blithe heart that took part 
 in our pleasure, 
 To the lads that have lost and the lads 
 that have won.' 
 
 Then up with the Banner, etc. 
 
 X The bearer of the standard was the author's 
 eldest son. 
 
454 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 May the Forest still flourish, both Borough 
 and Landward, 
 From the hall of the Peer to the Herd's 
 ingle-nook; 
 And huzza ! my brave hearts, for Buc- 
 CLEUCH and his standard, 
 For the King and the Country, the 
 Clan and the Duke ! 
 
 Then up'vith the Banner, let forest zuinds 
 fan her. 
 She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages 
 and more ; 
 In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend 
 her. 
 With heart and with hand, like our 
 fathers before. 
 
 LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF. 
 
 Air — CadtU gu to.* 
 
 1815. 
 
 I. 
 
 O HUSH thee, my baby, thy sire was a 
 
 knight, 
 Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; 
 The woods and the glens, from the towers 
 
 which we see, 
 They are all belonging, dear baby, to thee. 
 O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, 
 O ho ro, i ri ri, etc. 
 
 O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it 
 
 blows. 
 It calls but the warders that guard thy 
 
 repose; 
 Their bows would be bended, their blades 
 
 would be red, 
 Ere the step of a foeman draws near to 
 
 thy bed. 
 
 O ho ro, i ri ri, etc. 
 
 O, hush thee, my baby, the time soon 
 will come, " 
 
 When thy sleep shall be broken by trum- 
 pet and drum; 
 
 * Sleep till day. 
 
 Then hush thee, my darling, take rest 
 while you may. 
 
 For strife comes with manhood, and wak- 
 ing with day. 
 
 O ho ro, i ri ri, etc. 
 
 SONGS OF MEG MERRILIES. 
 1815. 
 I. 
 "TWIST YE, TWINE YE." 
 Twist ye, twine ye ! even so. 
 Mingle shades of joy and woe, 
 Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife. 
 In the thread of human life. 
 
 While the mystic twist is spinning. 
 And the infant's life beginning. 
 Dimly seen through twilight bending, 
 Lo, what varied shapes attending ! 
 
 Passions wild, and follies vain. 
 Pleasures soon exchanged for pain; 
 Doubt, and jealousy, and fear, 
 In the magic dance appear. 
 
 Now they wax, and now they dwindle. 
 Whirling with the whirling spindle. 
 Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
 Mingle human bliss and woe. 
 
 Guy Mannering, chap. iii. 
 
 THE DYING GYPSY'S DIRGE. 
 Wasted, weary, wherefore stay. 
 Wrestling thus with earth and clay? 
 P'rom the body pass away; — 
 
 Hark ! the mass is singing. 
 
 From thee doff thy mortal weed, 
 Mary Mother be thy speed. 
 Saints to help thee at thy need; — 
 
 Hark ! the knell is ringing. 
 
 Fear not snow-drift driving fast. 
 Sleet, or hail, or levin blast; 
 Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast, 
 And the sleep be on thee cast 
 
 That shall ne'er know waking. 
 
THE RETURN TO ULSTER. 
 
 455 
 
 Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone, 
 Earth flits fast, and time draws on, — 
 Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan, 
 Day is near the breaking. 
 Guy Alannering, chap, xxvii. 
 
 THE RETURN TO ULSTER. 
 I8i6. 
 
 Once again, — but how changed since 
 my wand'rings began, — 
 
 I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan 
 and Bann, 
 
 And the pines of Clanbrassi resound to 
 the roar 
 
 That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. 
 
 Alas ! my poor bosom, and why shouldst 
 thou burn? 
 
 With the scenes of my youth can its rap- 
 tures return? 
 
 Can I live the dear life of delusion again, 
 
 That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd 
 with my strain? 
 
 It was then that around me, tho' poor 
 
 and unknown. 
 High spells of mysterious enchantment 
 
 were thrown; 
 The streams were of silver, of diamond 
 
 the dew. 
 The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. 
 I had heard of our bards, and my soul 
 
 was on fire 
 At the rush of their verse, and the sweep 
 
 of their lyre : 
 To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the ear. 
 But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd 
 
 and clear. 
 
 Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call, 
 And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase 
 
 and the hall; 
 And the standard of Fion * flash'd fierce 
 
 from on high, 
 Like a burst of the sun when the tempest 
 
 is nigh. 
 It seem'd that the harp of green Erin 
 
 once more 
 Could renew all the glories she boasted 
 
 of yore. — 
 
 * The Standard of Fion or Fingal was called 
 by the Irish bards the Sun-burst, rendered Sun- 
 beatii by Macpherson. 
 
 Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, 
 
 should'st thou burn ? 
 They were days of delusion and cannot 
 
 return. 
 
 But was she, too, a phantom, the Maid 
 
 who stood by. 
 And listed my lay, while she turn'd from 
 
 mine eye? 
 Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to 
 
 view. 
 Then dispersed in the sunbeam, or melted 
 
 to dew? 
 Oh ! would it had been so, — Oh ! would 
 
 that her eye 
 Had been but a star -glance that shot thro* . 
 
 the sky. 
 And her voice that was moulded to mel- 
 ody's thrill, 
 Had been but a zephyr, that sigh'd and 
 
 was still ! 
 
 Oh ! would it had been so, — not then 
 
 this poor heart 
 Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and 
 
 to part; 
 To bear, unassisted, its burden of care, 
 While I toil'd for the wealth I had no 
 
 one to share. 
 Not then had I said, when life's summer 
 
 was done. 
 And the hours of her autumn were fast 
 
 speeding on : — 
 " Take the fame and the riches ye brought 
 
 in your train, 
 And restore me the dream of my spring- 
 tide again." 
 
 JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 
 
 Air — A Border Melody. 
 1816. 
 The first stanza of this ballad is ancient. The 
 others were written for Mr. Campbell's Albyn'< 
 Anthology. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Why weep ye by the tide, ladle? 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide? 
 I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 
 
 And ye sail be his bride. 
 And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 
 
 Sae comely to be seen " — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
456 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 " Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 
 
 And dry that cheek so pale; 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington, 
 
 And lord of Langley-dale; 
 His step is first in peaceful ha', 
 
 His sword in liattle keen " — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 " A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 
 
 Nor braid to bind your hair; 
 Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk. 
 
 Nor palfrey fresh and fair; 
 And you, the foremost o' them a', 
 
 Shall ride our forest queen " — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide. 
 
 The tapers glimmer'd fair; 
 The priest and bridegroom wait the bride. 
 
 And dame and knight are there. 
 They sought her baith by bower and ha'; 
 
 The ladle was not seen ! 
 She's o'^r the Border, and awa' 
 
 Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.* 
 
 Air — " Phbair of Donuil Dhuidh.''^ 
 1816. 
 
 This is a very ancient pibroch belongin;; to 
 Clan Macdonald, and supposed to refer to the 
 expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in 1431, 
 launclied from the Isles with a considerable 
 force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inverlochy de- 
 feated and put to flight the Earls of Mar and 
 Caithness, though at the head of an army supe- 
 rior to his own. The words of the set, theme, or 
 melody, to which the pipe variations are applied, 
 run thus in Gaelic : — 
 
 Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd 
 
 Dhonuil 
 Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd 
 
 Dhonuil ; 
 Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd 
 
 Dhonuil ; 
 Piob agus bratach airfaiche Inverlochi. 
 
 The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, 
 The pipe-summons of Donald the Hlack, 
 The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering 
 place at Inverlochy. 
 
 * Z>A« — the Black. 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil, 
 Wake thy wild voice anew, 
 
 Summon Clan-Conuil. 
 Come away, come away. 
 
 Hark to the summons! 
 Come in your war array, 
 
 Gentles and commons. 
 
 Come from deep glen and 
 
 From mountain so rocky. 
 The war-pipe and pennon 
 
 Are at Inverlochy. 
 Come every hill-plaid and 
 
 True heart that wears one. 
 Come every steel blade and 
 
 Strong hand that bears one. 
 
 Leave untended the herd. 
 
 The flock without shelter; 
 Leave the corpse uninterr'd, 
 
 The bride at the altar; 
 Leave the deer, leave the steer. 
 
 Leave nets and barges : 
 Come with your fighting-gear, 
 
 Broadswords and targes. 
 
 Come as the winds come, when 
 
 Forests are rended, 
 Come as the waves come, when 
 
 Navies are stranded : 
 Faster come, faster come. 
 
 Faster and faster. 
 Chief, vassal, page, and groom. 
 
 Tenant and master. 
 
 Fast they come, fast they come; 
 
 See how they gather ! 
 Wide waves the eagle plume, 
 
 Blended with heather. 
 Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 
 
 Forward each man set ! 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 
 
 Knell for the onset ! 
 
 NORA'S VOW. 
 
 Air — Cfta teid mis a c/iaoidh* 
 
 WRITTEN FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY. 
 
 1816. 
 
 In the original Gaelic, tlie lady makes pro- 
 testations that she will not go with the Red Earl's 
 son, until the swan should build in the cliff, and 
 
 * " I will never go with him." 
 
MA CGREGOR 'S GA TIIERING. 
 
 457 
 
 the eagle in the lake — until one mountain should 
 change place with another, and so forth. It is 
 but fair to add, that there is no authority for sup- 
 posing that she altered her mhid — except the 
 vehemence of her protestation. 
 
 Hear what Highland Nora said: - 
 "The Earlie's son I will not wed, 
 Should all the race of nature die, 
 And none l)e left but he and I. 
 For all the gold, for all the gear, 
 And all the lands both far and near. 
 That ever valor lost or won, 
 I would not wed the Earlie's son." 
 
 " A maiden's vows," old Galium spoke, 
 " Are lightly made and lightly broke; 
 The heather on the mountain's height 
 Begins to bloom in purple light; 
 The frost-wind soon shall sweep away 
 That lustre deep from glen and brae; 
 Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, 
 May blithely wed the Earlie's son." — 
 
 ■ The swan," she said, " the lake's clear 
 
 breast 
 May barter for the eagle's nest; 
 The Awe's fierce stream may backward 
 
 turn, 
 Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn; 
 Our kilted clans, when blood is high, 
 Before their foes may turn and fly; 
 But I, were all these marvels done. 
 Would never wed the Earlie's son." 
 
 Still in the water-lily's shade 
 Her wonted nest the wild-swan made; 
 Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, 
 Stil 1 downward foams the Awe ' sfierce river; 
 To shun the clash of foeman's steel. 
 No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel; 
 But Nora's heart is lost and won, 
 — She's wedded to the Earlie's son ! 
 
 MACGREGOR'S GATHERING. 
 
 Air — ThaifC a Grigalach.* 
 WRITTEN FOR ALBYN's ANTHOLOGY. 
 
 1816. 
 These verses are adapted to a very wild yet 
 lively gathering-tune, used by the MacGregors. 
 
 * " The MacGregor is come." 
 
 The severe treatment of this clan, their outlawry, 
 and the proscription of their very name, are 
 alluded to in the Ballad. 
 
 The moon's on the lake, and the mist's 
 
 on the brae. 
 And the Clan has a name that is nameless 
 by day; 
 Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach ! 
 Gather, gather, gather, etc. / 
 
 Our signal for fight, that from monarchs 
 
 we drew. 
 Must be heard but by night in our venge- 
 ful haloo ! 
 Then haloo, Grigalach ! haloo, Griga- 
 lach ! 
 Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, etc. 
 
 Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coal- 
 
 chuirn and her towers, 
 Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are 
 ours; 
 We're landless, landless, landless, 
 
 Grigalach I 
 Landless, landless, landless, etc. 
 
 But doom'd and devoted by vassal and 
 
 lord, 
 MacGregor has still both his heart and 
 his sword ! 
 Then courage, courage, courage, Griga- 
 lach ! 
 Courage, courage, courage, etc. 
 
 If they rob us of name, and pursue us 
 
 with beagles. 
 Give their roofs to the flame, and their 
 flesh to the eagles ! 
 Then vengeance, vengeance, ven- 
 geance, Grigalach ! 
 Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, etc. 
 
 While there's leaves in the forest, and 
 
 foam on the river, 
 MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish 
 forever ! 
 Come then, Grigalach ! come then, 
 
 Grigalach ! 
 Come then, come then, come then, etc. 
 
 Through the depths of Loch Katrine the 
 
 steed shall career. 
 O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley 
 
 shall steer, 
 
45i> 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And the rocks of Craig-Royston like 
 
 icicles melt, 
 Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our ven- 
 geance unfelt ! 
 Then gather, gather, gather, Griga- 
 
 lach! 
 Gather, gather, gather, etc. 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 COMPOSED FOR THE OCCASION, ADAPTED 
 TO HAYDN'S AIR, 
 
 " God Save the Emperor Francis," 
 
 AND SUNG BY A SELECT BAND AFTER 
 THE DINNER GIVEN BY THE LORD 
 PROVOST OF EDINBURGH TO THE 
 
 GRAND-DUKE NICHOLAS OF 
 
 RUSSIA AND HIS SUITE. 
 I9TH DECEMBER, 1816. 
 
 God protect brave Alexander, 
 
 Heaven defend the noble Tsar, 
 Mighty Russia's high Commander, 
 
 First in Europe's banded war ! 
 For the realms he did deliver 
 
 From the tyrant overthrown. 
 Thou, of every good the Giver, 
 
 Grant him long to bless his own ! 
 Bless him, mid his land's disaster, 
 
 For her rights who battled brave. 
 Of the land of foemen master. 
 
 Bless him who their wrongs forgave ! 
 
 O'er his just resentment victor, 
 
 Victor over Europe's foes, 
 Late and long supreme director, 
 
 Grant in peace his reign may close ! 
 Hail! then, hail ! illustrious Stranger ! 
 
 Welcome to our mountain strand ! 
 Mutual interests, hopes, and danger. 
 
 Link us with thy native land. 
 Freemen's force, or false beguiling. 
 
 Shall that union ne'er divide. 
 Hand in hand while peace is smiling. 
 
 And in battle side by side. 
 
 TIME. 
 1816. 
 
 " Why sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall. 
 Thou aged carle so stern and gray ? 
 
 Dost thou its former pride recall. 
 Or ponder how it pass'd away ! " — 
 
 " Know'st thou not me! " the Deep 
 Voice cried; 
 
 " So long enjoy'd, so oft misused — 
 Alternate, in thy fickle pride. 
 
 Desired, neglected, and accused ! 
 
 "Before my breath, like blazing flax, 
 Man and his marvels pass away ! 
 
 And changing empires wane and wax, 
 Are founded, flourish, and decay. 
 
 Redeem mine hours — the space is brief — 
 While in my glass the sand-grains 
 shiver. 
 And measureless thy joy or grief, 
 
 When Time, and thou shalt part for- 
 ever ! " 
 
 The Antiquary, chap. x. 
 
 ELSPETH'S BALLAD. 
 1816. 
 
 The herring loves the merry moon-light, 
 The mackerel loves the wind. 
 
 But the oyster loves the dredging sang. 
 For they come of a gentle kind. 
 
 Now baud your tongue, baith wife and 
 carle. 
 
 And listen great and sma'. 
 And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl 
 
 That fought on the red Harlaw. 
 
 The cronach's cried on Bennachie, 
 
 And doun the Don and a'. 
 And hieland and lawland may mournfu'be 
 
 For the sair field of Harlaw. — 
 
 They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, 
 They hae bridled a hundred black, 
 
 With a chafron of steel on each horse's 
 head. 
 And a good knight upon his back. 
 
 They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, 
 
 A mile but barely ten, 
 When Donald came branking down the 
 brae 
 
 Wi' twenty thousand men. 
 
MOTTOES. 
 
 459 
 
 Their tartans they were waving wide, 
 Their glaives were glancing clear. 
 
 The pibrochs rung frae side to side, 
 Would deafen ye to hear. 
 
 The great Earl in his stirrup stood, 
 
 That Highland host to see : 
 " Now here a knight that's stout and 
 good 
 
 May prove a jeopardie : 
 
 " What would'st thou do, my squire so 
 
 gay. 
 
 That rides beside my reyne. — 
 
 Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day, 
 
 And I were Roland Cheyne? 
 
 " To turn the rein were sin and shame. 
 To fight were wondrous peril, — 
 
 What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, 
 Were ye Glenallan's Earl ! " — 
 
 *' Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide. 
 And ye were Roland Cheyne, 
 
 The spur should be in my horse's side. 
 And the bridle upon his mane. 
 
 " If they hae twenty thousand blades. 
 
 And we twice ten times ten, 
 Vet they hae but their tartan plaids. 
 
 And we are mail-clad men. 
 
 " My horse shall ride through ranks sae 
 rude. 
 
 As through the moorland fern, — 
 Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude 
 
 Grow cauld for Highland kerne." 
 
 He turn'd him right and round again, 
 Said, Scorn na at my mither; 
 
 Light loves I may get mony a ane, 
 But minnie ne'er anither. 
 
 The Antiquary, chap. xl. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM " THE ANTIQUARY." 
 
 I KNEW Anselmo. He was shrewd and 
 
 prudent, 
 Wisdom and cunning had their shares of 
 
 him; 
 
 But he was shrewish as a wayward child, 
 And pleased again by toys which child- 
 hood please; 
 As — book of fables graced with print of 
 
 wood. 
 Or else the jingling of a rusty medal. 
 Or the rare melody of some old ditty. 
 That first was sung to please King Pepin's 
 cradle. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 "Be brave," she cried, "you yet may 
 
 be our guest. 
 Our haunted room was ever held the best : 
 If, then, your valor can the fight sustain 
 Of rustling curtains, and the clinking 
 
 chain; 
 If your courageous tongue have powers 
 
 to talk. 
 When round your bed the horrid ghost 
 
 shall walk. 
 If you dare ask it why it leaves its tomb, 
 I'll see your sheets well air'd, and show 
 
 the room. 
 
 True Story. 
 
 CHAP. XXI. 
 
 — The Lord Abbot had a soul 
 
 Subtile and quick, and searching as the 
 
 fire: 
 By magic stairs he went as deep as hell. 
 And if in devils' possession gold be kept, 
 He brought some sure from thence — 'tis 
 
 hid in caves, 
 Known, save to me, to none. 
 
 The Wonder of a Kingdome. 
 
 CHAP. XXX. 
 
 Who is he? — One that for the lack of 
 land 
 
 Shall fight upon the water — he hath chal- 
 lenged 
 
 Formerly the grand whale; and by his 
 titles 
 
 Of Leviathan, Behemoth, and so forth. 
 
 He tilted with a sword-fish — Marry, sir, 
 
 Th' aquatic had the best — the argunient 
 
 Still calls our champion's breech. 
 
 '' Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXI. 
 
 Tell me not of it, friend — when the 
 
 young weep. 
 Their tears are lukewarm brine; — from 
 
 our old eyes 
 
460 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Sorrow falls down like hail-drops of the 
 North, 
 
 Chilling the furrowsof our wither'dcheeks. 
 
 Cold as our hopes, and harden'd as our 
 feeling — 
 
 Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless — ours 
 recoil, 
 
 Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all be- 
 fore us. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIII. 
 
 Remorse — she ne'er forsakes us! 
 
 A bloodhound stanch — she tracks our 
 
 rapid step 
 Through the wild labyrinth of youthful 
 
 frenzy. 
 Unheard, perchance, until old age hath 
 
 tamed us; 
 Then in our lair, when Time hath chill'd 
 
 our joints. 
 And maim'd our hope of combat, or of 
 
 flight, 
 We hear her deep-mouth'd bay, announ- 
 cing all 
 Of wrath and woe and punishment that 
 
 bides us. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIV. 
 
 Still in his dead hand clench'd remain 
 
 the strings 
 That thrill his father's heart — e'en as 
 
 the limb, 
 Lopp'd off and laid in grave, retains, they 
 
 tell us, 
 Strange commerce with the mutilated 
 
 stump. 
 Whose nerves are twinging still in 
 
 maim'd existence. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXV. 
 
 Life, with you. 
 
 Glows in the brain and dances in the 
 arteries; 
 
 'Tis like the wine some joyous guest hath 
 quaff'd. 
 
 That glads the heart and elevates the 
 fancy : — 
 
 Mine is the poor residuum of the cup, 
 
 Vapid, and dull, and tasteless, only 
 soiling 
 
 With its base dregs the vessel that con- 
 tains it. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXVII. 
 
 Yes ! I love Justice well — as well as you 
 
 do — 
 But, since the good dame's blind, she 
 
 shall excuse me. 
 If, time and reason fitting, I prove dumb; 
 The breath I utter now shall be no means 
 To take away from me my breath in 
 
 future. 
 
 Old Play. 
 CHAP. XXXVIII. 
 
 Well, well, at worst, 'tis neither theft nor 
 
 coinage. 
 Granting I knew all that you charge me 
 
 with. 
 What, tho' the tomb hath borne a second 
 
 birth. 
 And given the wealth to one that knew 
 
 not on't. 
 Yet fair exchange was never robbery. 
 Far less pure bounty. 
 
 Old Play. 
 CHAP. XL. 
 
 Life ebbs from such old age, unmark'd 
 
 and silent. 
 As the slow neap-tide leaves yon stranded 
 
 galley. 
 Late she rock'd merrily at the least 
 
 impulse 
 That wind or wave could give; but now 
 
 her keel 
 Is settling on the sand, her mast has ta'en 
 An angle with the sky, from which it 
 
 shifts not. 
 Each wave receding shakes her less and 
 
 less. 
 Till, bedded on the strand, she shall 
 
 remain 
 Useless as motionless. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XLI. 
 
 So, while the Goose, of whom the fable 
 
 told. 
 Incumbent, brooded o'er her eggs of gold. 
 With hand outstretch'd, impatient to 
 
 destroy. 
 Stole on her secret nest the cruel Boy, 
 Whose gripe rapacious changed her splen- 
 did dream, 
 For wings vain fluttering, and for dying 
 scream. 
 
 The Loves of the Sea- Weeds. 
 
MOTTO FROM '■'■THE BLACK DWARF. 
 
 461 
 
 CHAP. XLII. 
 
 Let those go see who will — I like it not — 
 For say he was a slave to rank and pomp, 
 And all the nothings he is now divorced 
 
 from 
 By the hard doom of stern necessity; 
 Yet is it sad to mark his alter'd brow. 
 Where vanity adjusts her flimsy veil 
 O'er the deep wrinkles of repentant An- 
 guish. 
 
 Old Play. 
 CHAP. y.w\\. 
 Fortune, you say, flies from us — She but 
 
 circles, 
 Like the fleet sea-bird round the fowler's 
 
 skiff, — 
 Lost in the mist one moment, and the 
 
 next 
 Brushing the white sail with her whiter 
 
 wing, 
 As if to court the aim. — Experience 
 
 watches. 
 And has her on the wheel. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XLIV. 
 
 Nay, if she love me not, I care not for 
 
 her; 
 Shall I look pale because the maiden 
 
 blooms ? 
 Or sigh because she smiles — and smiles 
 
 on others? 
 Not I, by Heaven! — I hold my peace 
 
 too dear. 
 To let it, like the plume upon her cap, 
 Shake at each nod that her caprice shall 
 
 dictate. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 MOTTO FROM "THE BLACK 
 DWARF." 
 
 1816. 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 — 'TWAS time and griefs 
 
 That framed him thus: Time, with his 
 
 fairer hand. 
 Offering the fortunes of his former days. 
 The former man may make him — Bring 
 
 us to him, 
 And chance it as it may. 
 
 Old Plav. 
 
 MAJOR BELLENDEN'S SONG. 
 
 1816. 
 
 And what the' winter will pinch severe 
 Thro' locks of gray and a cloak that's 
 old, 
 Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier. 
 
 For a cup of sack shall fence the cold. 
 For time will rust the brightest blade, 
 And years will break the strongest 
 bow ; 
 ^Vas never wight so starkly made. 
 But time and years would overthrow ! 
 Old Mortality, chap. xix. 
 
 VERSES FOUND IN BOTHVVELL'S 
 POCKET-BOOK.* 
 
 1816. 
 
 Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright. 
 As in that well-remember'd night. 
 When first thy mystic braid was wove. 
 And first my Agnes whisper'd love. 
 
 Since then how often hast thou press'd 
 The torrid zone of this wild breast, 
 Whose wrath and hate have sworn to 
 
 dwell 
 With the first sin which peopled hell. 
 A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean. 
 Each throb the earthquake's wild com- 
 motion ! — 
 O, if such clime thou canst endure. 
 Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure. 
 What conquest o'er each erring thought 
 Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought ! 
 I had not wander'd wild and wide. 
 With such an angel for my guide; 
 Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove 
 
 me. 
 If she had lived, and lived to love me. 
 
 Not then this world's wild joys had been 
 To me one savage hunting scene, 
 My sole delight the headlong race, 
 And frantic hurry of the chase; 
 
 * "With these letters was a lock of hair 
 wrapped in a copy of verses, written obnously 
 with a feeling which atoned, in Morton's opinion, 
 for the roughness of the poetry, and the conceits 
 with which it abounded, according to the taste of 
 the period." 
 
462 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 To start, pursue, and bring to bay. 
 Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey, 
 Then — from the carcass turn away ! 
 Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, 
 And soothed each wound which pride 
 
 inflamed ! 
 Yes, God and man might now approve me. 
 If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me. 
 Old Alortality, chap, xxiii. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM " OLD MORTALITY." 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 My hounds may a' rin masterless. 
 My hawks may fly frae tree to tree. 
 
 My lord may grip my vassal lands. 
 For there again maun I never be ! 
 Old Ballad. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIV. 
 
 Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 
 
 To all the sensual world proclaim. 
 One crowded hour of glorious life 
 
 Is worth an age without a name. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS; 
 
 OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN. 
 
 1817. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh for a glance of that gay Muse's eye, 
 That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing 
 
 tale, 
 And twinkled with a lustre shrewd and 
 
 sly, 
 When Giam Battista * bade her vision 
 
 hail ! — 
 Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail 
 Given by the natives of that land ca- 
 norous; 
 Italian license loves to leap the pale. 
 We Britons have the fear of shame 
 before us, 
 And, if not wise in mirth, at least must 
 be decorous. 
 
 * The hint of tlie following tale is taken from 
 " La Camiscia Magica," a novel by Giam Battista 
 Casti. 
 
 In the far eastern clime, no great while 
 
 since. 
 Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince. 
 Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their 
 
 round. 
 Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground : 
 Whose ears received the same unvaried 
 
 phrase : — 
 " Sultaun ! thy vassal hears, and he 
 
 obeys!" 
 All have their tastes — this may the fancy 
 
 strike 
 Of such grave folks as pomp and grand- 
 eur like; 
 For me, I love the honest heart and warm 
 Of Monarch who canambleroundhis farm. 
 Or, when the toil of state no more annoys. 
 In chimney-corner seek domestic joys — 
 I love a prince will bid the bottle pass. 
 Exchanging with his subjects glance and 
 
 glass; 
 In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay. 
 Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay — 
 Such Monarchs best our free-born hu- 
 mors suit. 
 But Despots must be stately, stern, and 
 mute. 
 
 III. 
 This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway — 
 And where's Serendib? may some critic 
 
 say. — 
 Good lack, mine honest friend, consult 
 
 the chart. 
 Scare not my Pegasus before I start ! 
 If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap, 
 The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's 
 
 map, — 
 Famed mariner ! whose merciless narra- 
 tions 
 Drove every friend and kinsman out of 
 
 patience. 
 Till, fain to find a guest who thought 
 
 them shorter. 
 He deign'd to tell them over to a porter — 
 The last edition see, by Long & Co., 
 Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in 
 the Row. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Serendib found, deem not my tale a fic- 
 tion — 
 
 This Sultaun, whether lacking contradic- 
 tion — 
 
THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS. 
 
 463 
 
 (A sort of stimulant which hath its uses, 
 To raise the spirits and reform the juices, 
 • — Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures 
 In my wife's practice, and perhaps in 
 
 yours). 
 The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome 
 
 bitter, 
 Or cordial smooth for prince's palate 
 
 fitter — 
 Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams 
 With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild 
 
 themes 
 Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft, 
 I wot not — ■ but the Sultaun never laugh'd, 
 Scarceateor drank, and tookamelancholy, 
 Thatscorn'd all remedy — profaneorholy ; 
 In his long list of melancholies, mad, 
 Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none 
 
 so bad.* 
 
 Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and 
 
 tried, 
 As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd 
 
 room; 
 With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue 
 
 they eyed, 
 Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where 
 
 beside, 
 And then in solemn accent spoke their 
 
 doom : — 
 " His Majesty is very far from well." 
 Then each to work with his specific fell : 
 The Ilakim Ibrahim instanter brought 
 His unguent MahazMi al Zerdukkaut, 
 While Roompot, a practitioner more wily, 
 Relied on his Munaskif al fillfily.t 
 More and yet more in deep array appear. 
 And some the front assail, and some the 
 
 rear; 
 Their remedies to reinforce and vary, 
 Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary; 
 Till the tired Monarch, tho' of words 
 
 grown chary. 
 Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless 
 
 labor. 
 Some hint about a bowstring or a sabre. 
 There lack'd, I promise you, no longer 
 
 speeches 
 To rid the palace of those learned leeches. 
 
 * See Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy. 
 t See D'Herbelot, or the " Recipes of Avi- 
 ceuua." 
 
 Then was thecouncilcall'd — by their advice 
 (They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and 
 
 nice, 
 And sought to shift it off from their 
 
 own shoulders), 
 Tartars and couriers in all speed were 
 
 sent. 
 To call a sort of Eastern Parliament 
 Of feudatory chieftains and freehold- 
 ers — 
 Such have the Persians at this very day, 
 My gallant Malcolm calls them cou- 
 
 roultai; \ — 
 I'm not prepared to show in this slight 
 
 song 
 That to Serendib the same forms belong. 
 E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell 
 
 me if I'm wrong. 
 
 The Omrahs, each with hand on cimetar, 
 
 Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice 
 for war : — 
 
 " The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath. 
 
 Too long has slept, nor own'd the work 
 of death; 
 
 Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle, 
 
 Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout 
 of battle! 
 
 This dreary cloud that dims our sove- 
 reign's day. 
 
 Shall from his kindled bosom flit away. 
 
 When the bold Lootie wheels his courser 
 round. 
 
 And the arm'd elephant shall shake the 
 ground. 
 
 Each noble pants to own the glorious 
 summons — 
 
 And for the charges — Lo! your faithful 
 Commons ! ' ' 
 
 The Riots who attended in their places 
 (Serendib language calls a farmer Riot) 
 
 Look'd ruefully in one another's faces, 
 From this oration auguring much dis- 
 quiet. 
 
 Double assessment, forage, and free 
 quarters; 
 
 And fearing these as Chinamen the Tar- 
 tars, 
 
 \ See Sir John Malcolm's " History of 
 Persia." 
 
464 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the 
 
 mousers, 
 Each fumbled in the pocket of his 
 
 trowsers. 
 
 vin. 
 And next came forth the reverend Con- 
 vocation, 
 Bald heads, white beards, and many a 
 turban green, 
 Imaum and Mollah there of every station, 
 Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen. 
 Their votes were various ~ some advised 
 a Mosque 
 With fitting revenues should be erected. 
 With seemly gardens and with gay 
 Kiosque, 
 To recreate a band of priests selected; 
 Others opined that through the realms a 
 dole 
 Be made to holy men, whose prayers 
 might profit 
 The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul. 
 But their long-headed Chief, the Sheik 
 Ul-Sotit, 
 More closely touch'd the point : — " Thy 
 
 studious mood," 
 Quoth he, "O Prince! hath thicken'd 
 
 all thy blood, 
 And duU'd thy brain with labor beyond 
 
 measure; 
 Wherefore relax a space and take thy 
 
 pleasure. 
 And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy 
 
 treasure; 
 From all the cares of state, my Liege, 
 
 enlarge thee, 
 And leave the burden to thy faithful 
 clergy." 
 
 These counsels sage availed not a whit, 
 
 And so the patient (as is not uncommon 
 
 Where grave physicians lose their time 
 
 and wit) 
 
 Resolved to take advice of an old 
 
 woman; 
 
 His mother she, a dame who once was 
 
 beauteous, 
 And still was call'd so by each subject 
 
 duteous. 
 Now, whether Fatima was witch in ear- 
 nest, 
 Or only made believe, I cannot say — 
 
 But she profess'd to cure disease the 
 
 sternest. 
 By dint of magic amulet or lay; 
 And, when all other skill in vain was 
 
 shown. 
 She deem'd it fitting time to use her own. 
 
 " Sympathia magica hath wonders done " 
 (Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son). 
 " It works upon the fibres and the pores. 
 And thus, insensibly, our health restores, 
 And it must help us here. — Thou must 
 
 endure 
 The ill, my son, or travel for the cure. 
 Search land and sea, and get where'er 
 
 you can. 
 The inmost vesture of a happy man, 
 I mean his SHIRT, my son; which, taken 
 
 warm 
 And fresh from off his back, shall chase 
 
 your harm. 
 Bid every current of your veins rejoice. 
 And your dull heart leap light as shep- 
 herd-boy's." 
 Such was the counsel from his mother 
 
 came; — 
 I know not if she had some under-game. 
 As Doctors have, who bid their patients 
 
 roam 
 And live abroad, when sure todieat home : 
 Or if she thought, that, somehow or 
 
 another, 
 Queen-Regent sounded betterthan Queen- 
 Mother; ^ 
 But, says the Chronicle (who will, go 
 
 look it). 
 That such was her advice — the Sultaun 
 took it. 
 
 XI. 
 All are on board — the Sultaun and his 
 
 train. 
 In gilded galley prompt to plough the 
 main. 
 The old Rais * was the first who ques- 
 tion'd, "Whither?" 
 They paused — "Arabia," thought the 
 
 pensive Prince, 
 "Was call'd the Happy many ages since — 
 For Mokha, Rais." — And they came 
 safely thither. 
 
 ^ Sea captain. 
 
THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS. 
 
 465 
 
 But not in Araby, with all her balm, 
 Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm, 
 Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste, 
 Could there the step of happiness be 
 
 traced. 
 One Copt alone profess'd to have seen 
 
 her smile. 
 When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant 
 
 Nile: 
 She bless'd the dauntless traveller as he 
 
 quaff'd, 
 But vanish'd from him with the ended 
 
 draught. 
 
 XII. 
 " Enough of turbans," said the weary 
 
 King, 
 " These dolimans of ours are not the 
 
 thing; 
 Try we the Giaouis, these men of coat 
 
 and cap, I 
 Incline to think some of them must be 
 
 happy; 
 At least, they have as fair a cause as any 
 
 can, 
 They drink good wine and keep no Ram- 
 
 azan. 
 Then northward, ho ! " — The vessel cuts 
 
 the sea. 
 And fair Italia lies upon her lee. — 
 But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd 
 Her eagle banners o'er a conquer'd world, 
 Long from her throne of domination 
 
 tumbled, 
 Lay, by her quohdam vassals, sorely 
 
 humbled; 
 The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, 
 
 and lean, 
 And was not half the man he once had 
 
 been. 
 " While these the priest and those the 
 
 noble fleeces. 
 Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn 
 
 to pieces. 
 Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel, 
 And the Great Devil is rending toe and 
 
 heel.* 
 If happiness you seek, to tell you truly, 
 \Vc think she dwells with one Giovanni 
 
 Bulli; 
 
 * The " boot " is Italy : Florence, Venice 
 and the Northern Cities are called the " tops; " 
 the "too and heel" are the Calarias, then in- 
 fested with freebooters, one of the leaders being 
 known as Fra Diavolo. 
 
 A tramontane, a heretic, — the buck, 
 Poffaredio! still has all the luck; 
 By land or ocean never strikes his flag — 
 And then — a perfect walking money- 
 bag." 
 Off set our prince to seek John Bull's 
 
 abode, 
 But first took France — it lay upon the 
 road. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Monsieur Baboon, after much late com- 
 motion, 
 Was agitated like a settling ocean. 
 Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what 
 
 ail'd him. 
 Only the glory of his house had fail'd 
 
 him; 
 Besides some tumors on his noddle 
 
 biding, 
 Gave indication of a recent hiding. 
 Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things 
 
 are heedless. 
 Thought it a thing indelicate and needless 
 To ask, if at that moment he was happy. 
 And Monsieur, seeing that he y/ascotnme 
 
 il faut, a 
 Loud voice muster'd up, for " Vive le 
 
 Roi!'' 
 Then whisper'd, " 'Ave you any news 
 
 of Nappy? " 
 The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross 
 
 question : — 
 " Pray, can you tell me aught of one 
 
 John Bull, 
 That dwells somewhere beyond your 
 
 herring-pool? " 
 The query seem'd of difficult digestion. 
 The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and 
 
 took his snuff. 
 And found his whole good-breeding scarce 
 
 enough. 
 
 XIV. 
 Twitching his visage into as many puckers 
 As damsels wont to put into their tuckers 
 (Ere lil)eral Fashion damn'd lx)th lace 
 
 and lawn. 
 And bade the veil of modesty be drawii), 
 Replied the Frenchman, after a brief 
 
 pause : — 
 " Jean Bool ! — I vas not known him — 
 
 Yes, I vas — 
 I vas remember dat, von year or two, 
 I saw him at von place call'd Vaterloo — 
 
466 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Ma foi ! il s'est tres joliment battu, 
 Dat is f orEnglishman, — m' entendez-vous ? 
 But den he had wit him one damn son- 
 gun, 
 Rogue I no like — dey call him Velling- 
 
 ton." 
 Monsieur's politeness could not hide his 
 
 fret, 
 So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the 
 
 strait. 
 
 XV. 
 John Bull was in his very worst of moods, 
 Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods; 
 His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw, 
 And on his counter l>eat the devil's tattoo. 
 His wars were ended, and the victory won. 
 But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest 
 
 John; 
 And authors vouch, 'twas still this 
 
 Worthy's way, 
 " Never to grumble till he came to pay; 
 And then he always thinks, his temper's 
 
 such. 
 The work too little and the pay too 
 
 much." 
 Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and 
 
 hearty, 
 That when his mortal foe was on the floor, 
 And past the power to harm his quiet 
 
 more. 
 Poor John had well nigh wept for 
 
 Bonaparte ! 
 Such was the wight whom Solimaun 
 
 salam'd, — 
 " And who are you," John answer'd, 
 
 "and be damn'd ! " 
 
 " A stranger, come to see the happiest 
 man, — 
 
 So, signior, all avouch, — in Frangistan." 
 
 " Happy? my tenants breaking on my 
 hand; 
 
 Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my 
 land; 
 
 Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and 
 moths 
 
 The sole consumers of my good broad- 
 cloths — 
 
 Happy? — Why, cursed war and rack- 
 ing tax 
 
 Have left us scarcely raiment to our 
 backs." — 
 
 ' ' In that case, signior, I may take my leave ; 
 I came to ask a favor — but I grieve " — 
 " Favor? " said John, and eyed the Sul- 
 
 taun hard, 
 " It's my belief you come to break the 
 
 yard ! — 
 But, stay, you look like some poor foreign 
 
 sinner, — 
 Take that to buy yourself a shirt and 
 
 dinner." - — 
 With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head ; 
 But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said : — 
 " Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline; 
 A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine. 
 Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you 
 
 well." — 
 " Kiss and be damn'd," quoth John, 
 
 " and go to hell ! " 
 
 Next door to John there dwelt his sister 
 
 Peg, 
 Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg 
 When the blithe bagpipe blew — but, 
 
 soberer now. 
 She doucely span her flax and niilk'd her 
 
 cow. 
 And whereas erst she was a needy slattern, 
 Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern, 
 Yet once a-month her house was partly 
 
 swept, 
 And once a-week a plenteous Iward she 
 
 kept, 
 And whereas, eke, tne vixen used her 
 
 claws 
 And teeth, of yore, on slender provoca- 
 tion. 
 She now was grown amenable to laws, 
 
 A quiet soul as any in the nation; 
 The sole remembrance of her warlike joys 
 Was in old songs she sang to please her 
 
 boys. 
 John Bull, whom, in their years of early 
 
 strife. 
 She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life, 
 Now found the woman, as he said, a 
 
 neighbor, 
 Who look'd to the main chance, declined 
 
 no labor. 
 Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern 
 
 jargon, 
 And was damn'd close in making of a 
 
 bargain. 
 
THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS. 
 
 467 
 
 The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg, 
 And with decorum curtsy'd sister Peg. 
 (She loved a book, and knew a thing or 
 
 two. 
 And guess'd at once with whom she had 
 
 to do.) 
 She bade him "Sit into the fire," and took 
 Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from 
 
 the nook; 
 Ask'd him " about the news from Eastern 
 
 parts ; 
 And of her absent bairns, puir Highland 
 
 hearts ! 
 If peace brought down the price of tea 
 
 and pepper, 
 And if the niimugs were grown ouy 
 
 cheaper; — 
 Were there nae speerings of our Mungo 
 
 Park — 
 Ye'U be the gentleman that wants the 
 
 sark? 
 If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's 
 
 spinnin', 
 I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen." 
 
 Then up got Peg, and round the house 
 
 'gan scuttle 
 In search of goods her customer to nail, 
 Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely 
 
 throttle, 
 And hollo'd: — " Ma'am that is not 
 
 what I ail. 
 Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug 
 
 glen?" 
 " Happy?" said Peg; " What for d'ye 
 
 want to ken? 
 Besides, just think upon this by-gane 
 
 year. 
 Grain wadna pay the yoking of the 
 
 pleugh." — 
 " what say you to the present? " — 
 
 " Meal's sae dear. 
 To mak' their brose my bairns have 
 
 scarce aneugh." — 
 " The devil take the shirt," said Soli- 
 maun, 
 " I think my quest will end as it began. — 
 Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I 
 
 beg." — 
 " Ye'll no be for the linen then?" said 
 
 Peg, 
 
 Now, for the land of verdant Erin, 
 The Sultaun's royal bark is steering, 
 The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy 
 
 dwells, 
 The cousin of John Bull, as story tells. 
 For a long space had John, with words 
 
 of thunder. 
 Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept 
 
 Paddy under. 
 Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd 
 
 unduly. 
 Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly. 
 Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow, 
 A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow ; 
 His landlord, andof middle-mentwobrace. 
 Had screw'd his rent up to the starving- 
 place; 
 His garmentwasatopcoat,and an old one, 
 His meal was a potato, and a cold one; 
 But still for fun or frolic, and all that. 
 In the round world was not the match of 
 
 Pat. 
 
 XXI. 
 The Sultaun saw him on a holiday. 
 Which is with Paddy still a jolly day; 
 When mass is ended, and his load of sins 
 Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from 
 
 her binns 
 Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit. 
 Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and 
 
 spirit ! 
 To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free. 
 And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. 
 "By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun, 
 " That ragged fellow is our very man I 
 Rush in and seize him, do not do him hurt. 
 But, will he nill he, let me have his 
 
 shirt. ^' — 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Shilela their plan was well-nigh after 
 baulking 
 
 (Much less provocation will set it a walk- 
 ing). 
 
 But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd 
 Paddy Whack; 
 
 They seiz'd and they floor'd and they 
 stripp'd him — Alack ! 
 
 Up-bublioo ! Paddy had not a shirt 
 
 to his back ! ! ! 
 
 And the King, disappointed, with sorrow 
 and shame. 
 
 Went back to Serendib as sad as he came. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW 
 HILL. 
 
 Air — Rimhin aluin ^stu 7>io run. 
 1817. 
 
 The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 
 
 In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; 
 The westland wind is hush and still, 
 
 The lake lies sleeping at my feet. 
 Yet not the landscape to mine eye 
 
 Bears thosebright hues thatonceitbore; 
 Though evening, with her richest dye. 
 
 Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. 
 
 With listless look along the plain, 
 
 I see Tweed's silver current glide, 
 And coldly mark the holy fane. 
 
 Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. 
 The quiet lake, the balmy air. 
 
 The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree. 
 Are they still such as once they were? 
 
 Or is the dreary change in me? 
 
 Alas, the vvarp'd and broken board. 
 
 How can it bear the painter's dye ! 
 The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord. 
 
 How to the minstrel's skill reply ! 
 To aching eyes each landscape lowers. 
 
 To feverish pulse each gale blows chill ; 
 And Araby's or Eden's bowers 
 
 Were barren as this moorland hill. 
 
 THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S 
 MARCH. 
 
 Air — " Ymdaith Mionge." 
 
 WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S 
 WELSH MELODIES. 
 
 1817. 
 
 fcTHELFRiD Or Olfrid, King of Northumber- 
 land, having besieged Chester in 6:3, and Brock- 
 MAEL, a British Prince, advancing to relieve it, 
 the religious of the neighboring Monastery of 
 Bangor marched in procession to pray for the 
 success of their countr\'men. But the British 
 being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the 
 monks to the sword, and destroyed their monas- 
 tery. The time to wliich these verses are adapted 
 is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to 
 have been played at their ill-omened procession. 
 
 When the heathen trumpet's clang 
 Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, 
 Veiled nun and friar gray 
 March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye : 
 
 High their holy anthem sounds, 
 Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds, 
 Floating down the sylvan Dee, 
 
 O miserere. Do mine ! 
 
 On the long procession goes, 
 Glory round their crosses glows. 
 And the Virgin-mother mild, 
 In their peaceful banner smiled: 
 Who could think such saintly band 
 Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand? 
 Such was the Divine decree, 
 
 O miserere, Domine ! 
 
 Bands that masses only sung. 
 Hands that censers only swung. 
 Met the northern bow and bill, 
 Heard the war-cry wild and shrill: 
 Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand, 
 Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand. 
 Woe to Saxon cruelty, 
 
 O miserere, Domine ! 
 
 Weltering amid warriors slain, 
 Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane, 
 Slaughter'd down by heathen blade, 
 Bangor's peaceful monks are laid; 
 Word of parting rest unspoke. 
 Mass unsung, and bread unbroke; 
 For their souls for charity. 
 
 Sing, O miserere, Domine ! 
 
 Bangor ! o'er the murder wail ! 
 Long thy ruins told the tale; 
 Shatter'd tower and broken arch 
 Long recall'd the woeful march;* 
 On thy shrine no tapers burn. 
 Never shall thy priests return; 
 The pilgrim sighs, and sings for thee; 
 O miserere, Domine ! 
 
 MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL 
 ADDRESS, 
 
 ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH 
 STAGE. 
 
 1817. 
 
 As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's 
 
 sound. 
 Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws 
 
 the ground — 
 
 * In William of Malmsbury's time the ruins 
 of Bangor still attested the cruelty of the North- 
 umbrians. 
 
MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL ADDRESS, 
 
 Disdains the ease his generous lord 
 
 assigns, 
 And longs to rush on the embattled lines. 
 So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear. 
 Can scarce sustain to think our parting 
 
 near; 
 To think my scenic hour forever past, 
 And that these valued plaudits are my 
 
 last. 
 Why should we part, while still some 
 
 powers remain, 
 That in your service strive not yet in 
 
 vain? 
 Cannot high zeal the strength of youth 
 
 supply, 
 And sense of duty fire the fading eye; 
 And all the wrongs of age remain sub- 
 dued 
 Beneath the burning glow of gratitude? 
 Ah no ! — the taper, wearing to its close, 
 -Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows; 
 But all too soon the transient gleam is 
 
 past — 
 It cannot be renew'd, and will not last; 
 Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage 
 But short-lived conflict with the frosts of 
 
 age. 
 Yes ! it were poor, remembering what I 
 
 was, 
 To live a pensioner on your applause. 
 To drain the dregs of your endurance 
 
 dry. 
 And take, as alms, the praise I once could 
 
 buy; 
 Till every sneering youth around in- 
 quires: — 
 " Is this the man who once could please 
 
 our sires? " 
 And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful 
 
 mien. 
 To warn me off from the encumber'd 
 
 scene. 
 This must not be ; and higher duties crave 
 Some space between the theatre and the 
 
 grave, 
 That, like the Roman in the Capitol, 
 I may adjust my mantle ere I fall : 
 My life's brief act in public service flown. 
 The last the closing scene, must be my 
 
 own. 
 
 Here, then, adieu! while yet some 
 well-graced parts 
 May fix an ancient favorite in your hearts, 
 
 Not quite to be forgotten, even when 
 You look on better actors, younger men : 
 And if your bosoms own this kindly debt 
 Of old remembrance, how shall mine 
 
 forget — 
 O, how forget ! — how oft I hither came 
 In anxious hope, how oft retum'd with 
 
 fame ! 
 How oft around your circle this weak hand 
 Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic 
 
 wand. 
 Till the full burst of inspiration came. 
 And I have felt, and you have fann'd the 
 
 flame ! 
 By memory treasured, while her reign 
 
 endures, 
 Those hours must live — and all theii 
 
 charms are yours. 
 O favor'd Land, renown'd for arts and 
 
 arms. 
 For manly talent, and for female charms, 
 Could this full bosom prompt the sinking 
 
 line. 
 What fervent benedictions now were 
 
 thine ! 
 But my last part is play'd, my kneU is 
 
 rung. 
 When e'en your praise falls faltering from 
 
 my tongue; 
 And all that you can hear, or I can tell. 
 Is — Friends and Pdtrons, hail ! and 
 
 Fare you well ! 
 
 LINES. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH.* 
 1817. 
 
 When the lone pilgrim views afar 
 The shrine that is his guiding star, 
 With awe his footsteps print the road 
 Which the loved saint of yore has trod. 
 As near he draws, and yet more near, 
 His dim eye sparkles with a tear; 
 The Gothic fane's unwonted show. 
 The choral hymn, the taper's glow. 
 Oppress his soul; while they delight 
 And chasten rapture with affright. 
 
 * Written for recitation by the distinguished 
 actress. Miss .Smith, afterwards Mrs. Bartley, on 
 the night of her benefit at the Edinburgh Theatre, 
 1817, but they reached her too late for her pur- 
 pose. 
 
470 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 No longer dare he think his toil 
 Can merit aught his patron's smile; 
 Too light appears the distant way. 
 The chilly eve, the sultry day — 
 All these endured no favor claim, 
 But murmuring forth the sainted name. 
 He lays his little offering down. 
 And only deprecates a frown. 
 
 We, too, who ply the Thespian art, 
 Oft feel such lx)dings of the heart, 
 And, when our utmost powers are strain'd, 
 Dare hardly hope your favor gain'd. 
 She, who from sister climes has sought 
 The ancient land where Wallace fought — 
 Land long renown'd for arms and arts, 
 And conquering eyes and dauntless 
 
 hearts — 
 She, as the flutterings here avow, 
 Feels all the pilgrim's terror now; 
 Yet sure on Carledonian plain 
 The stranger never sued in vain. 
 'Tis yours the hospitable task 
 To give the applause she dare not ask; 
 And they who bid the pilgrim speed, 
 The pilgrim's blessing be their meed. 
 
 LETTER 
 
 TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, 
 DRUMLANRIG CASTLE. 
 
 Sanquhar, 2 o'clock, July 30, 1817. 
 
 From Ross, where the clouds on Benlo- 
 
 mond are sleeping — 
 From Greenock, where Clyde to the 
 
 Ocean is sweeping — 
 From Largs, where the Scotch gave the 
 
 Northmen a drilling — 
 From Ardrossan, whose harbor cost many 
 
 a shilling — 
 From old Cumnock where beds are as 
 
 hard as a plank, sir — 
 From a chop and green pease, and a 
 
 chicken in Sanquhar, 
 This eve, please the fates, at Drumlanrig 
 
 we anchor. 
 
 W. S. 
 
 (Sir Walter's companion on this excursion 
 was Captain, now Sir Adam Ferguson. — See 
 Li/e, vol. v., p. 234.] 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD 
 THE BLACK PRINCE. 
 
 1817. 
 
 " A BLOTTEU piece of paper dropped out of the 
 book, and being taken up by my father, he in- 
 terrupted a hint from Owen, on the propriety 
 of securing loose memoranda with a little paste, 
 by exclaiming, 'To the memory of Edward the 
 Black Prince — What's all this ? — verses ! — By 
 Heaven, Frank, you are a greater blockhead 
 than I supposed you ! ' " 
 
 O FOR the voice of that wild horn, 
 On Fontarabian echoes borne, 
 
 The dying hero's call. 
 That told imperial Charlemagne, 
 How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain, 
 
 Had wrought his champion's fall. 
 
 " ' Foutarabiau eciwest ' continued my father, 
 interrupting himself; ' the Fontarabian Fair , 
 would have been more to the purpose. — Pay- 
 nitK? — What's Paynim? — Could you not say 
 Pagan as well, and write English, at least, if you 
 must needs write nonsense.' " 
 
 Sad over earth and ocean sounding, 
 And England's distant cliffs astound- 
 ing, 
 
 Such are the notes should say 
 How Britain's hope, and France's fear, 
 Victor of Cressy and Poitier, 
 
 In Bordeaux dying lay. 
 
 " ' Poitiers, by the way, is always spelled with 
 an s, and I know no reason why orthography 
 should give place to rhyme.' " 
 
 " Raise my faint head, my squires," 
 
 he said, 
 "And let the casement be display'd, 
 
 That I may see once more 
 The splendor of the setting sun 
 Gleam on thy mirror'd wave, Garonne, 
 
 And Blaye's empurpled shore." 
 
 " ' Garonne and sun is a bad rhyme. Why, 
 Frank, you do not even understand die beggarly 
 trade you have chosen.' " 
 
 " Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep. 
 His fall the dews of evening steep, 
 
 As if in sorrow shed. 
 So soft shall fall the trickling tear. 
 When England's maids and matrons hear 
 Of their Black Edward dead. 
 
SOATGS AND MOTTOES FROM "ROB ROY.'' 
 
 471 
 
 " And though my sun of glory set, 
 Nor France nor England shall forget 
 The terror of my name; 
 And oft shall Britain's heroes rise, 
 New planets in these southern skies, 
 
 Thro' clouds of blood and flame." 
 
 " ' A cloud of flame is something new. — Good- 
 morrow, my masters all, and a merry Christmas 
 to you I — Why, the bellman writes better lines." ' 
 
 Rob Roy, chap. ii. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM ARIOSTO.* 
 
 1817. 
 
 " She [Miss Vernon] proceeded to read the 
 first stanza, which was nearly to the following 
 purpose : " — 
 
 Ladies and knights, and arms, and love's 
 fair flame, 
 Deeds of emprize and courtesy, I sing; 
 What time the Moors from sultry Afric 
 came, 
 LedonbyAgramant,theiryouthfulking, 
 He whom revenge and hasty ire did bring 
 O'er the broad wave, in France to 
 waste and war; 
 Such ills from old Trojano's death did 
 spring, 
 Which to avenge he came from realms 
 
 afar. 
 And menaced Christian Charles, the 
 Roman Emperor. 
 Of dauntless Ronald, too, my strain shall 
 sound. 
 In import never known in prose and 
 rhyme. 
 How He, the chief of judgment deem'd 
 profound. 
 For luckless love was crazed upon a 
 time — 
 
 " ' There is a great deal of it,' said she, glan- 
 cing along the paper, and interrupting the sweetest 
 sounds which mortal ears can drink in : Xhose of 
 a youthful poet's verses, namely, read by the lips 
 which are dearest to them." 
 
 Rob Roy, chap. xvi. 
 
 MOTTOES 
 
 FROM "rob ROV." 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 In the wide pile, by others heeded not. 
 Hers was one sacred solitary spot, 
 
 * The Orlando Furioso. 
 
 Whose gloomy isles and bending shelves 
 
 contain, 
 For moral hunger food, and cures for 
 
 moral pain. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XHI. 
 Dire was his thought, who first in poison 
 
 steep'd 
 The weapon form'd for slaughter — direr 
 
 his. 
 And worthier of damnation, who in- 
 
 stiird 
 The mortal venom in the social cup, 
 To fill the veins with death instead of 
 
 life. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. xxn. 
 Look round thee, young Astolpho : Here's 
 
 the place 
 Which men (for being poor) are sent to 
 
 starve in, — 
 Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease. 
 Within these walls, stifled by damp and 
 
 stench. 
 Doth Hope's fair torch expire: and at 
 
 the snuff. 
 Ere yet 'tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and 
 
 wayward. 
 The desperate revelries of wild despair. 
 Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to 
 
 deeds 
 That the poor captive would have died 
 
 ere practised. 
 Till bondage sunk his soul to his condi- 
 tion. 
 
 The Prison, scene iii. act i. 
 
 CHAP. XXVH. 
 Far as the eye could reach no tree was 
 
 seen, 
 Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively 
 
 green; 
 No birds, except as birds of passage, 
 
 flew; 
 No bee was heard to hum, no dove to 
 
 coo; 
 No streams, as amber smooth, as amber 
 
 clear, 
 Were seen to glide, or heard to warble 
 
 here. 
 
 Prophecy of Famine. 
 
472 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 CHAP. XXXI. 
 
 "Woe to the vanquish'd ! " was stern 
 
 Brenno's word, 
 When sunk proud Rome beneath the 
 
 Gallic sword — 
 "Woe to the vanquish'd!" when his 
 
 massive blade 
 Bore down the scale against her ransom 
 
 weigh'd, 
 And on the field of foughten battle still, 
 Woe knows no limit save the victor's 
 
 will. 
 
 77/1? Gau Iliad. 
 
 CHAP. XXXH. 
 And be he safe restored ere evening set, 
 Or, if there's vengeance in an injured 
 
 heart. 
 And power to wreck it in an armed hand, 
 Your land shall ache for 't. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXVI. 
 
 Farewell to the land where the clouds 
 love to rest. 
 
 Like the shroud of the dead on the moun- 
 tain's cold breast; 
 
 To the cataract's roar where the eagles 
 reply. 
 
 And the lake her lone bosom expands to 
 the sky. 
 
 EPILOGUE TO "THE APPEAL."* 
 
 spoken by mrs. henry siddons. 
 
 Feb. i6, i8i8. 
 
 A CAT of yore (or else old .(Esop lied) 
 Was changed into a fair and blooming 
 
 bride, 
 Piiit spied a mouse upon her marriage-day, 
 Forgot her spouse, and seized upon her 
 
 prey; 
 Even thus my bridegroom lawyer, as you 
 
 saw. 
 Threw off poor me, and pounced upon 
 
 papa. 
 His neck from Hymen's mystic knot made 
 
 loose, 
 He twisted round my sire's the literal 
 
 noose. 
 
 * "The Appeal," a tragedy by John Gait. 
 
 Such are the fruits of our dramatic labor 
 Since the New Jail became our next-door 
 neighbor. 
 
 Yes, times are changed; for, in your 
 
 father's age, 
 The lawyers were the patrons of the stage; 
 However high advanced by future fate, 
 There stands the bench (^points to Ihc Pif) 
 
 that first received their weight. 
 The future legal sage, 'twas ours to see, 
 Doom though unwigg'd and plead with- 
 out a fee. 
 
 But now, astounding each poor mimic elf. 
 Instead of lawyers comes the Law herself; 
 Tremendous neighbor on our right she 
 
 dwells, 
 Builds high her towers and excavates her 
 
 cells; 
 While on the left she agitates the town, 
 With the tempestuous question. Up or 
 
 down ? 
 'Twixt ScyllaandCharybdisthusstand we, 
 Law's final end, and law's uncertainty. 
 But soft ! who lives at Rome the Pope 
 
 must flatter. 
 And jails and lawsuitsare no jestingmatter. 
 Then — just farewell ! We wait with 
 
 serious awe 
 Till your applause or censure gives the 
 
 law. 
 Trustingour humble efforts may assure ye. 
 We hold you Court and Counsel. Judge 
 
 and Jury. 
 
 MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT. 
 1818. 
 
 Air — " Clia till mi tuille." * 
 
 Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird 
 of Macleod, is said to have compused this Lament 
 wlieii the Clan was about to depart upon a dis- 
 tant and dangerous expedition. The Minstrel 
 was impressed with a belief, which the event 
 verified, that he was to be slain in the approach- 
 ing feud; and hence the Gaelic words, C/ia till 
 itii tuille ," ged thillis Macleody cha till Ataclc- 
 ritti»io>i" " I shall never return ; although 
 Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never 
 return '. " The piece is but too well known, from 
 its being the strain with which the emifjrants 
 from the West Highlands and Isles usually take 
 leave of their native shore. 
 
 * " We return no more." 
 
DONALD CAIRD'S COME AGAIN. 
 
 473 
 
 MACLEOD'S wizard flag from the gray 
 castle sallies, 
 
 The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the 
 galleys : 
 
 Gleam war-ax and broadsword, clang tar- 
 get and quiver. 
 
 As Mackrimnion sings, " Farewell to 
 Dunvegan forever ! 
 
 Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers 
 are foaming; 
 
 Farewell each dark glen, in which red- 
 deer are roaming; 
 
 Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, 
 and river; 
 
 Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon 
 shall never ! 
 
 " Farewell the bright clouds that on 
 
 Quillan are sleeping; 
 Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that 
 
 are weeping; 
 To each minstrel delusion, farewell ! — 
 
 and forever — 
 Mackrimmondepartstoreturntoyou never. 
 The Ransliee^s wild voice sings the death- 
 
 lirge before me, 
 The paii df the dead fov n manile hangs 
 
 o'er me; 
 But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves 
 
 shall not shiver, 
 Though devotedIgo,toreturnagain never. 
 
 "Too oft shall the notes of Mackrim- 
 
 mon's bewailing 
 Be heard when the Gael on their exile 
 
 are sailing; 
 Dear land I to the shores, whence unwill- 
 ing we sever. 
 Return — return — return shall we never ! 
 Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille ! 
 Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, 
 Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, 
 Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrim- 
 
 DON.\LD CAIRD'S COME AGAIN. 
 
 Air — " Malcolm CaircVs * come again." 
 
 1818. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Donald Caird's come again ! 
 Donald CairJ's come again ! 
 
 * Caird signifies tinker. 
 
 Tell the nervs in brugh and glen, 
 Donald L'aird''s come again. 
 
 Donald Caird can lilt and sing. 
 Blithely dance the Highland fling, 
 Drink till the gudeman be blind, 
 Fleech till the gudewife be kind; 
 Hoop a leglin, clout a pan, 
 Or crack a pow wi' ony man; 
 Tell the news in brugh and glen, 
 Donald Caird's come again. ■ 
 
 Donald Caird'' s come again ! 
 Donald Caird'' s come again ! 
 Tell the news in Irrttg/i and glen, 
 Donald Caird 's come again. 
 
 Donald Caird can wire a maukin. 
 Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin'. 
 Leisters kipper, makes a shift 
 To shoot a muir-fowl in the drift; 
 Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers. 
 He can wauk when they are sleepers; 
 Not for bountith or reward 
 Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird. 
 
 Donald Caird's come again ! 
 Donald Caird's come again ! 
 Gar the bagpipes hum amain, 
 Donald Caird's come again. 
 
 Donald Caird can drink a gill 
 Fast as hostler-wife can fill; 
 Ilka ane that sells gude liquor 
 Kens how Donald bends a bicker; 
 When he's fou he's stout and saucy, 
 Keeps the cantle o' the cawsey; 
 Hieland chief and Lawland laird 
 Maun gie room to Donald Caird ! 
 
 Donald Caird 's come again ! 
 Donald Caird's come again ! 
 Tell the news in brugh and glen, 
 Donald Caird's come again. 
 
 Steek the amrie, lock the kist, 
 Else some gear may weel be misst : 
 Donald Caird finds orra things 
 Where Allan Gregor fand the tings; 
 Dunts of Kebbuck, taits o' woo. 
 Whiles a hen and whiles a sow, 
 Webs or duds frae hedge or yard — 
 'Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird ! 
 
474 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Donald Caird''s come again ! 
 Donald Caird's come again ! 
 Dinna let the Shirra ken 
 Donald Caird'' s come again. 
 
 On Donald Caiid the doom was stern, 
 Craig to tether, legs to airn, 
 But Donald Caird, wi' mickle study. 
 Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie; 
 Kings of airn, and bolts of steel, 
 Fell like ice frae hand and heel ! 
 Watch the sheep in fauld and glen, 
 Donald Caird's come again ! 
 
 Donald Caird'' s come again ! 
 Donald Caird's come again ! 
 Dinna let the Justice ken 
 Donald Caird's come again. 
 
 EFFIE DEAN'S SONGS. 
 1818. 
 The elfin knight sate on the brae. 
 
 The broom grows bonny, the broom 
 grows fair; 
 And by there came lilting a lady so gay. 
 And we daurna gang down to the broom 
 nae mair. 
 
 Thro' the kirkyard 
 I met wi' the Laird; 
 
 The silly puir body he said me nae 
 harm ; 
 But just ere 'twas dark 
 I met wi' the clerk — 
 Heart of Mid Lothian, chap. x. 
 
 MADGE WILDFIRE'S SONGS. 
 
 1818. 
 When the gledd's in the blue cloud. 
 
 The lavrock lies still; 
 When the hound's in the green-wood. 
 
 The hind keeps the hill. 
 
 O sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said, 
 When ye suld rise and ride? 
 
 There's twenty men, wi' bow and blade. 
 Are seeking where ye hide. 
 Heart of Mid Lothian, chap. xv. 
 
 Hey for cavaliers, ho for cavaliers, 
 
 Dub a dub, dub a dub; 
 
 Have at old Beelzebub, — 
 Oliver's running for fear. — 
 
 I glance like the wildfire thro' country 
 
 and town; 
 I'm seen on the causeway — I'm seen on 
 
 the down; 
 The lightning that flashes so bright and 
 
 so free, 
 Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me. 
 
 What did ye wi' the bridal ring — bridal 
 
 ring — bridal ring? 
 What did ye wi' your wedding ring, ye 
 
 little cutty (juean, O? 
 I gied it till a s(jdger, a sodger, a sodger, 
 I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love 
 
 of mine, O. 
 
 Heart of A/id Lothian, chap. xvi. 
 
 Good even, good fair moon, good even 
 
 to thee; 
 I prithee, dear moon, now show to me 
 The form and the features, the speech 
 
 and degree. 
 Of the man that true lover of mine shall be. 
 
 It is the bonny butcher lad. 
 
 That wears the sleeves of blue; 
 
 He sells the flesh on Saturday, 
 On Friday that he slew. 
 
 There's a bloodhound ranging Tinwald 
 Wood, 
 There's harness glancing sheen; 
 There's a maiden sits on Tinwald brae. 
 And she sings loud between. 
 
 O sleep ye sound, etc. 
 Heart of Mid I^othian, chap, xviii. 
 
 Up in the air, 
 On my bonnie gray mare. 
 And I see, and I see, and I see her yet. 
 Heart of Mid Lothian, chap. xix. 
 
MOTTOES. 
 
 ^t> 
 
 In the bonnie cells of Bedlam, 
 
 Ere I was ane and twenty, 
 I had hempen bracelets strong. 
 And merry whips, ding-dong, 
 And prayers and fasting plenty. 
 
 My banes are buried in yon kirk -yard 
 
 Sae far ayont the sea, 
 And it is but my l)lithesome ghaist 
 
 That's speaking now to thee. 
 Heart of Mid Lothian, chap. xxix. 
 
 I'm Madge of the country, I'm Madge 
 
 of the town, 
 And I'm Madge of the lad I am blithest 
 
 to own — 
 The Lady of Beever in diamonds may 
 
 shine, 
 But has not a heart half so lightsome as 
 
 mine. 
 I am Queen of the Wake, and I'm Lady 
 
 of May, 
 And I lead the blithe ring round the 
 
 May-pole to-day; 
 The wild- fire that flashes so fair and so free 
 Was never so bright or so bonnie as me. 
 Heart of AliJ I.othian, chap. xxxi. 
 
 Our work is over — over now; 
 The goodman wipes his weary brow, 
 The last long wain wends slow away, 
 And we are free to sport and play. 
 
 The night comes on when sets the sun. 
 And labor ends when day is done. 
 When Autumn's gone, and Winter's come. 
 We hold our jovial harvest-home. 
 
 When the fight of grace is fought, — 
 When the marriage vest is wrought, — 
 When Faith has chased cold Doubt away. 
 And hope but sickens at delay, — 
 
 When Charity, imprison'd here. 
 Longs for a more expanded sphere; 
 Doff thy robe of sin and clay; 
 Christian, rise, and come away. 
 
 Cauld is my bed, Lord Archibald, 
 And sad my sleep of sorrow : 
 
 But thine sail be as sad and cauld. 
 My fause true-love \ to-morrow. 
 
 And weep ye not, my maidens free, 
 Though death your mistress lx>rrow, 
 
 For he for whom I die to-day 
 Shall die for me to-morrow. 
 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood, 
 
 Walking so early; 
 Sweet Robin sits on the bush, 
 
 Singing so rarely. 
 
 "Tell me, thou bonny bird. 
 When shall I marry me ! " — 
 
 " When six braw gentlemen 
 Kirkward shall carry ye." 
 
 " Who makes the bridal bed, 
 
 Birdie, say truly? " — 
 "The gray-headed sexton 
 
 That delves the grave duly. 
 
 " The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 
 
 Shall light thee steady. 
 The owl from the steeple sing, 
 
 ' Welcome, proud lady.' " 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM "THE HEART OF MID I.OTHIAN." 
 CHAP. VIIl. 
 
 Arthur's Seat shall be my bed. 
 
 The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me; 
 
 St. Anton's well shall be my drink. 
 Sin' my true love's forsaken me. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 CHAP. xn. 
 Then she stretch'd out her lily band. 
 
 And for to do her best, 
 Hae back thy faith and troth, Willie, 
 God gie thy soul good rest. 
 
 Old Ballad. 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 Dark and eerie was the night. 
 
 And lonely was the way. 
 As Janet wi' her green mantill 
 To Miles' Cross she did gae. 
 
 Old Ballad. 
 
476 
 
 3IISCELLANE0US POEMS. 
 
 EPITAPH ON MRS. ERSKINE.* 
 
 1819. 
 
 Plain, as her native dignity of mind, 
 
 Arise the tomb of her we have resign'd; 
 
 Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble 
 
 scroll, 
 EmVjlem of lovely form and candid soul. 
 But, oh! what symbol may avail, to tell 
 The kindness, wit, and sense, we loved 
 
 so well ! • 
 
 What sculptureshowthebrokentiesof life. 
 Here buried with the parent, friend, and 
 
 wife ! 
 Or on the tablet stamp each title dear. 
 By which thine urn, Euphkmia, claims 
 
 the tear ! 
 Yet taught, by thy meek sufferance, to 
 
 assume 
 Patience in anguish, hope beyond the 
 
 tomb, 
 Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse 
 
 shall flow. 
 And brief, alas ! as thy brief span below. 
 
 LUCY ASHTON'S SONG. 
 1819. 
 Look not thou on beauty's charming, 
 Sit thou still when kings are arming, — 
 Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, • 
 Speak not when the people listens, — 
 Stop thine ear against the singer, — 
 From the red gold keep thy finger, — 
 Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, 
 Easy live and quiet die. 
 The Bride of La?»/nertnoor, chap. iii. 
 
 NORMAN THE FORESTER'S SONG. 
 
 1819. 
 The monk must arise when the matins 
 ring. 
 The abbot may sleep to their chime; 
 But the yeoman must start when the 
 bugles sing, 
 'Tis time, my hearts, 'tis time. 
 
 * Mrs. Euphemia Robison, wife of William 
 Erskine (afterwards Lord Kinedder), died Sejv 
 tetnber, 1819. 
 
 There's bucks and raes on Billhope braes, 
 There's a herd on Shortwood Shaw; 
 
 But a lily white doe in the garden goes, 
 She's fairly worth them a'. 
 
 77ie Bride of Lammerinoor, chap. iii. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM "the bride OF LAMMERMOOR." 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 Now, Billy Bewick, keep good heart. 
 
 And of thy talking let me be; 
 But if thou art a man, as I am sure thou 
 art. 
 Come over the dyke and fight with me. 
 Old Ballad. 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 The hearth in hall was black and dead. 
 
 No board was dight in bower within. 
 Nor merry bowl nor welcome bed; 
 
 " Here's sorry cheer," quoth the Heir 
 of Lynne. 
 
 Old Ballad. \ 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 As, to the Autumn breeze's bugle-sound. 
 Various and vague the dry leaves dance 
 
 their round; 
 Or, from the garner-door, on ether borne, 
 The chaff flies devious from the winnow'd 
 
 corn ; 
 So vague, so devious, at the breath of 
 
 heaven, 
 From their fix'd aim are mortal counsels 
 
 driven. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 — — Here is a father now. 
 
 Will truck his daughter for a foreign ven- 
 ture, 
 
 Make her a stop-gap to some canker'd 
 feud, 
 
 Or fling her o'er, like Jonah, to the 
 fishes. 
 
 To appease the sea at highest. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 t The first three lines are believed to be 
 Scott's. 
 
ANNOT LYLE'S SONGS. 
 
 477 
 
 CHAP. XXVII, 
 
 Why, now I have Dame Fortune by the 
 forelock, 
 
 And if she 'scapes my grasp, the fault is 
 mine; 
 
 He that hath buffeted with stern adversity. 
 
 Best knows to shape his course to favor- 
 ing breezes. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 ANNOT LYLE'S SONGS. 
 1819. 
 I. 
 Birds of omen dark and foul, 
 Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl, 
 Leave the sick man to his dream — 
 All night long he heard your scream; 
 Haste to cave and ruin'd tower. 
 Ivy tod, or dingled-bower. 
 There to wink and mope; for, hark! 
 In the mid air sings the lark. 
 
 Hie to moorish gills and rocks, 
 Prowling wolf and wily fox, — 
 1 lie ye fast, nor turn your view. 
 Though the lamb bleats to the ewe. 
 Couch your trains and speed your flight, 
 Safety parts with parting night; 
 And on distant echo borne, 
 Comes the hunter's early horn. 
 
 The moon's wan crescent scarcely gleams, 
 Ghost-like she fades in morning beams; 
 Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay 
 That scare the ])ilgrim on his way. — 
 Quench, kelpy ! quench, in fog and fen, 
 'l"hy torch, that cheats benighted men; 
 Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done. 
 For Benyieglo hath seen the sun. 
 
 Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, anddeep, 
 O'erpower the passive mind in sleep, 
 Pass from the slumberer's soul away, 
 Like night-mists from the brow of day: 
 Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim 
 Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb. 
 Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone ! 
 Thou darest not face the godlike sun. 
 The Legend of Montrose, chap. vi. 
 
 GAZE NOT UPON THE STARS. 
 1819. 
 Gaze not upon the stars, fond sage, 
 
 In them no influence lies; 
 To read the fate of youth or age 
 Look on my Helen's eyes. 
 
 Yet, rash astrologer, refrain ! 
 
 Too dearly would be won 
 The prescience of another's pain 
 
 If purchased by thine own. 
 The Legend of Af on/rose, chap, vi- 
 
 THE ORPHAN MAID. 
 1819. 
 November's hail -cloud drifts away, 
 
 November's sunbeam wan 
 Looks coldly on the castle gray. 
 When forth comes Lady Anne. 
 
 The orphan by the oak was set. 
 Her arms, her feet, were bare; 
 
 The hail-drops had not melted yet. 
 Amid her raven hair. 
 
 " And dame," she said, " by all the ties 
 That child and mother know, 
 
 Aid one who never knew these joys. 
 Relieve an orphan's woe." 
 
 The lady said : — " An orphan's state 
 
 Is hard and sad to bear; 
 Yet worse the widow'd mother's fate, 
 
 Who mourns both lord and heir. 
 
 " Twelve times the rolling year has sped. 
 Since, while from vengeance wild 
 
 Of fierce Strathallan's chief I fled, 
 Forth's eddies whelm'd my child." — 
 
 "Twelve times the year its course has 
 borne," 
 
 The wandering maid replied, 
 " Since fishers on St. Bridget's morn 
 
 Drew nets on Campsie side. 
 
 "St. Bridget sent no scaly spoil; 
 
 An infant, well-nigh dead. 
 They saved, and rear'd in want and toil, 
 
 To beg from you her bread." 
 
478 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Tliat orphan maid the lady kiss'd : — 
 " My husband's looks you bear; 
 
 Saint Bridget and her morn be blest ! 
 You are his widow's heir." 
 
 They've robed that maid, so poor and 
 pale, 
 In silk and sendals rare, 
 And pearls, for drops of frozen hail. 
 Are glistening in her hair. 
 The Legend of Montrose, chap. ix. 
 
 "WERT THOU LIKE ME." 
 1819. 
 Wert thou like me in life's low vale, 
 
 With thee how blest that life I'd share; 
 With thee I'd fly wherever gale 
 
 Could waft or bounding galley bear. 
 But parted by severe decree, 
 
 Far different must our fortunes jirove, 
 May thine be joy — enough for me 
 
 To weep and pray for him I love. 
 
 The pangs this foolish heart must feel 
 
 When hope shall be forever flown, 
 No sullen murmurs shall reveal, 
 
 No selfish murmurs ever own. 
 Nor will I thro' life's weary years 
 
 Like a pale drooping mourner move, 
 While I can think my secret tears 
 
 May wound the heart of him I love. 
 
 The Legend of Montrose, chap. xxi. 
 
 THE CRUS.\DER'S RETURN. 
 1819. 
 I. 
 High deeds achieved of knightly fame, 
 From Palestine the champion came; 
 The cross upon his shoulders borne, 
 Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn. 
 Each dint upon his batter'd shield 
 Was token of a foughten field; 
 And thus, beneath his lady's bower, 
 He sung, as fell the twilight hour: — 
 
 *' Joy to the fair ! — thy knight behold, 
 Return'd from yonder land of gold; 
 
 No wealth he brings, no wealth can need. 
 Save his good arms and battle-steed; 
 His spurs to dash against a foe, 
 His lance and sword to lay him low; 
 Such all the trophies of his toil, 
 Such — and the hope of Tekla's smile ! 
 
 " Joy to the fair ! whose constant knight 
 Her f.ivor fired to fe.its of might ! 
 Unnoted shall she not remain 
 Where meet the bright and noble train; 
 Minstrel shall sing, and herald tell — 
 ' Mark yonder maid of beauty well; 
 'Tis she for whose bright eyes was won 
 The listed field of Ascalon ! 
 
 " ' Note well her smile ! it edged the blade 
 Which fifty wives to widows made, 
 When, vain his strength and Mahound's 
 
 spell, 
 Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell. 
 See'st thou her locks, whose sunny glow 
 Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow ? 
 Twines not of them one golden thread, 
 But for its sake a Paynim bled.' 
 
 " Joy to the fair ! — my name unknown, 
 Each deed, and all its praise, thine own; 
 Then, oh ! unbar this churlish gate, 
 The night-dew falls, the hour is late. 
 Inured to Syria's glowing breath, 
 I feel the north breeze chill as death; 
 Let grateful love quell maiden shame. 
 And grant him bliss who brings thee 
 fame." 
 
 Ivanhoc, chap, xviii. 
 
 THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR. 
 
 1819. 
 
 I. 
 
 I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelve- 
 month or twain. 
 
 To search Europe thro' from Byzantium 
 to Spain ! 
 
 But ne'er shall you find, should you 
 search till you tire, 
 
 So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar. 
 
SAXON WAR-SONG. 
 
 479 
 
 Your knight for his lady pricks forth in 
 career, 
 
 And is brought home at even-song prick'd 
 through with a spear; 
 
 I confess him in haste — for his lady de- 
 sires 
 
 No comfort on earth save the Barefooted 
 Friar's. 
 
 Your monarch ! — Pshaw ! many a prince 
 
 has been known 
 To barter his robes for our cowl and our 
 
 gown; 
 IJut which of us e'er felt the idle desire 
 To exchange for a crown the gray hood 
 
 of a Friar? 
 
 The Friar has walked out, and where'er 
 
 he has gone, 
 The land and its fatness is mark'd for his 
 
 own; 
 He can roam where he lists, he can stop 
 
 where he tires, 
 For every man's house is the Barefooted 
 
 Friar's. 
 
 He's expected at noon, and no wight, 
 till he comes, 
 
 May profane the great chair, or the por- 
 ridge of plums; 
 
 For the best of the cheer, and the seat 
 by the fire. 
 
 Is the undenied right of the Barefooted 
 Friar. 
 
 He's expected at night, and the pasty's 
 made hot; 
 
 They broach the brown ale, and they fill 
 the black pot; 
 
 And the good-wife would wish the good- 
 man in the mire. 
 
 Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted 
 Friar. 
 
 VII. 
 Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and 
 
 the cope. 
 The dread of the devil and trust of the 
 
 Pope ! 
 
 For to gather life's roses unscathed by 
 
 the brier 
 Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar. 
 Ivan/we, chap, xviii. 
 
 SAXON WAR-SONG. 
 1819. 
 
 "The fire was spreading rapidly througli all 
 parts of the castle, when Ulrica, who had first 
 kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of 
 one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war-song, 
 such as was of yore chanted on the field of hattle 
 by the yet heathen Saxons. . . . Tradition has 
 preserved some wild strophes of the barbarous 
 hymn which she chanted wildly amid that scene 
 of fire and slaughter." 
 
 Whet the bright steel, 
 
 Sons of the White Dragon ! 
 
 Kindle the torch. 
 
 Daughter of Hengist ! 
 
 The steel glimmers not for the carving 
 
 of the banquet, 
 It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed; 
 The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber, 
 It steams and glitters blue with sulphur. 
 Whet the steel, the raven croaks ! 
 Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling ! 
 Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon ! 
 Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist ! 
 
 The black cloud is low over the thane's 
 
 castle ; 
 The eagle screams — he rides on its bosom. 
 Scream not, gray rider of the sable cloud. 
 Thy banquet is prepared ! 
 The maidens of Valhalla look forth, 
 The race of Hengist will send them 
 
 guests. 
 Shake your black tresses, maidens of 
 
 Valhalla '. 
 And strike your loud timbrels for joy ! 
 Many a haughty step bends to your halls. 
 Many a helmed head. 
 
 HI. 
 Dark sits the evening upon the thane's 
 
 castle, 
 The black clouds gather roiiiul; 
 Soon shall they be red as the blood of 
 
 the valiant ! 
 
48o 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Tlie destroyer of forests shall shake his 
 
 red crest against them; 
 He, the bright consumer of palaces, 
 Broad waves he his blazing banner. 
 Red, wide, and dusky, 
 Over the strife of the valiant; 
 His joy is in the clashing swords and 
 
 broken bucklers; 
 He loves to lick the hissing blood as it 
 
 bursts warm from the wound ! 
 
 All must perish ! 
 
 The sword cleaveth the helmet; 
 
 The strong armor is pierced liy the lance, 
 
 Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes, 
 
 Engines break down the fences of battle. 
 
 All must perish ! 
 
 The race of Hengist is gone — 
 
 The name of Horsa is no more ! 
 
 Shrink not then from your doom, sons of 
 
 the sword ! 
 Let your blades drink blood like wine; 
 Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter, 
 By the light of the blazing halls ! 
 Strong be your swords while your blood 
 
 is warm. 
 And spare neither for pity nor fear. 
 For vengeance hath but an hour; 
 Strong hate itself shall expire ! 
 I also must perish.* 
 
 REBECCA'S HYMN. 
 
 When Israel, of the Lord beloved. 
 Out from the land of bondage came. 
 
 Her fathers' God before her moved. 
 An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
 
 By day, along the astonish'd lands 
 The clouded pillar glided slow; 
 
 * " It will readily occur to the antiquary, 
 that these verses are intended to imitate the an- 
 tique poetry of the Scalds — the minstrels of the 
 old Scandinavians — the race, as the Laureate 
 [Southey] so happily terms them, — 
 
 Stem to inflict, and stubborn to endure, 
 Who smiled in death.' 
 
 "The poetry of the Anglo-Saxons, after their 
 civilization and conversion, was of a different 
 and softer character; but in the circumstances 
 of Ulrica, she may be not unnaturally supposed 
 to return to the wild strains which animated her 
 forefathers during the times of Paganism and 
 untamed ferocity." 
 
 Ivankoe, chap. xxxi. 
 
 By night Arabia's crimson'd sands 
 Return'd the fiery column's glow. 
 
 There rose the choral hymn of praise. 
 
 And trump and timbrel answer'd keen. 
 And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays, 
 
 With priest's and warrior's voice be- 
 tween. 
 No portents now our foes amaze. 
 
 Forsaken Israel wanders lone: 
 Our fathers would not know Thy ways. 
 
 And Thou hast left them to their own. 
 
 But present still, though now unseen ! 
 
 Whenbrightly shines theprosperousday, 
 Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 
 
 To temper the deceitful ray. 
 And oh, when stoops on Judah's path 
 
 In shade and storm the frequent night, 
 Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 
 
 A burning and a shining light ! 
 
 Our harps we left by Babel's streams. 
 
 The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; 
 No censer round our altar beams. 
 
 And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. 
 But Thou hast said, The blood of goat. 
 
 The flesh of rams, I will not prize; 
 A contrite heart, a humble thought, 
 
 Are mine accepted sacrifice. 
 
 Ivanhoe, chap, xxxix. 
 
 A VIRELAI. 
 
 1819. 
 
 the black knight. 
 
 Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun, 
 
 Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun; 
 
 Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing 
 
 free. 
 Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie. 
 Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn, 
 The hunter is winding blithe sounds on 
 
 his horn. 
 The echo rings merry from rock and from 
 
 tree. 
 'Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna 
 
 Marie. 
 
 WAMBA. 
 
 O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet, 
 Around my soft pillow while softer dreams 
 flit; 
 
FUNERAL HYMN. 
 
 48? 
 
 For what are the joys that in waking we 
 
 prove, 
 Compared with these visions, O Tybalt, 
 
 my love? 
 Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol 
 
 shrill; 
 Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on 
 
 the hill, 
 Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber 
 
 I prove. 
 But think not I dream'd of thee, Tybalt, 
 
 my love. 
 
 Ivanhoe, chap. xl. 
 
 Duet between the Knight of the Fetterlock 
 atid the Jester. 
 1819. 
 KNIGHT AND WAMBA. 
 There came three merry men from south, 
 west, and north. 
 Ever more sing the roundelay; 
 To win the Widow of Wycombe forth. 
 And where was the widow might say 
 them nay? 
 
 The first was a knight, and from Tynedale 
 he came, 
 Ever more sing the roundelay; 
 And his fathers, God save us, were men 
 of great fame. 
 And where was the widow might say 
 him nay? 
 
 Of his father the laird, of his uncle the 
 
 squire, 
 
 He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay; 
 
 She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire. 
 
 For she was the widow would say him 
 
 nay. 
 
 WAMBA. 
 
 The next that came forth, swore by blood 
 and by nails, 
 Merrily sing the roundelay; 
 Ilur's a gentleman, God wot, and Hur's 
 lineage was of Wales, 
 And where was the widow might say 
 him nay? 
 
 Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh 
 Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his rounde- 
 lay; 
 
 She said that one widow for so many was 
 too few. 
 And she bade the Welshman wend his 
 way. 
 
 But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman 
 of Kent, 
 JoUily singing his roundelay; 
 He spoke to the widow of living and rent, 
 And where was a widow could say him 
 nay? 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 So the knight and the squire were both 
 left in the mire, 
 There for to sing their roundelay; 
 For a yeoman of Kent, with hisyearlyrent. 
 There ne'er was a widow could say him 
 nay. 
 
 Ivanhoe, chap. xl. 
 
 FUNERAL HYMN. 
 1819. 
 Dust unto dust, 
 To this all must; 
 
 The tenant has resign'd 
 The faded form 
 To waste and worm — 
 
 Corruption claims her kind. 
 
 Thro' paths unknown 
 Thy soul hath flown. 
 
 To seek the realms of woe, 
 Where fiery pain 
 Shall urge the stain 
 
 Of actions done below. 
 
 In that sad place. 
 By Mary's grace, 
 
 Brief may thy dwelling be; 
 Till prayers and alms. 
 And holy psalms. 
 
 Shall set the captive free. 
 
 Ivanhoe, Chap. xlii. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM " IVANHOE." 
 CHAP. XXVI. 
 
 The hottest horse will oft be cool, 
 The dullest will show fire; 
 
482 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The friar will often play the fool, 
 The fool will play the friar. 
 
 CHAP. XXX. 
 Approach the chamber, look upon his bed. 
 His is the passing of no peaceful ghost, 
 Which, as the lark arises to the sky. 
 Mid morning's sweetest breeze and softest 
 
 dew. 
 Is wing'd to heaven by good men's sighs 
 
 and tears ! 
 Anselm parts otherwise. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP, xxxni. 
 
 Trust me, each state must have its poli- 
 cies: 
 
 Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their 
 charters; 
 
 Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk, 
 
 Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline. 
 
 For not since Adam wore his verdant 
 apron. 
 
 Hath man with man in social union dwelt. 
 
 But laws were made to draw that union 
 closer. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXVI. 
 Arouse the tiger of Hyrcanian deserts. 
 Strive with the half-starved lion for his 
 
 prey; 
 Lesser the risk, than rouse the slumbering 
 
 fire 
 Of wild Fanaticism. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XXXVH. 
 Say not my art is fraud — all live by 
 
 seeming. 
 The beggar begs with it, and the gay 
 
 courtier 
 Gains land and title, rank and rule, by 
 
 seeming : 
 The clergy scorn it not, and the bold 
 
 soldier 
 Will eke with it his service. — All admit 
 
 it, 
 All practise it; and he who is content 
 With showing what he is, shall have 
 
 small credit ■ 
 In church, or camp, or state. — So w.igs 
 
 the world. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXVHI. 
 Stern was the law which bade its votaries 
 
 leave 
 At human woes with human hearts to 
 
 grieve; 
 Stern was the law which at the winning 
 
 wile 
 Of frank and harmless mirth forbade to 
 
 smile; 
 But sterner still, when high the iron rod 
 Of tyrant power she shook, and call'd 
 
 that power of God. 
 
 The .Middle Ages. 
 
 CHAP. xui. 
 I found themwindingof Marcello'scorpse; 
 And there was such a solemn melody, 
 'Twixt doleful songs, tears, and sad 
 
 elegies. 
 Such as old grandames watching by the 
 
 dead 
 Are wont to outwear the night with. 
 Old Play. 
 
 SONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF 
 AVENEL. 
 
 1820. 
 
 (i.) — ON TWEED RIVER. 
 
 I. 
 
 Merrily swim we, the moon shines 
 
 bright. 
 Both current and ripple are dancing in 
 
 light. 
 We have roused the night raven, I heard 
 
 him croak, 
 As we plashed along beneath the oak 
 That flings its broad branches s'o far and 
 
 so wide. 
 Their shadows are dancing in midst of 
 
 the tide. 
 " Who wakens my nestlings? " the raven 
 
 he said, 
 " My I)eak shall ere morn in his blood 
 
 be red ! 
 For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal, 
 And I'll have my share with the pike and 
 
 the eel." 
 
 H. 
 Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright. 
 There's a golden gleam on the distant 
 
 height : 
 
SONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL. 
 
 483 
 
 There's a silver showeron the alders dank, 
 And the flrooping willows that wave on 
 
 the bank. 
 I see the Abbey, lx)th turret and tower, 
 It is all astir for the vesper hour; 
 The Monks for the chapel are leaving 
 
 each cell. 
 But where's Father Philip should toll the 
 
 bell? 
 
 III. 
 Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 
 Downward we drift through shadow and 
 
 light; 
 Under yon rock the eddies sleep. 
 Calm and silent, dark and deep. 
 The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless 
 
 pool, 
 He has lighted his candle of death and 
 
 of dool; 
 Look, Father, look, and you'll laugh to 
 
 see 
 How he gapes and glares with his eyes 
 
 on thee ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Good luck to your fishing, whom watch 
 
 ye to-night? 
 A man of mean or a man of might? 
 Is it layman or priest that must float in 
 
 your cove, 
 Or lover who crosses to visit his love? 
 Hark ! heard ye the Kelpy reply as we 
 
 past : — 
 " God's blessing on the warder, he lock'd 
 
 the bridge fast ! 
 All that come to my cove are sunk, 
 Priest or layman, lover or monk." 
 
 Landed — landed 1 the black book hath 
 
 won. 
 Else had you seen Berwick with morning 
 
 sun ! 
 Snin ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be, 
 For seldom they land that go swimming 
 
 with me. 
 
 The Monastery, chap. v. 
 
 (2.)-T0 THE SUB-PRIOR. 
 Goon evening, Sir Priest, and so late as 
 
 you ride. 
 With your mule so fair, and your mantle 
 
 so wide; 
 
 But ride you thro' valley, or ride vou o'er 
 
 hill. 
 There is one that has warrant to wait on 
 you still. 
 
 Back, back, 
 The volume black ! 
 I have a warrant to carry it back. 
 
 What, ho ! Sub- Prior, and came you but 
 
 here 
 To conjure a lx)ok from a dead Woman's 
 
 bier ? 
 Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise, 
 Ride back with the book, or you'll pay 
 
 for your prize. 
 
 Back, back. 
 
 There's death in the track ! 
 In the name of my master, I bid thee 
 
 bear back. 
 
 " In the name of MV Master," said the aston- 
 ished Monk, " that name before which all things 
 created tremble, I conjure thee to say what thou 
 art that hauntest rae thus?" 
 
 The same voice replied : — 
 
 That which is neither ill nor well. 
 
 That which belongs not to heaven nor to 
 
 hell, 
 A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the 
 
 stream, 
 'Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping 
 
 dream; 
 
 A form that men spy 
 With the half-shut eye 
 In the beams of the setting sun, am I. 
 
 Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me 
 
 my right ! 
 Like the star when it shoots, I can dart 
 
 thro' the night; 
 I can dance on the torrent, and ride on 
 
 the air. 
 And travel the world with the bonny 
 
 night-mare. 
 
 Again, again, 
 At the crook of the glen, 
 Where bickers the burnie, I'll meet thee 
 
 again. 
 
 Men of good are bold as sackless,* 
 Men of rude are wild and reckless. 
 
 * Sackless — Innocent. 
 
484 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Lie thou still 
 In the nook of the hill, 
 For those be before thee, that wish thee 
 ill. 
 
 The Monastery, chap. ix. 
 
 HALBERT'S INCANTATION. 
 
 Thrice to the holly brake — 
 
 Thrice to the well : — 
 I bid thee awake, 
 
 White Maid of Avenel ! 
 
 Noon gleams on the Lake — 
 Noon glows on the Fell — 
 
 Wake thee, O wake. 
 White Maid of Avenel. 
 
 The Monastery, chap. xi. 
 
 (3) — THE WHITE LADY'S ANSWER. 
 
 Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst 
 
 thou call nie? 
 Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can 
 
 appal thee? 
 He that seeks to deal with us must know 
 
 nor fear nor failing; 
 To coward and churl our speech is dark, 
 
 our gifts are unavailing. 
 The breeze that brought me hither now 
 
 must sweep Egyptian ground. 
 The fleecy cloud on which I ride for 
 
 Araby is boimd; 
 The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze 
 
 sighs for my stay. 
 For I must sail a thousand miles before 
 
 the close of day. 
 What I am I must not show — 
 What I am thou couldst not know — 
 Something betwixt heaven and hell — 
 Something that neither stood nor fell — 
 Something that thro' thy wit or will 
 May work thee good — may work thee ill. 
 Neither substance quite, nor shadow. 
 Haunting lonely moors and meadow. 
 Dancing by the haunted spring, 
 Riding on the whirlwind's wing; 
 Aping in fantastic fashion 
 Every change of human passion. 
 While o'er our frozen minds they pass. 
 Like shadows from the mirror'd glass. 
 Wayward, fickle, is our mood. 
 Hovering betwixt bad and good, 
 
 Happier than brief-dated man. 
 Living ten times o'er his span; 
 Far less happy, for we have 
 Help nor hope beyond the grave ! 
 Man awakes to joy or sorrow; 
 Ours the sleep that knows no morrow. 
 This is all that I can show — 
 This is all that thou may'st know. 
 
 Ay ! and I taught thee the word and the 
 
 spell, 
 To waken me here by the Fairies' Well. 
 But thou hast loved the heron and hawk, 
 More than to seek my haunted walk; 
 And thou hast loved the lance and the 
 
 sword. 
 More than good text and holy word; 
 And thou hast loved the deer to track, 
 More than the lines and the letters l>lack; 
 And thou art a ranger of moss and wood, 
 And scornest the nurture of gentle blood. 
 
 Thy craven fear my truth accused, 
 Thine idlehood my trust abused; 
 He that draws to harbor late, 
 Must sleep without, or burst the gate. 
 There is a star for thee which burn'd; 
 Its influence wanes, its course is turn'd : 
 Valor and constancy alone 
 Can bring thee back the chance that's 
 flown. 
 
 Within that awful volume lies 
 The mystery of mysteries ! 
 Happiest they of human race. 
 To whom God has granted grace 
 To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, 
 To lift the latch, and force the way; 
 And better had they ne'er been born, 
 Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. 
 
 Many a fathom dark and deep 
 I have laid the book to sleep; 
 Ethereal fires around it glowing — 
 Ethereal music ever flowing — 
 
 The sacred pledge of Heaven 
 All things revere. 
 Each in his sphere. 
 
 Save man for whom 'twas given ; 
 I>end thy hand, and thou shalt spy 
 Things ne'er seen by mortal eye. 
 
SONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL. 
 
 485 
 
 Fearest thou to go with me ? 
 Still it is free to thee 
 
 A peasant to dwell; 
 Thou may'st drive the dull steer, 
 And chase the king's deer, 
 But never more come near 
 
 This haunted well. 
 
 Here lies the volume thou boldly hast 
 
 sought ; 
 I'ouch it, and take it, 'twill dearly be 
 
 bought. 
 
 Rash thy deed. 
 Mortal weed 
 To immortal flames applying; 
 Rasher trust 
 Has thing of dust. 
 On his own weak worth relying: 
 Strip thee of such fences vain, 
 Strip, and prove thy luck again. 
 
 Mortal warp and mortal woof 
 Cannot break this charmed roof; 
 All that mortal art hath wrought 
 In our cell returns to naught. 
 The molten gold returns to clay, 
 The polish'd diamond melts away: 
 All is alter'd, all is flown. 
 Naught stands fast but truth alone. 
 Not for that thy quest give o'er: 
 Courage ! prove thy chance once more. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Not Ours the grace 
 
 Tliese holy characters to trace; 
 
 Idle forms of painted air, 
 
 Not to us is given to share 
 The boon bestow'd on Adam's race. 
 
 With patience bide. 
 
 Heaven will provide 
 The fitting time, the fitting guide. 
 
 The Monastery, chap. xii. 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 IN halbert's second interview with 
 
 THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL. 
 
 This is the day when the fairy kind 
 Sit weeping alone for their hopeless lot. 
 
 And the wood-maiden sighs to the sigh- 
 
 . ing wind. 
 And the mermaiden weeps in her crystal 
 
 grot; 
 For this is a day that the deed was wrought, 
 In which we have neither part nor share; 
 For the children of clay was salvation 
 
 bought. 
 But not for the forms of sea or air ! 
 And ever the mortal is most forlorn. 
 Who meeteth our race on the Friday morn. 
 
 Daring youth ! for thee it is well. 
 
 Here calling me in haunted dell, 
 
 That thy heart has not quail 'd, 
 
 Nor thy courage fail'd, 
 
 And that thou couldst biook 
 
 The angry look 
 
 Of her of Avenel. 
 
 Did one limb shiver, 
 
 Or an eyelid quiver, 
 
 Thou wert lost forever. 
 
 Though I am form'd from the ether blue, 
 
 And my blood is of the unfallen dew. 
 
 And thou art framed of mud and dust, 
 
 'Tis thine to speak, reply I nmsl. 
 
 A mightier wizard far than I 
 
 Wields o'er the universe his power; 
 
 Him owns the eagle in the sky. 
 The turtle in the bower. 
 
 Changeful in shape, yet mightiest still. 
 He wields the heart of man at will. 
 From ill to good, from good to ill, 
 In cot and castle-tower. 
 
 Ask thy heart, whose secret cell 
 Is fill'd with Mary Avenel ! 
 Ask thy pride, why scornful look 
 In Mary's view it will not brook ? 
 Ask it, why thou seek'st to rise 
 Among the mighty and the wise, — 
 Why thou spurn'st thy lowly lot, — 
 Why thy pastimes are forgot, — 
 Why thou wouldst in bloody strife 
 Mend thy luck or lose thy life? 
 Ask thy heart, and it shall tell. 
 Sighing from its secret cell, 
 'Tis for Mary Avenel. 
 
486 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Do not ask me; 
 
 On doubts like these thou canst not task 
 
 me. 
 We only see the passing show 
 Of human passions' ebb and flow; 
 And view the pageant's idle glance, 
 As mortals eye the northern dance, 
 When thousand streamers, flashing bright, 
 Career it o'er the brow of night, 
 And gazers mark their changeful gleams, 
 But feel no influence from their beams. 
 
 By ties mysterious link'd, our fated race 
 Holds strange connection with the sons 
 
 of men. 
 The star that rose upon the House of 
 
 Avenel, 
 When Norman Ulric first assumed the 
 
 name, 
 That star, when culminating in its orbit, 
 Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond 
 
 dew. 
 And this bright font received it —.and a 
 
 Spirit 
 Rose from the fountain, and her date of 
 
 life 
 Hath co-existence with the House of 
 
 Avenel, 
 And with the star that rules it. 
 
 Look on my girdle — on this thread of 
 
 gold — 
 'Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer. 
 And, but there is a spell on't, would not 
 
 bind, 
 ■Liglit as they are, the folds of my thin robe. 
 But when 'twas donn'd, it was a massive 
 
 chain, 
 Such as might bind the champion of the 
 
 Jews, 
 Even when his locks were longest — it 
 
 hath dwindled. 
 Hath minished in its substance and its 
 
 strength. 
 As sank the greatness of the House of 
 
 Avenel. 
 When this frail thread gives way, I to 
 
 the elements 
 Resign the principles of life they lent me. 
 Ask me no more of this ! — the stars for- 
 bid it. 
 
 Dim Imrns the once bright star of Avenel, 
 
 Dim as the beacon when the morn is nigh. 
 
 And the o'er-wearied warder leaves the 
 lighthouse; 
 
 There is an influence sorrowful and fear- 
 ful. 
 
 That dogs its downward course. Disas- 
 trous passion. 
 
 Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the aspect 
 
 That lowers upon its fortunes. 
 
 Complain not of me, child of clay. 
 If to thy harm I yield the way. 
 We, who soar thy sphere above, 
 Know not aught of hate or love; 
 As will or wisdom rules thy mood, 
 My gifts to evil turn or good. 
 When Piercie Shafton boasteth high, 
 Let this token meet his eye. 
 The Sun is westering from the dell. 
 Thy wish is granted, fare thee well. 
 
 The Monastery, chap. xvii. 
 
 THE WHITE LADY TO MARY 
 AVENEL. 
 
 1820. 
 
 Maiden, whose sorrows wail the Living 
 Dead, 
 Whose eyes shall commune with the 
 Dead Alive, 
 Maiden, attend ! Beneath my foot lies hid 
 The Word, the Law, the Path which 
 thou dost strive 
 To find, and canst not find. — Could 
 Spirits shed 
 Tears for their lot, it were my lot to 
 weep. 
 Showing the road which I shall never 
 tread. 
 Though my foot points it. — Sleep, 
 eternal sleep. 
 Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my 
 lot! — 
 But do not thou at human ills repine; 
 Secure there lies full guerdon in this spot 
 For all the woes that wait frail Adam's 
 line — 
 Stoop then and make it yours. — I may 
 not make it mine ! 
 
 The Monastery, chap. xxx. 
 
THE IVHIIE LADY TO EDWARD GLENDENNING 
 
 487 
 
 THE WHITE LADY TO EDWARD 
 
 GLENDENNING. 
 1820. 
 
 Thou who seek'st my fountain lone. 
 With thoughts and hopes thou dar'st not 
 
 own; 
 Whose heart within leap'd wildly glad, 
 When most his brow seem'd dark and 
 
 sad; 
 Hie thee back, thou find'st not here 
 Corpse or coffin, grave or bier; 
 The Dead Alive is gone and fled — 
 Go thou, and join the Living Dead ! 
 
 The I^iving Dead, whose sober brow 
 Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast 
 
 now, 
 Whose hearts within are seldom cured 
 Of passions by their vows abjured; 
 Where, under sad and solemn show. 
 Vain hopes are nursed, wild wishes 
 
 glow. 
 Seek the convent's vaulted room, 
 Prayer and vigil be thy doom; 
 Doff the green, and don the gray. 
 To the cloister hence away ! 
 
 The Monastery, chap, xxxii. 
 
 THE WHITE LADY'S FAREWELL. 
 1820. 
 
 Fare thef, well, thou Holly green ! 
 Thou shalt seldom now be seen, 
 With all thy glittering garlands bend- 
 ing. 
 As to greet my slow descending. 
 Startling the bewilder'd hind, 
 Who sees thee wave without a wind. 
 
 Farewell, Fountain ! now not long 
 Shalt thou murmur to my song. 
 While thy crystal bubbles glancing, 
 Keep the time in mystic dancing. 
 Rise and swell, arc burst and lost, 
 Like mortal schemes by fortune cross'd. 
 
 The knot of fate at length is tied, 
 The Churl is Ix)rd, the Maid is Bride ! 
 Vainly did my magic sleight 
 Send the lover from her sight; 
 
 Wither bush, and perish well, 
 Fall'n is lofty Avenel ! 
 
 The Monastery, chap, xxxvii. 
 
 BORDER BALLAD. 
 1820. 
 I. 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
 Why the deil dinna ye march forward 
 in order? 
 March, march, Eskdal^ and Liddisdale, 
 All the Blue Bonnets are bound for 
 the Border. 
 
 Many a Vjanner spread, 
 Flutters above your head, 
 Many a crest that is famous in slor)'. 
 Mount and make ready then, 
 SJons of the mountain glen. 
 Fight for the Queen and our old .Scot- 
 tish glory. 
 
 II. 
 Come from the hills where your hirsels 
 are grazing. 
 Come from the glen of the buck and 
 the roe; 
 Come to the crag where the beacon is 
 blazing. 
 Come with the buckler, the lance, and 
 the bow. 
 
 Trumpets are sounding. 
 War-steeds are bounding. 
 Stand to your arms, and march in good 
 order ; 
 
 England shall many a day 
 Tell of the bloody fray, 
 When the Blue Bonnets came over the 
 Border. 
 
 The Monastery, chap. xxv. 
 
 PARAPHRASE FROM HORACE. 
 
 Ne sit ancUlae tibi amor fmdori. 
 
 Take thou no scorn 
 
 Of fiction l>orn 
 Fair Fiction's muse to woo. 
 
 Old Homer's theme 
 
 Was but a dream — 
 Himself a fiction too. 
 
 The Monastery, Introduction. 
 
488 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM " THE MONASTERY." 
 
 1820. 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 AY ! the Monks, the Monks, they did 
 
 the mischief ! 
 Theirs all the grossness, all the superstition 
 Of a most gross and superstitious age. — 
 May He be praised that sent the healthful 
 
 tempest, 
 And scattcr'd all these pestilential vapors; 
 But that we owed them all to yonder 
 
 Harlot, 
 Throned on the seven hills with her cup 
 
 of gold, 
 
 1 will as soon believe, with kind Sir Roger, 
 That old Moll White took wing with cat 
 
 and broomstick, 
 And raised the last night's thunder. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. H. 
 
 In yon lone vale his early youth was bred. 
 Not solitary then — the bugle-horn 
 Of fell Alecto often waked its windings. 
 From where the brook joins the majestic 
 
 river. 
 To the wild northern bog, the curlew's 
 
 haunt. 
 Where oozes forth its first and feeble 
 
 streamlet. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 A priest, ye cry, a priest! Lame Shep- 
 herds they, 
 
 How shall they gather in the straggling 
 flock ? 
 
 Dumb dogs which bark not — how shall 
 they compel 
 
 The loitering, vagrants to the Master's 
 fold? 
 
 Fitter to bask before the blazing fire, 
 
 And snuff the mess neat-handed Phyllis 
 dresses. 
 
 Than on the snow-wreath battle with the 
 wolf. 
 
 The Reformation. 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 Now let us sit in conclave. That these 
 
 weeds 
 Be rooted from the vineyard of the church, 
 
 That these foul tares he severed from the 
 
 wheat, 
 We are, I trust, agreed. Yet how to do 
 
 this. 
 Nor hurt the wholesome crop and tender 
 
 vine plants. 
 Craves good advisement. 
 
 The Reformation. 
 
 CHAP. VHI. 
 
 Nay, dally not with time, the wise man's 
 
 treasure. 
 Though fools are lavish on't; — the fatal 
 
 Fisher 
 Hooks souls, while we waste moments. 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 
 You call this education, do you not? 
 
 Why 'tis the forced march of a herd of 
 bullocks 
 
 Before a shouting drover. The glad van 
 
 Move on at ease, and pause a while to 
 snatch 
 
 A passing morsel from the dewy green- 
 sward; 
 
 While all the blows, the oaths, the indig- 
 nation. 
 
 Fall on the croupe of the ill-fated laggard 
 
 That cripples in the rear. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 There's something in that ancient super- 
 stition. 
 
 Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves. 
 
 The spring that, with its thousand crystal 
 bubbles. 
 
 Bursts from the bosom of some desert rock 
 
 In secret solitude, may well be deem'd 
 
 The haunt of something purer, more re- 
 fined. 
 
 And mightier than ourselves. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 Nay, let me have the friends who eat my 
 victuals, 
 
 As various as my dishes. The feast's 
 naught. 
 
 Where one huge plate predominates. — 
 John Plaintext, 
 
 He shall be mighty beef, our English 
 staple; 
 
 The worthy Alderman, a butter'd dump- 
 ling; 
 
MOTTOES FROM "THE MONASTERY. 
 
 489 
 
 Yon pair of whisker 'd Cornets, ruffs and 
 
 rees; 
 Their friend the Dandy, a green goose in 
 
 sippets. 
 And so the board is spread at once and 
 
 fill'd 
 On the same principle — Variety. 
 
 ■ New Play. 
 CHAP. XV. 
 He strikes no coin, 'tis true, but coins 
 
 new phrases. 
 And vends them forth as knaves vend 
 
 gilded counters. 
 Which wise men scorn, and fools accept 
 
 in payment. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 Now choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth 
 and honor; 
 
 There lies the pelf, in sum to bear thee 
 through 
 
 The dance of youth, and the turmoil of 
 manhood. 
 
 Yet leave enough for age's chimney- 
 corner; 
 
 But an thou grasp to it, farewell. Ambi- 
 tion ! 
 
 Farewell each hope of bettering thy con- 
 dition, 
 
 And raising thy low rank above the churls 
 
 That till the earth for bread ! 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXI. 
 
 Indifferent, Ijut indifferent — pshaw! he 
 doth it not 
 
 Like one who is his craft's master — ne'er- 
 theless 
 
 I have seen a clown confer a bloody cox- 
 comb 
 
 On one who was a master of defence. 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXII. 
 
 Yes, life hath ,lcft him — every busy 
 thought, 
 
 Each fiery passion, every strong affection. 
 
 The sense of outward ill and inward sor- 
 row. 
 
 Are fled at once from the pale trunk be- 
 fore me; 
 
 And I have given that which spoke and 
 moved, 
 
 Thought, acted, suffcr'd, as a living man. 
 
 To be a ghastly form of bloody clay, 
 Soon the foul food for reptiles. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXIII. 
 
 'Tis when the wound is stiffening with 
 
 the cold. 
 The warrior first feels pain — 'tis when 
 
 the heat 
 And fiery fever of his soul is past, 
 The sinner feels remorse. 
 
 Old Play. 
 CHAP. XXIV. 
 I'll walk on tiptoe; arm my eye with 
 
 caution. 
 My heart with courage, and my hand 
 
 with weapon, 
 Like him who ventures on a lion's den. 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXVII. 
 
 Now, by Our Lady, Sheriff, 'tis hard 
 
 reckoning. 
 That I, with every odds of birth and 
 
 barony. 
 Should be detain'd here for the casual 
 
 death 
 Of a wild forester, whose utmost having 
 Is but the brazen buckle of the belt 
 In which he sticks his hedge-knife. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXX. 
 
 You call it an ill angel — it may be so; 
 But sure I am, among the ranks which 
 
 fell, 
 'Tis the first fiend e'er counseU'd man to 
 
 rise. 
 And win the bliss the sprite himself had 
 
 forfeited. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXI. 
 
 At school I knew him — a sharp-witted 
 
 youth. 
 Grave, thoughtful, and reserved among 
 
 his mates, 
 Turning the hours of sport and food to 
 
 lalxjr, 
 Starving his body to inform his mind. 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXII. 
 
 Then in my gown of sober gray 
 
 Along the mountain path I'll wander, 
 
 And wind my solitary way 
 
 To the sad shrine that courts me yonder. 
 
490 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 There in the cahn monastic shade 
 All injuries may be forgiven, 
 
 And there for thee, obdurate maid. 
 My orisons shall rise to Heaven. 
 The Cruel Lady of the Mountain. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIll. 
 
 Now on my faith this gear is all entangled, 
 Like to the yarn-clew of the drowsy 
 
 knitter, 
 Dragg'd by the frolic kitten thro" the 
 
 cabin. 
 While the good dame sits nodding o'er 
 
 the fire — 
 Masters, attend; 'twill crave some skill 
 
 to clear it ! 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIV. 
 
 It is not texts will do it. Church artillery 
 Are silenced soon by real ordnance. 
 And canons are but vain opposed to 
 
 cannon. 
 Go, coin your crosier, melt your church 
 
 plate down. 
 Bid the starved soldiers banquet in your 
 
 halls. 
 And quaff your long-saved hogsheads. — 
 
 Turn them out 
 Thus primed with your good cheer, to 
 
 guard your wall. 
 And they will venture for 't. 
 
 out Play. 
 
 MOTTOES 
 
 FROM "the abbot." 
 
 1820. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 In the wild storm. 
 
 The seaman hews his mast down, and the 
 
 merchant 
 Heaves to the billows wares he once 
 
 deem'd precious; 
 So prince and peer, mid popular con- 
 tentions. 
 Cast off their favorites. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 Thou hast each secret of the household, 
 
 Francis; 
 I dare be sworn thou hast been in the 
 
 buttery 
 
 Steeping thy curious humor in fat ale. 
 And in the butler's tattle — ay, or chatting 
 With the glib waiting-woman o'er her 
 
 comfits — 
 These bear the key to each domestic 
 
 mystery. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 ■ CHAP. VII. 
 
 When I hae a saxpence under my thumb, 
 Then I get credit in ilka town; 
 But when I am poor, they bid me gae by, 
 0, poverty parts good company. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 The sacred tapers' lights are gone, 
 Gray moss has clad the altar stone, 
 The holy image is o'erthrown, 
 
 The bell lias ceased to toll. 
 The long-ribb'd aisles are burst and 
 
 shrunk. 
 The holy shrines to ruin sunk. 
 Departed is the pious monk, 
 
 God's blessing on his soul ! 
 
 Pediviva. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 Kneel with me — swear it — 'tis not in 
 
 words I trust, 
 Save when they're fenced with an appeal 
 
 to Heiven. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 
 Life hath its May, and all is mirthful then; 
 The woods are vocal, and the flowers all 
 
 odor ; 
 Its very blast has mirth in't, — and the 
 
 maidens. 
 The while they don their cloaks to screen 
 
 their kirtles, 
 Laugh at the rain that wets them. 
 
 Old Play. 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 Nay, hear me, brother— I am elder, wiser, 
 And holier than thou; and age, and wis- 
 dom, 
 And holiness, have peremptory claims, 
 And will be listen'd to. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 Youth ! thou wear'st to manhood now, 
 Darker lip and darker brow, 
 Statelier step, more pensive mien, 
 In thy face and gait are seen; 
 
MOTTOES FROM '^THE ABBOT." 
 
 491 
 
 Thou must now Virook midnight watches, 
 Take thy food and sport by snatches ! 
 For the gambol and the jest, 
 Thou wert wont to love the best, 
 Graver follies must thou follow, 
 But as senseless, false, and hollow. 
 
 Life, a Poem. 
 
 CHAP. XVIII. 
 
 The sky is clouded, Gaspard, 
 
 And the vcxt ocean sleeps a troubled sleep 
 Beneath a lurid gleam of parting sunshine. 
 Such slumber hangs o'er discontented 
 
 lands, 
 While factions doubt, as yet if they have 
 
 strength • 
 
 To front the open battle. 
 
 Albion, a Poem. 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 It is and is not — 'tis the thing I sought for. 
 Have kneel'd for, pray'd for, risk'd my 
 
 fame and life for, 
 And yet it is not — no more than the 
 
 shadow 
 Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polish'd 
 
 mirror. 
 Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living 
 
 substance 
 Which it presents in form and lineament. 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 Now have you reft me from my staff, my 
 guide. 
 
 Who taught my youth as men teach un- 
 tamed falcons 
 
 To use my strength discreetly — I am reft 
 
 Of comrade and of counsel ! 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. xxni. 
 
 Give me a morsel on the greensward 
 rather, 
 
 Coarse as you will the cooking. — Let 
 the fresh spring 
 
 Bubble beside my napkin — and the free 
 birds. 
 
 Twittering and chirping, hop from bough 
 to bough, 
 
 To claim the crumbs I leave for per- 
 quisites — 
 
 Your prison- feasts I like not. 
 
 The Woodman, a Drama. 
 
 CHAP. XXIY. 
 
 'Tis a weary life this 
 
 Vaults overhead, and grates and bars 
 around me. 
 
 And my sad hours spent with as sad com- 
 panions, 
 
 Whose thoughts are brooding o'er their 
 own mischances. 
 
 Far, far too deeply to take part in mine. 
 The iVoodsman. 
 
 CHAP. XXV. 
 
 And when Love's torch hath set the 
 heart in flame. 
 
 Comes Seignor Reason with his saws and 
 cautions, 
 
 Giving such aid as the old gray-beard 
 Sexton, 
 
 Who from the church-vault drags his 
 crazy engine. 
 
 To ply its dribbling ineffectual stream- 
 let 
 
 Against a conflagration. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXVIH. 
 
 Yes, it is she whose eyes looked on thy 
 childhood, 
 
 And watch'd with trembling hope thy 
 dawn of youth. 
 
 That now with these same eye-balls, 
 dimm'd with age. 
 
 And dimmer yet with tears, sees thy dis- 
 honor. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXX. 
 In some breasts passion lies conceal'd and 
 
 silent. 
 Like war's swart jiowder in a castle vault. 
 Until occasion, like the linstock, lights 
 
 it: 
 Then comes at once the lightning and 
 
 the thunder. 
 And distant echoes tell that all is rent 
 
 asunder. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXVI. 
 
 He mounted himself on a coal black steed. 
 
 And her on a freckled gray. 
 With a buglet horn hung down from his 
 side, 
 And roundly they rode away. 
 
 Old Ballad. 
 
492 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 GOLDTHRED'S SONG. 
 1821. 
 Of all the birds on bush or tree, 
 
 Commend me to the owl, 
 Since he may best ensample be 
 To those the cup that trowl. 
 For when the sun hath left the west, 
 He chooses the tree that he loves the best, 
 And he whoops out his song, and he 
 
 laughs at his jest. 
 Then, tho' hours be late, and weather 
 
 foul. 
 We'll drink to the health of the bonny, 
 bonny owl. 
 
 The lark is but a bumpkin fowl. 
 
 He sleeps in his nest till morn; 
 
 But my blessing upon the jolly owl. 
 
 That all night blows his horn. 
 
 Then up with your cup till you stagger 
 in speech, 
 
 And match me this scratch, till you swag- 
 ger and screech. 
 
 And drink till you wink, my merry men 
 each; 
 
 For, tho' hours be late, and weather be 
 foul. 
 
 We'll drink to the health of the bonny, 
 bonny owl. 
 
 Kenilworlh, chap. ii. 
 
 SPEECH OF THE PORTER.* 
 
 1821. 
 
 What stir, what turmoil have we for the 
 
 nones? 
 Stand back, my masters, or beware your 
 
 bones ! 
 Sirs, I'm a warder, and no man of straw; 
 My voice keeps order, and my club gives 
 law. 
 
 Yet soft — nay, stay — what vision have 
 we here? 
 
 What dainty darling's this? — what peer- 
 less peer? 
 
 What loveliest face, that loving ranks 
 enfold 
 
 Like brightest diamond chased in purest 
 gold? 
 
 * Imitated from Gascoigne. 
 
 Dazzled and blind, mine office I forsake. 
 My club, my key, my knee, my homage 
 
 take! 
 Bright paragon, pass on in joy and bliss; — 
 Beshrew the gate that opes not wide at 
 
 such a sight as this ! 
 
 Kenilworth, chap. xxx. 
 
 MOTTOES 
 
 FROM " KENILWORTH." 
 182I, 
 
 CHAP. ni. 
 Nay, I'll hold touch: — the game shall 
 
 be played out, 
 It ne'er shall stop for me, this merry 
 
 wager; 
 That which I say when gamesome, I'll 
 
 avouch 
 In my most sober mood, ne'er trust me 
 
 else. 
 
 The Hazard Table. 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 Not serve two masters? — Here's a youth 
 
 will try it — 
 Would fain serve God, yet give the devil 
 
 his due; 
 Says grace before he doth a deed of vil- 
 
 lany, 
 And returns his thanks devoutly when 
 
 'tis acted. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 He was a man 
 
 Versed in the world as pilot in his com- 
 pass. 
 The needle pointed ever to that interest 
 Which was his lodestar, and he spread 
 
 his sails 
 With vantage to the gale of others' pas- 
 sions. 
 
 The Deceiver, a Tragedy. 
 
 CHAP. VH. 
 
 This is He 
 
 Who rides on the court-gale; controls its 
 
 tides; 
 Knows all their secret shoals and fatal 
 
 eddies; 
 Whose frown abases, and whose smile 
 
 exalts. 
 
MOTTOES FROM '' KENILWORTH: 
 
 493 
 
 He shines like any rainbow — and, per- 
 chance, 
 His colors are as transient. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 This is rare news thou tell'st me, my good 
 
 fellow; 
 There are two bulls fierce battling on the 
 
 green 
 For one fair heifer — if the one goes down. 
 The dale will be more peaceful, and the 
 
 herd, 
 Which have small interest in their brul- 
 
 ziement, 
 May pasture there in peace. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XVH. 
 
 Well, then, our course is chosen; spread 
 the sail, 
 
 Heave aft the lead, and mark the sound- 
 ings well; 
 
 Look to the helm, good master — many 
 a shoal 
 
 Marks this stern coast, and rocks where 
 sits the Siren, 
 
 Who, like Ambition, lures men totheirruin. 
 The Shipwreck. 
 
 CHAP. XXV. 
 Hark ! the bells summon, and the bugle 
 
 calls. 
 But she the fairest answers not ; the tide 
 Of nobles and of ladies throngs the halls, 
 But she the loveliest must in secret hide. 
 What eyes were thine, proud Prince, 
 
 which in the gleam 
 Of yon gay meteors lost that better sense. 
 That o'er the glow-worm doth the star 
 
 esteem. 
 And merit's modest blush o'er courtly 
 
 insolence. 
 
 The Glass Slipper. 
 
 CHAP. XXVI H. 
 
 What, man, ne'er lack a draught, when 
 
 the full can 
 Stands at thine elbow, and craves empty- 
 ing ! — 
 Nay, fear not me, for I have no delight 
 To watch men's vices, since I have myself 
 Of virtue naught to boast of. — I'm a 
 striker, 
 
 Would have the world strike with me, 
 pell-mell, all. 
 
 Pandamonium. 
 
 CHAP. XXX. 
 Now bid the steeple rock — she comes, 
 
 she comes ! — 
 Speak for us, bells — speak for us, shrill- 
 
 tongued tuckets ! 
 Stand to thy linstock, gunner; let the 
 
 cannon 
 Play such a peal, as if a paynim foe 
 Came stretch'd in turban'd ranks to storm 
 
 the ramparts; 
 We will have pageants too — but that 
 
 craves wit, 
 And I'm a rough-hewn soldier. 
 The Virgin- Queen, A Tragi-Comedy. 
 
 CHAP. XXXII. 
 
 The wisest sovereigns err like private men. 
 And royal hand has sometimes laid the 
 
 sword 
 Of chivalry upon a worthless shoulder. 
 Which better had been branded by the 
 
 hangman. 
 What then? Kings do their best, — an<J 
 
 they and we 
 Must answer for the intent, and not the 
 
 event. 
 
 Old Play. 
 CHAP. XXXIH. 
 Here'stands the victim ; — there the proud 
 
 betrayer, — 
 E'en as the hind pull'd down by stran- 
 gling dogs. 
 Lies at the hunter's feet — who courf- 
 
 eous proffers 
 To some high dame, the Dian of the 
 
 chase. 
 To whom he looks for guerdon, his sharp 
 
 blade. 
 To gash the sobbing throat. 
 
 The Woodsman. 
 
 CHAP. XL. 
 
 High o'er the eastern steep the sun is 
 
 lieaming. 
 And darkness flies with her deceitful 
 
 shadows; 
 So truth prevails o'er falsehood. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
494 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE TEMPEST.* 
 1821. 
 
 Stern eagle of the far north-west, 
 Thou that bearest in thy grasp the thun- 
 
 derlxjlt, 
 Thou whose rushing pinions stir ocean to 
 
 madness, 
 Thou the destroyer of herds, thou the 
 
 scatlerer of navies, 
 Amidst the scream of thy rage. 
 Amidst the rushing of thy onward wings, 
 Tho' thy scream be loud as the cry of a 
 
 perishing nation, 
 Tho' the rushing of thy wings be like the 
 
 roar of ten thousand waves. 
 Yet hear, in thine ire and thy haste. 
 Hear thou tlie voice of the Reim-kennar. 
 
 Thou hast met the pine-trees of Dront- 
 
 heiin. 
 Their dark green heads lie prostrate be- 
 side their uprooted stems; 
 Thou hast met the rider of the ocean, 
 The tall, the strong bark of the fearless 
 
 rover, 
 And she has struck to thee the topsail 
 That she had not vail'd to a royal armada. 
 Thou hast met the tower that bears its 
 
 crest among the clouds, 
 The liattled massive tower of the jarl of 
 
 former days. 
 And the cope-stone of the turret 
 Is lying upon its hospitable hearth; 
 But thou too shalt stoop, proud compel- 
 
 ler of clouds. 
 When thou hearest the voice of the 
 
 Reim-kennar. 
 
 There are verses that can stop the stag 
 in the forest. 
 
 Ay, when the dark-color'd dog is open- 
 ing on his track; 
 
 There are' verses can make the wild hawk 
 pause on the wing, 
 
 * A Norwe|:ian invocarion, still preserved in 
 the island of Uist under the name of the Song of 
 the " Reim-keiiiiar," tho' some call it the " Song 
 of the Tempest." 
 
 Like the falcon that wears the hood and 
 jesses. 
 
 And who knows the shrill whistle of the 
 fowler. 
 
 Thou who canst mock at the scream of 
 the drowning mariner. 
 
 And the crash of the ravaged forest. 
 
 And the groan of the overwhelmed 
 crowds, 
 
 When the church hath fallen in the mo- 
 ment of prayer; 
 
 There are sounds whichthoualso must list, 
 
 When they are chanted by the voice of 
 the Reim-kennar. 
 
 Enough of woe hast thou wrought on 
 
 the ocean, 
 The widows wring their hands on the 
 
 beach ; 
 Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the 
 
 land, 
 The Iius])andman folds his arms in de- 
 spair. 
 Cease thou the waving of thy pinions; 
 Let the ocean repose in her dark strength. 
 Cease thou the flashing of thine eye; 
 Let the thunderbolt sleep in the armory 
 
 of Odin. 
 Be tliou still at my bidding, viewless 
 
 racer of the north-western heaven, — 
 Sleep thou at the voice of Noma the 
 
 Reim-kennar. 
 
 " A loni^ silence followed the last verse, until 
 Noma resumed her chant, but with a changed 
 and more soothing modulation of voice and tune." 
 
 Eagle of the far north-western waters. 
 
 Thou hast heard the voice of the Reim- 
 kennar, 
 
 Thou hast closed thy wide sails at her 
 bidding. 
 
 And folded them in peace by thy side. 
 
 My blessing be on thy retiring path; 
 
 When thou stoopest from thy place on 
 high, 
 
 Soft be thy slumbers in the caverns of 
 the unknown ocean. 
 
 Rest till destiny shall again awaken thee; 
 
 Eagle of the north-west, thou hast heard 
 the voice of the Reim-kennar. 
 
 The Pirale, chap. vi. 
 
CLAUD HALCRO'S SONG: ''MARY.' 
 
 495 
 
 CLAUD HALCRO'S SONG: 
 "MARY." 
 1821. 
 Farewell to Norlhmaven, 
 
 Gray Hillswicko, farewell ! 
 To the calms of thy haven. 
 
 The storms on thy fell — 
 To each breeze that can vary 
 
 The mood of thy main, 
 And to thee, bonny Mary ! 
 
 We meet not again ! 
 
 Farewell the wild ferry, 
 
 Which Hacon could brave, 
 When the peaks of the Skerry 
 
 Were white in the wave. 
 There's a maid may look over 
 
 These wild waves in vain, — 
 For the skiff of her lover — 
 
 He comes not again ! 
 
 \ The vows thou hast broke. 
 
 On the wild currents fling them; 
 On the quicksand and rock 
 
 Let the mermaidens sing them. 
 New sweetness they'll give her 
 
 Bewildering strain; 
 But there's one who will never 
 
 Believe them again. 
 
 O were there an island, 
 
 Tho' ever so wild, 
 Where woman could smile, and 
 
 No man be Ix-guiled — 
 Too tempting a snare 
 
 To poor mortals were given; 
 And the hope would fix there, 
 
 That should anchor in heaven. 
 The Pirate, chap. xii. 
 
 THE SONG OF HAROLD 
 HARFAGER.* 
 1821. 
 The sun is rising dimly red, 
 The wind is wailing low and dread; 
 From his cliff the eagle sallies. 
 Leaves the wolf his darksome valleys; 
 
 • " Thf bard [Halcro] chanted to a low, wild, 
 monotonous air, varied only i)y the efforts of the 
 singer to give interest and emphasis to particu- 
 lar piissages, the following imitation of a northern 
 ■war-song." 
 
 In the midst the ravens hover, 
 Peep the wild dogs from the cover. 
 Screaming, croaking, baying, yelling, 
 Each in his wild accents telling : — 
 " Soon we feast on dead and dying, 
 Fair-hair'd Harold's flag is flying." 
 
 Many a crest on air is streaming, 
 Many a helmet darkly gleaming, 
 Many an arm the ax uprears, 
 Doom'd to hew the wood of spears. 
 All along the crowded ranks 
 Horses neigh and armor clanks; 
 Chiefs are shouting, clarions ringing, 
 Louder still the bard is singing: — 
 " Gather footmen, gather horsemen. 
 To the field, ye valiant Norsemen ! 
 
 "Halt ye not for food or slumber. 
 View not vantage, count not number : 
 Jolly reapers, forward still. 
 Grow the crop on vale or hill, 
 Thick or scatter'd, stiff or lithe. 
 It shall down before the scythe. 
 Forward with your sickles bright. 
 Reap the harvest of the fight. — 
 Onward footmen, onward horsemen. 
 To the charge, ye gallant Norsemen ! 
 
 " Fatal Choosers t of the Slaughter, 
 O'er you hovers Odin's daughter; 
 Hear the choice she spreads before ye, — 
 Victory, and wealth, and glory; 
 Or old Valhalla's roaring hail, 
 Her ever-circling mead and ale. 
 Where for eternity unite 
 The joys of wassail and of fight. 
 Headlong forward, foot and horsemen. 
 Charge and fight, and die like Norse- 
 men !" — 
 
 The Pirate, chap. xv. 
 
 SONG OF THE MERMAIDS AND 
 
 MERMEN. 
 
 182T. 
 
 MERMAID. 
 
 Fathoms deep l^eneath the wave, 
 Stringing beads of glistering pearl. 
 
 Singing the achievements brave 
 Of many an old Norwegian earl; 
 
 t The Valkyriur. 
 
496 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Dwelling where the tempest's raving 
 
 Falls as light upon our ear. 
 As the sigh of lover, craving 
 
 Pity from his lady dear. 
 Children of wild Thule, we. 
 From the deep caves of the sea. 
 As the lark springs from the lea. 
 Hither come, to share your glee. 
 
 From reining of the water-horse, 
 
 That bounded till the waves were foam- 
 ing. 
 Watching the infant tempest's course, 
 
 Chasing the sea-snake in his roaming; 
 From winding charge-notes on the shell. 
 
 When the huge whale and swordfish 
 duel. 
 Or tolling shroudless seamen's knell. 
 
 When the winds and waves are cruel; 
 Children of wild Thule, we 
 Have plough'd such furrows on the sea. 
 As the steer draws on the lea, 
 And hither we come to share your glee. 
 
 MERMAIDS AND MERMEN. 
 
 We heard you in our twilight caves, 
 
 A hundred fathom deep below, 
 For notes of joy can pierce the waves. 
 
 That drown each sound of war and woe. 
 Those who dwell beneath the sea 
 
 Love the sons of ITiuIe well; 
 .Thus, to aid your mirth bring we 
 
 Dance, and song, and sounding shell. 
 Children of dark Thule, know. 
 Those who dwell by haaf and voe, 
 Where your daring shallops row 
 Come to share the festal show. 
 
 The Pirate, chap. xvi. 
 
 NORNA'S SONG. 
 1821. 
 For leagues along the watery way. 
 Thro' gulf and stream my course has 
 been; 
 The billows know my Runic lay, 
 
 And smooth their crests to silent green. 
 
 The billows know my Runic lay, — 
 The gulf grows smooth, the stream is 
 stilU 
 
 But human hearts, more wild than they. 
 Know but the rule of wayward will. 
 
 One hour is mine, in all the year, 
 To tell my woes, — and one alone; 
 
 When gleams this magic lamp 'tis 
 here, — 
 When dies the mystic light, 'tis gone. 
 
 Daughters of northern Magnus, hail ! 
 
 The lamp is lit, the flame is clear, — 
 To you I come to tell my tale, 
 
 Awake, arise, my tale to hear ! 
 
 Tfu Pirate, chap. xix. 
 
 NORNA AND TROLD. 
 1821. 
 
 NORNA. 
 
 Dwellers of the mountain, rise, 
 Trold the powerful, Haims the wise! 
 Ye who taught weak woman's tongue 
 Words that sway the weak and strong, — 
 Ye who taught weak woman's hand 
 How to wield the magic wand, 
 And wake the gales on Foulah's steep, 
 Or lull wild Sumburgh's waves to 
 
 sleep ! 
 Still are ye yet ? Not yours the power 
 Ye knew in Odin's mightier hour. 
 What are ye now but empty names, 
 Powerful Trold, sagacious Haims, 
 That lightly spoken, lightly heard. 
 Float on the ear like thistle's beard? 
 
 TROU) THE DWARF. 
 A thousand winters dark have flown 
 Since o'er the threshold of my stone 
 A votaress past, my power to own. 
 Visitor bold 
 Of the mansion of Trold, 
 
 Maiden haughty of heart. 
 Who hast hither presumed 
 Ungifted, undoom'd 
 
 Thou shah not depart : — 
 The power thou dost covet 
 O'er tempest and wave, 
 Shall be thine, thou proud maiden. 
 
 By beach and by cave, — 
 By stack and by skerry, by noup and 
 by voe, 
 
CLAUD HALCRO AND NORNA. 
 
 497 
 
 By air and by wick, and by helyer and 
 gio * 
 And by every wild shore which the 
 northern winds know 
 And the northern tides lave. 
 But tho' this shall l)e given thee, thou 
 
 desperately Virave, 
 I doom thee that never 
 
 The gift thou shalt have 
 Till thou reave thy life's giver 
 Of the gift which he gave. 
 
 NORNA. 
 
 Dark are thy words and severe, 
 
 Thou dweller in the stone; 
 But trembling and fear 
 
 To her are unknown, 
 Who hath sought thee here 
 
 In thy dwelling lone. 
 Come what comes soever, 
 
 The worst I can endure; 
 Life is but a short fever. 
 
 And death is the cure. 
 
 The Pirate, chap. xix. 
 
 CLAUD HALCRO AND NORNA. 
 1821. 
 
 CLAUD HALCRO. 
 Mother darksome. Mother dread. 
 Dweller on the Fitful Head, 
 Thou canst sec what deeds are dotie 
 Under the never-setting sun. 
 Look thro' sleet, and look thro' frost, 
 Look to Greenland's caves and coast, — 
 By the ice-l)erg is a sail 
 Chasing of the swarthy whale; 
 Mother doubtful. Mother dread. 
 Tell us, has the good ship sped? 
 
 NORNA. 
 
 The thought of the aged is ever on gear, — 
 On his fishing, his furrow, his flock, and 
 
 his steer; 
 But thrive may his fishing, flock, furrow, 
 
 and herd, 
 While the aged for anguish shall tear his 
 
 gray beard. 
 
 • Stack, an insulated precipitous rock ; 
 skerry, a bare rocky islet ; noup, a precipitous 
 headland, sloping gently inland ; voe, a salt in- 
 land lake ; air, open sea beach ; helyer, a cavern 
 into which the sea flows ; gio, a deep ravine. 
 
 The ship, well-laden as bark need be. 
 
 Lies deep in the furrow of the Iceland 
 sea; — 
 
 The breeze for Zetland blows fair and 
 soft, 
 
 And gayly the garland is fluttering aloft; 
 
 Seven good fishes have spouted their last, 
 
 And their jaw-bones are hanging to yard 
 and mast; 
 
 Two are for Lerwick, and two for Kirk- 
 wall, — 
 
 Three for Burgh-Westra, the choicest of 
 all. 
 
 CLAUD HALCRO. 
 
 Mother doubtful. Mother dread! 
 Dweller of the Fitful Head, 
 Thou hast conn'd full many a rhyme, 
 That lives upon the surge of time : 
 Tell me, shall my lays be sung. 
 Like Hacon's of the Golden Tongue, 
 Long after Halcro's dead and gone? 
 Or, shall Hialtland's minstrel own 
 One note to rival glorious John? 
 
 NORNA. 
 
 The infant loves the rattle's noise; 
 Age, double childhood, hath its toys; 
 But different far the descant rings. 
 As strikes a different hand the strings. 
 The eagle mounts the polar sky — 
 The imber-goose, unskill'd to fly. 
 Must be content to glide along, 
 Where seal and sea-dog list his song. 
 
 CLAUD HALCRO. 
 Be mine the imber^oose to play. 
 And haunt lone cave and silent bay; 
 The archer's aim so shall I shun — 
 So shall I 'scape the levell'dgun — 
 Content my verses' tuneless jingle 
 With Thule's sounding tides to mingle. 
 While, to the ear of wondering wight, 
 Upon the distant headland's height, 
 Soften'd by murmur of the sea. 
 The rude sounds seem like harmony ! 
 «»♦*** 
 
 Mother doubtful. Mother dread. 
 Dweller of the Fitful Head, 
 A gallant bark from far abroad, 
 Snint Magnus hath her in his road, 
 With guns and firelocks not a few — 
 A silken and a scarlet crew, 
 
498 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Deep stored with precious merchandise. 
 Of gold and goods of rare device — 
 What interest hath our comrade bold 
 In bark and crew, in goods and gold? 
 
 Gold is ruddy, fair, and free. 
 Blood is crimson, and dark to see; 
 I look'd out on Saint Magnus Bay, 
 And I saw a falcon that struck her prey, 
 A gobbet of flesh in her l>eak she bore, 
 And talons and singles are dripping with 
 
 gore; — 
 Let him that asks after them look on his 
 
 hand. 
 And if there is blood on't, he's one of 
 
 their band. 
 
 CLAUD HAI.CRO. 
 
 Mother doubtful, Mother dread. 
 Dweller of the Fitful Head, 
 Well thou know'st it is thy task 
 To tell what Beauty will not ask; — 
 Then steep thy words in wine and milk. 
 And weave a doom of gold and silk; — 
 For we would know, shall Brenda prove 
 In love, and happy in her love? 
 
 NORNA. 
 Untouch'd by love, the maiden's breast 
 Is like the snow on Rona's crest, 
 High seated in the middle sky, 
 In bright and barren purity; 
 But by the sunbeam gently kiss'd, 
 Scarce by the gazing eye 'tis miss'd, 
 Ere down the lonely valley stealing. 
 Fresh grass and growth its course reveal- 
 ing. 
 It cheers the flock, revives the flower. 
 And decks some happy shepherd's Ixjwer. 
 
 MAGNUS TROIL. 
 Mother, speak, and do not tarry. 
 Here's a maiden fain would marry; 
 Shall she marry, ay or not? 
 If she marry, what's her lot? 
 
 NORNA. 
 
 Untouch'd by love, the maiden's breast 
 Is like the snow on Rona's crest; 
 So pure, so free from earthly dye. 
 It seems, whilst leaning on the sky. 
 Part of the heaven to which 'tis nigh; 
 
 But passion, like the wild March rain, 
 May soil the wreath with many a slain. 
 We gaze — the lovely vision's gone — 
 A torrent fills the bed of stone. 
 That hurrying to destruction's shock, 
 Leaps headlong from the lofty rock. 
 
 The Pirate, chap. xxi. 
 
 SONG OF THE ZETLAND 
 
 FISHERMEN. 
 
 1821. 
 
 Farewell, merry maidens, to song and 
 
 to laugh. 
 For the brave lads of Westra are bound 
 
 to the haaf; 
 And we must have labor, and hunger, and 
 
 pain, 
 Ere we dance with the maids of Dunross- 
 
 ness again. 
 
 For now, in our trim boats of Noroway 
 
 deal. 
 We must dance on the waves, with the 
 
 porpoise and seal ! 
 The breeze it shall pipe, so it pipe not 
 
 too high. 
 And the gull be our songstress whene'er 
 
 she flits by. 
 
 .Sing on, my brave bird, while we follow, 
 like thee, 
 
 By bank, shoal, and quicksand, the 
 swarms of the sea; 
 
 And when twenty score fishes are strain- 
 ing our line, 
 
 Sing louder, brave bird, for their spoils 
 shall lie thine. 
 
 We'll sing while we bait, and we'll sing 
 
 while we haul, 
 For the deeps of the haaf have enough 
 
 for us all : 
 There is torsk for the gentle, and skate 
 
 for the carle, 
 And there's wealth for bold Magnus, the 
 
 son of the earl. 
 
 Huzza ! my brave comrades, give way for 
 
 the haaf, 
 We shall sooner come back to the dance 
 
 and the laugh; 
 
CLE VELAND ' .? SERENADE. 
 
 4» 
 
 For life without mirth is a lamp without 
 
 oil; 
 Then mirth and long life to the bold 
 
 Magnus Troil ! 
 
 The Pirate, chap. xxii. 
 
 CLEVELAND'S SERENADE. 
 
 1821. 
 Love wakes and weeps 
 While Beauty sleeps ! 
 O for Music's softest numWrs 
 To prompt a theme, 
 For Beauty's dream, 
 Soft as the pillow of her slumbers ! 
 
 Thro' groves of palm 
 
 Sigh gales of balm, 
 Fireflies on the air are wheeling; 
 
 While thro' the gloom 
 
 Comes soft perfume. 
 The distant beds of flowers revealing. 
 
 O wake and live ! 
 
 No dream can give 
 A shadow'd bliss, the real excelling; 
 
 No longer sleep. 
 
 From lattice peep. 
 And list the tale that Love is telling ! 
 
 " Her lover, as if determined upon gaining her 
 ear by music of another strain, sung the following 
 fragment of a sea-ditty : " — 
 
 you 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! the voice 
 hear 
 
 Has left its last soft tone with you, — 
 Its next must join the seaward cheer. 
 
 And shout among the shouting crew. 
 
 The accents which I scarce could form 
 Beneath your frown's controlling 
 check, 
 
 Must give the word alwve the storm, 
 To cut the mast and clear the wreck. 
 
 The timid eye I dared not raise, — 
 The hand, that shook when press 'd to 
 thine, 
 
 Must point the guns upon the chase — 
 Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. 
 
 To all I love, or hope, or fear, 
 Honor, or own, a long adieu ! 
 
 To all that life has soft and dear. 
 Farewell ! save memory of you ! 
 
 The Pirate, chap, xxiii 
 
 CLAUD HALCRO'S VERSES. 
 
 1821. 
 
 " A SCRAP of an old Norse ditty which might 
 run thus in English : " — 
 
 And you shall deal the funeral dole; 
 
 Ay, deal it, mother mine. 
 To weary l)ody, and to heavy soul, 
 
 The white bread and the wine. 
 
 And you shall deal my horses of pride; 
 
 Ay, deal them, mother mine; 
 And you shall deal my lands so wide. 
 
 And deal my castles nine. 
 
 But deal not vengeance for the deed, 
 
 And deal not for the crime; 
 Thy Iwdy to its place, and the soul to 
 Heaven's grace. 
 And the rest in God's own time. 
 
 The Pirate, chap, xxiii. 
 
 CLAUD HALCRO'S INVOCATION. 
 
 1821. 
 
 " Haixro began to conjure her in an ancient 
 rhyme which occurred to him as suited to the 
 occasion, and which had in its gibberish a wild 
 and unearthly sound which may be lost in the 
 ensuing translation : " — 
 
 St. Magnus control thee, that martyr of 
 
 treason; 
 St. Ronan rebuke thee with rhyme and 
 
 with reason; 
 By the mass of St. Martin, the might of 
 
 St. Mary, 
 Be thou gone, or thy weird shall be worse 
 if thou tarry ! 
 If of good, go hence and hallow thee; 
 If of ill, let the earth swallow thee; 
 If thou'rt of air, let the gray mist fold 
 
 thee; 
 If of earth, let the swart mine hold thee. 
 If a pixie, seek thy ring; 
 If a nixie, seek thy spring; 
 
50P 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 If on middle earth thou'st been 
 Slave of sorrow, shame, and sin. 
 Hast cat the bread of toil and strife. 
 And drec'd the lot which men call life. 
 Begone to thy stone ! for thy coffin is 
 
 scant of thee; 
 The worm, thy playfellow, wails for the 
 
 want of thee. 
 Hence, houseless ghost ! let the earth hide 
 
 thee ; 
 Till Michael shall blow the blast see that 
 
 there thou bide thee ! 
 Phantom, fly hence ! take the Cross f"- a 
 
 token. 
 Hence pass till Hallow-moss ! — my spell 
 is spoken ! 
 
 Where corpse-light 
 Dances bright, 
 Be it day or night, 
 Be it by ligiit or dark 
 There shall corpse lie stiff and stark. 
 
 Menseful maiden ne'er should rise 
 Till the first beam tinge the skies; 
 Silk-fringed eyelids still should close. 
 Till the sun hast kiss'd the rose; 
 Maiden's foot we should not view 
 Mark'd with tiny print on dew, 
 Till the opening flowerets spread 
 Carpet meet for beauty's tread. 
 
 The Pirate^ chap, xxiii. 
 
 NORNA'S RUNIC RHYMF. 
 1821. 
 Champion, f.imed for warlike toil, 
 Art thou silent, Rilx)lt Troil ? 
 Sand, and dust, and pebbly stones. 
 Are leaving Itare thy giant bones. 
 Who dared touch the wild bear's skin 
 Ye slumber'd on, while life was in? — 
 A woman now, or babe, may come 
 And cast the covering from thy tomb. 
 
 Yet be not wrathful. Chief, nor blight 
 Mine eyes or ears with sound or sight ! 
 I come not, with unhallow'd tread. 
 To wake the slumbers of the dead, 
 Or lay thy giant relics bare; 
 But what I seek thou well canst spare. 
 
 Be it to my hand allow'd 
 To shear a merk's weight from thy shroud; 
 Yet leave thee sheeted lead enough 
 To shield thy bones from weather rough 
 
 See, I draw my magic knife — 
 Never, while thou wert in life, 
 Laid'st thou still for sloth or fear. 
 When point and edge were glittering near ; 
 See, the cenvients now I sever — 
 Waken now, or sleep forever ! 
 Thou wilt not wake? — the deed is done !— 
 The prize I sought is fairly won. 
 
 Thanks, Ribolt, thanks, — for this the sej 
 Shall smooth its ruffled crest for thee — 
 And whik afar its billows foam, 
 Sulwide to peace near Ribolt 's tomb. 
 Thanks, Ribolt, thanks — for this the migh 
 Of wild winds raging at their height, 
 When to thy place of slumber nigh. 
 Shall soften to a lullaby. 
 
 She, the dame oi doubt and dread. 
 Noma of the Fitful Head, 
 Mighty in her own despite, — 
 Miserable in her might; 
 In despair and frenzy great. 
 In her greatness desolate; 
 Wisest, wickedest who lives, — 
 Well can keep the word she gives. 
 
 The Pirate, chap. xxv. 
 
 NORNA'S SPELLS. 
 1821. 
 
 " Muttering that the elemental spirit must bi 
 thank.-' [T jrna], recited, in her usual monoto 
 nou-,. yet wild mode of i,hanting, the followinj 
 ver^-s: " — 
 
 Thou, so needful, yet so dread. 
 With cloudy crest, and wing of red — 
 Thou, without whose genial breath 
 The North would sleep the sleep of death ; 
 Who deign'st to warm the cottage hearth 
 Yet hurl'st proud palaces to earth, — 
 Brightest, keenest, of the Powers, 
 Which form and rule this world of ours. 
 With my rhyme of Runic, I 
 Thank thee for thy agency. 
 
 "She then sv^red a portion from the smal 
 mass of sheet lead which lay upon the table and 
 
VO/fJVA'S SPELLS. 
 
 501 
 
 placing it in the crucible, subjected it to the action 
 of the lighted charcoal, and, as it melted, she 
 sung : " — 
 
 Old Reim-kennar, to thy art 
 Mother Hertha sends her part; 
 She, whose gracious hoiinty gives 
 Needful food for all that lives. 
 From the deep mine of the North 
 Came the mystic metal forth, 
 Doom'd amidst disjointed stones, 
 Long to cere a champion's bones, 
 Disinhumed my charms to aid — 
 Mother Earth, my thanks are paid. 
 
 " She then poured out some water from the 
 jar into a large cup or goblet, and sung once more, 
 as she slowly stirred it round with the end of her 
 staff : " — 
 
 Girdle of our islands dear. 
 Element of Water, hear ! 
 Thou whose power can overwhelm 
 Broken mounds and ruin'd realm 
 
 On the lowly Belgian strand; 
 All tly fiercest range can never 
 Of our soil a furlong sever 
 
 From our rock-defended land; 
 Play then gently thou thy part. 
 To assist old Noma's art. 
 
 " She then, with a pair of pincers removed the 
 crucible from the chafing-dish, and poured the lead, 
 now entirely melted, into the bowl of water, re- 
 peating at the same time : " — 
 
 Elements, each other greeting. 
 
 Gifts and power attend your meeting: 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF THE WINDS. 
 Thou, that over billows dark, 
 Safely send'st the fisher's bark. 
 Giving him a path and motion 
 Thro' the wilderness of ocean; 
 Thou, that when the billows brave ye, 
 O'er the shelves canst drive the navy, — 
 Didst thou chafe as one neglected, 
 While thy brethren were respected? 
 To appease thee, see, I tear 
 Tliis full grasp of grizzled hair. 
 Oft thy breath hath thro' it sung. 
 Softening to my magic tongue, — 
 Now, 'tis thine to bid it fly 
 ITiro' the wide expanse of sky. 
 Mid the countless swarms to sail 
 Of wild-fowl wheeling on thy gale; 
 Take thy portion and rejoice, — 
 Spirit, thou hast heard my voice ! 
 
 " She selected from the fused metal a piece 
 about the size of a small nut, bearing in shape a 
 close resemblance to that of the human heart, and 
 approaching Minna, again spoke in song : " — . 
 
 She who sits by haunted well, 
 
 Is subject to the Nixie's spell; 
 
 She who walks on lonely beach, 
 
 To the Mermaid's charmed speech; 
 
 She who walks round ring of green. 
 
 Offends the peevish fairy Queen; 
 
 And she who takes rest in the Dwarfie's 
 
 cave, 
 A weary weird of woe shall have. 
 
 By ring, by spring, by cave, by shore, 
 Minna Troil has braved all this and more; 
 And yet hath the root of her sorrow and ill, 
 A source that's more deep and more mys- 
 tical still. — 
 
 Thou art within a demon's hold. 
 
 More wise than Haims, more strong than 
 
 Trold. 
 No siren sings so sweet as he, — 
 No fay springs lighter on the lea; 
 No elfin power hath half the art, 
 To soothe, to move, to wring the heart, -~ 
 Life-blood from the cheek to drain. 
 Drench the eye and dry the vein. 
 Maiden, ere we farther go. 
 Dost thou note me, ay or no ? 
 
 MINNA. 
 I mark thee, my mother, both word, look, 
 
 and sign; 
 Speak on with thy riddle — to read it be 
 
 mine. 
 
 NORNA. 
 
 Mark me ! for the word I speak 
 Shall bring the color to thy cheek. 
 This laden heart, so light of cost. 
 The symlx)l of a treasure lost. 
 Thou shalt wear in hope and in peace, 
 That the cause of your sickness and sor 
 
 row may cease, 
 When crimson foot meets crimson hand 
 I., the Martyr's Aisle, and in Orkney land. 
 
 " She knotted the leaden heart to a chain of 
 gold and hung it around Minna's neck, singing, as 
 she performed that last branch of the spell : — 
 
 Be patient, be patient; for Patience hath 
 
 power 
 To ward us in danger, like mantle io 
 
 shower; 
 
S02 
 
 MISCELLANE O US POEMS. 
 
 A fairy gift you best may hold 
 
 In a chain of fairy gold; — 
 
 The chain and the gift are each a true 
 
 token, 
 That not without warrant old Noma has 
 
 spoken; 
 But thy nearest and dearest must never 
 
 behold them, 
 Till time shall accomplish the truths I 
 
 have told them. 
 
 EAd Pirate, chap, xxviii. 
 
 BRYCE SNAILSFOOT'S SIGN. 
 
 1821. 
 
 " Thb sign bore on the opposite side an em- 
 blematic device, resembling our first parents in 
 their vegetable garments, with this legend . " — 
 
 Poor sinners whom the snake deceives 
 Are fain to cover them with leaves. 
 Zetland hath no leaves, 'tis true, 
 Because that trees are none or few; 
 But we have flax and taits of woo' * 
 For linen cloth and wadmaal t blue; 
 And we have many of foreign knacks 
 Of finer waft than woo' or flax. 
 Ye gallanty Lambmas lads, appear, 
 And bring your Lambmas sisters here; 
 Bryce Snailsfoot spares not cost or care 
 To pleasure every gentle pair. 
 
 The Pirate, chap, xxxii. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF A SEA-DITTY. 
 1821. 
 Robin Rover 
 
 Said to his crew : — 
 '« Up with the black flag, 
 
 Down with the blue ! 
 Fire on the main-top. 
 
 Fire on the bow. 
 Fire on the gun-deck. 
 Fire down below ! " 
 
 The Pirate, chap, xxxii. 
 
 * Tuft* of wool. 
 
 t Wadmaal, vadmel ; homespun woollen cloth 
 of which the Norwegian peasantry make their 
 fclotfaes. 
 
 DICK FLETCHER'S DITTY. 
 1821. 
 It was a ship, and a ship of fame, 
 Launch'd off the stocks, bound for the 
 
 main. 
 With a hundred and fifty brisk young men, 
 All pick'd and chosen every one. 
 
 Captain Glen was our Captain's name, 
 A very gallant and brisk young man. 
 As bold a sailor as e'er went to sea; 
 And we were bound for high Barbary ! 
 'The Pirate, chap, xxxvi. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM "THE PIRATE." 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 'Tis not alone the scene — the man, An 
 
 selmo. 
 The man finds sympathies in these wild 
 
 wastes, 
 And roughly tumbling seas, which fairer 
 
 views 
 And smoother waves deny him. 
 
 Ancient Drama. 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 O, Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, 
 They were twa bonnie lassies; 
 
 They biggit a house on yon burn-brae, 
 And theekit ower wi' rashes. 
 
 Fair Bessy Bell I looed yestreen, 
 And thought I ne'er could alter: 
 
 But Mary Gray's twa pawky een 
 Have garr'd my fancy falter. 
 
 Scots Song. 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 This is no pilgrim's morning — yon gray 
 
 mist 
 Lies upon hill and dale, and field and 
 
 forest. 
 Like the dun wimple of a new-made 
 
 widow : 
 And by my faith, although my heart be 
 
 soft, 
 I'd rather hear that widow weep and sigh, 
 AnJ tell the virtues of the dear departed. 
 
MOTTOES FROM ''THE PIRATE. 
 
 503 
 
 Than, when the tempest sends his voice 
 
 ahroati, 
 Be subject to its fury. 
 
 The Double Nuptials. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 The wind blew keen frae north and east; 
 
 It blew upon the floor. 
 Quo' our good man to our good wife : — 
 
 " Get up and bar the door." 
 
 " My hand is in my housewifeskep. 
 
 Good man, as ye may see; 
 If it shouldna be barr'd this hundred 
 years 
 It's no be barr'd for me." 
 
 Old Song. 
 CHAP. vn. 
 She does no work by halves, yon raving 
 
 ocean ; 
 Engulfing those she strangles, her wild 
 
 womb 
 Affords the mariners whom she hath dealt 
 
 on. 
 Their death at once, and sepulchre. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 This is a gentle trader, and a prudent; — 
 He's no Autolycus, to blear your eye 
 With quips of worldly gauds and game- 
 
 someness; 
 But seasons all his glittering merchandise 
 With wholesome doctrine suited to the use. 
 As men sauce goose with sage and rose- 
 mary. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP XI. 
 
 All vour ancient customs 
 
 And long-descended usages, I'll change 
 
 Ye shall not eat, nor drink, nor speak, 
 nor move, 
 
 Think, look, or walk, as ye were wont to 
 do. 
 
 Even your marriage-lieds shall know mu- 
 tation; 
 
 The bride shall have the stock, the groom 
 the wall; 
 
 For all old practice will I turn and 
 change, 
 
 And call it reformation — marry will I ! 
 ' Tii Even that we're at Odds. 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 We'll keep our customs ; — what is law 
 
 itself, 
 But old establish'd custom? Whatreligion 
 (I mean, with one-half of the men that 
 
 use it). 
 Save the good use and wont that carries 
 
 thbm 
 To worship how and where their fathers 
 
 worshipp'd ? 
 All things resolve in custom; — we'll 
 
 keep ours. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP XXHI. 
 
 There was shaking of hands, and sorrow 
 of heart. 
 
 For the hour was approaching when merry 
 folks must part; 
 
 So we called for our horses, and asked 
 lor our way. 
 
 While the jolly old landlord said, "Noth- 
 ing's to pay." 
 
 Lilliftit, a Poem. 
 
 CHAP. XXIX. 
 
 See yonder woman, whom our swains 
 
 revere. 
 And dread in secret, while they take her 
 
 counsel 
 When sweetheart shall be kind, or when 
 
 cross dame shall die; 
 Where lurks the thief who stole the silver 
 
 tankard, 
 And how the pestilent murrain may be 
 
 cured. 
 This sage adviser's mad, stark mad, my 
 
 friend; 
 Yet, in her madness hath the art and 
 
 cunning 
 To wring fools' secrets from their inmost 
 
 bosoms. 
 And pay inquirers with the coin they gave 
 
 her. 
 
 Old Play. 
 CHAP. XXX. 
 What ho, my jovial mates t come on! 
 
 we'll frolic it 
 Like fairies frisking in the merry moon- 
 shine. 
 Seen by the curtal friar, who, from some 
 
 christening. 
 Or some blithe bridal, hies belated cell- 
 ward; — 
 
504 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 He starts, and changes his. bold bottle 
 
 swagger 
 To churchman's pace professional, — and, 
 
 ransacking 
 His treacherous memory for some holy 
 
 hymn, 
 Finds but the roundel of the midnight 
 
 catch. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXII. 
 
 I strive like the vessel in the tide-way. 
 
 Which, lacking favoring lireeze, hath not 
 the power 
 
 To stem the powerful current. — Even 
 so, 
 
 Resolving daily to forsake my vices. 
 
 Habits, strong circumstance, renewed 
 temptation. 
 
 Sweep me to sea again. — O heavenly 
 breath, 
 
 Fill thou my sails, and aid the feeble ves- 
 sel, 
 
 Which ne'er can reach the blessed port 
 without thee ! 
 
 ' Tis Odds uuhen Eiiens meel. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIII. 
 
 Parental love, my friend, has power o'er 
 wisdom. 
 
 And is the charm, which, like the fal- 
 coner's lure. 
 
 Can bring from heaven the highest soaring 
 spirits. — • 
 
 So, when famed Prosper doff 'd his magic 
 robe. 
 
 It was Miranda pluck'd it from his shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIV. 
 
 Hark to the insult loud, the bitter sneer. 
 The fierce threat answering to the brutal 
 
 jeer; 
 Oaths fly like pistol shots, and vengeful 
 
 words 
 Clash with each other like conflicting 
 
 swords. 
 The robbers' quarrel by such sounds is 
 
 shown, 
 And true rnen have some chance to gain 
 
 their own. 
 
 Captivity, a Poem. 
 
 CHAP. XXXVII. 
 
 Over the mountains, and under the waves. 
 
 Over the fountains, and under the graves, 
 
 Under floods that are deepest, 
 
 Which Neptune obey, 
 Over rocks that are steepest. 
 Love will find out the way 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUN- 
 TAINS DUN.* 
 1822. 
 On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun, 
 'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun, 
 And seek the heath -frequenting brood 
 Far through the noonday solitude; 
 Ky many a cairn and trenched mound, 
 VVhere chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound. 
 And springs, where gray-hair'd shepherds 
 
 tell. 
 That still the fairies love to dwell. 
 
 Along the silver streams of Tweed, 
 'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead. 
 When to the hook the salmon springs, 
 And the line whistles thro' the rings; 
 The boiling eddy see him try, 
 Tiicn dashing from the current high. 
 Till watchful eye and cautious hand 
 Have led his wasted strength to land. 
 
 'Tis l)lithe along the midnight tide. 
 With stalwart arin the l)oat to guide; 
 On high the dazzling l)laze to rear. 
 And heedful plunge the Ijarbed spear; 
 Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright, 
 Fling on the stream their ruddy light. 
 And from the bank our band appears 
 Like Genii, arm'd with fiery spears. 
 
 'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale, 
 How we succeed and how we fail. 
 Whether at Alwyn's t lordly meal. 
 Or lowlier board of Ashestiel; 
 While the gay tapers cheerly shine. 
 Bickers the fire, and flows the wine — 
 Days free from thought, and nights from 
 
 care. 
 My blessing on the Forest fair ! 
 
 * Written after the poet had been engaged In 
 a week's shooting and fishing with friends 
 t Alyivn, the seat of the Lord Somerville. 
 
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 
 
 50s 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.* 
 1822. 
 Enchantress, farewell, who so oft hast 
 decoy 'd me. 
 At the close of the evening thro' wood- 
 lands to roam, 
 Where the forester, lated, with wonder 
 espied me 
 Explore the wild scenes he was quitting 
 for home. 
 Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers 
 wild speaking 
 The language alternate of rapture and 
 woe: 
 Oh ! none but some lover whose heart- 
 strings are breaking. 
 The pang that I feel at our parting can 
 know. 
 
 Each joy thou couldst double, and when 
 there came sorrow, 
 Or pale disappointment, to darken my 
 way, 
 What voice was like thine, that could 
 sing of to-morrow, 
 Till forgot in the strain was the grief 
 of to-day ! 
 But when friends drop around us in life's 
 weary waning, 
 The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou 
 canst not assuage; 
 Nor the gradual estrangement of those 
 yet remaining. 
 The languor of pain, and the chillness 
 of age. 
 
 'Twas thou that once taught me, in 
 accents bewailing, 
 To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on 
 the plain, 
 And a maiden hung o'er him with aid un- 
 availing, 
 Andheldtohislipsthecoldgobletinvain. 
 As vain thy enchantments, O Queen of 
 wild Numbers, 
 To a bard when the reign of his fancy 
 is o'er, 
 And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy 
 slumbers — 
 Farewell, then, Enchantress ! I meet 
 thee no more ! 
 
 * Written during illness for Mr. George 
 Thomson's Scottish Collection. 
 
 THE MAID OF ISLA. 
 
 Air — The Maid of Isla. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S 
 
 SCOTTISH MELODIES. 
 
 1822. 
 
 Oh, Maid of Isla, from the cliff. 
 
 That looks on troubled wave and sky. 
 
 Dost thou not see yon little skiff 
 Contend with ocean gallantly? 
 
 Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge, 
 And steep'd her leeward deck in foam, 
 
 Why does she war unequal urge? — 
 Oh, Isla's maid, she seeks her home. 
 
 Oh, Isla's Maid, yon sea-bird mark, 
 
 Her white wing gleams thro' mist and 
 spray, 
 Against the storm-cloud, lowering dark. 
 
 As to the rock she wheels away; — 
 Where clouds are dark, and billows rave. 
 
 Why to the shelter should she come 
 Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave? — 
 
 Oh, Maid of Isla, 'tis her home ! 
 
 As breeze and tide to yonder skiff, 
 
 Thou'it adverse to the suit I bring. 
 And cold as is yon wintry cliff, 
 
 Where sea-birds close their wearied 
 wing. 
 Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave, 
 
 Still, Isla's Maid, to thee I come; 
 For in thy love, or in his grave. 
 
 Must Allan Vourich find his home. 
 
 CARLE, NOW THE KING'S 
 COME. + 
 
 BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD SPRING. 
 1822. 
 
 The news has flown frae mouth to mouth, 
 The North for ance has bang'd the South; 
 The deil a Scotsman's die o' drouth. 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 Thou shalt dance, and I will sing 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 t An imitation of an old Jacobite ditty, 
 written on the arrival of George IV. in Scot- 
 laud, August, 1822, and printed as a broadside. 
 
5o6 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Auld England held him laiig and fast; 
 And Ireland had a joyfu' cast; 
 But Scotland's turn is come at last — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 Auld Reekie, in her rokelay gray, 
 Thought never to have seen the day; 
 He's been a weary time away — - 
 
 But, Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 She's skirling frae the castle-hill; 
 The Carline's voice is grown sae shrill, 
 Ye'll hear her at the Canon-mill — 
 Carle, now the King's come! 
 
 "Up, bairns!" she cries, " baith grit 
 
 and sma', 
 And busk ye for the weapon-shaw ! 
 Stand by me, and we'll bang them a' — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Come from Newbattle's ancient spires, 
 Bauld Lothian, with your knights and 
 
 squires. 
 And match the metal of your sires — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " You're welcome hame, my Montagu ! * 
 Bring in your hand the young Huccleuch ; 
 I'm missing some that I may rue — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Come, Haddington, the kind and gay, 
 You've graced my causeway mony a 
 
 day; 
 I'll weep the cause if you should stay — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Come, premier Duke,t and carry doun 
 Frae yonder craig his ancient croun; 
 It's had a lang sleep an' a souii' — 
 
 But, Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Come, Athole, from the hill and wood, 
 Bring down your clansmen like a cloud; 
 Come, Morton, show the Douglas' 
 blood, — 
 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 • Lord Montagu, uncle and guardian to the 
 young Duke of Buccleuch, placed His Grace's 
 residence of Dalkeith at his Majesty's disposal 
 during his visit to Scotland. 
 
 t The Duke of Hamilton, Karl of Angus, the 
 premier duke of Scotland. He carried the an- 
 
 "Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to 
 
 sheath. 
 Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of 
 
 death ; 
 Come, Clerk, % and give your bugle 
 breath; 
 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Come, Wemyss, who modest merit 
 
 aids, 
 Come, Koseberry, from Dalmeny shades, 
 Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids. 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Come, stately Niddrie, auld and true, 
 Girt with the sword that Minden knew; 
 We have o'er few such lairds as you — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " King Arthur's grown a common crier: 
 He's heard in Fife and far Cantire, — 
 ' Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire ! ' 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 "Saint Abb roars out: 'I see him 
 
 pass, 
 Between Tantallon and the Bass ! ' 
 Calton, get out your keeking-glass — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! " 
 
 The Carline stopp'd; and, sure I am, 
 For very glee had fa'en a dwam, 
 But Oman § help'd her to a dram. — 
 Cogie, now the Kings come ! 
 
 Cogie, now the King's come ! 
 Cogie, now the King's come ! 
 I'se l)e fou and ye's be toom, || 
 Cogie, now the King's come ! 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 A Hawick gill of mountain dew, 
 Heised up Auld Reekie's heart, I trow, 
 
 cient royal crown of Scotland on horseback iv» 
 King George's procession from Holyrood to the 
 castle. " Yonder craig " is the castle. 
 
 X The liaron of Pennycuik, bound by his 
 tenure to meet the sovereign whenever he or 
 she visits Edinburgh at the Harestone (in which 
 the standard of James IV. was erected when his 
 army encamped on the Borough muir), and there 
 blow three blasts on a horn. 
 
 § The landlord of the Waterloo Hotel. 
 
 II Empty. 
 
CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME. 
 
 yyi 
 
 It minded her of Waterloo — 
 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 Again I heard her summons swell, 
 For, sic a dirdum and a yell, 
 It drown'd Saint Giles's jowing bell — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " My trusty Provost, tried and tight, 
 Stand forward for the Good Town's right. 
 There's waur than you been made 
 knight * — 
 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " My reverend Clergy, look ye say 
 The best of thanksgivings ye ha'e, 
 And warstle for a sunny day — 
 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " My Doctors, look that you agree. 
 Cure a' the town without a fee; 
 My Lawyers, dinna pike a plea, — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Come forth each sturdy Burgher's bnirn. 
 That dints on wood or clanks on airn. 
 That fires the o'en, or winds the pirn — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Come forward with the Blanket Blue,t 
 Your sires were loyal men and true. 
 As Scotland's foemen oft might rue — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Scots downa loup, and rin and rave, 
 We're steady folks and something grave, 
 We'll keep the causeway firm and brave, 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Sir Thomas, X thunder from your rock. 
 Till Pentland dinnles wi' the shock, 
 And lace wi' fire my snood o' smoke — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Melville, bring out your bands of blue, 
 A' Louden lads, baith stout and true, 
 
 * The Lord Provost had the agreeable siir- 
 
 Crise of hearing his health proposed, at the civic 
 anquet given to George iV. in the Parliament 
 House, as " Sir William Arbuthnot, I$art." 
 
 t A Blue Blanket is the standard of the in- 
 corporated trades of Edinburgh. 
 
 t Sir Thomas Bradford, then commander of 
 the forces in Scotland. 
 
 With Elcho, Hope, and Cockburn, too — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! § 
 
 " And you, who on yon bluidy braes 
 Gompell'd the vanquish 'd Despot's praise, 
 Rank out — rank out — my gallant 
 Greys II — 
 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Cock o' the North, my Huntly bra,' 
 Where are you with the Forty-twa? 
 Ah ! wae's my heart that ye're awa' — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " But yonder come my canty Celts, 
 With durk and pistols at their belts; 
 Thank God, we've still some plaids and 
 kilts — 
 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 "Lord, how the pibrochs groan and 
 
 yell! 
 Macdonnel's ta'en the field himsel', 
 Macleod comes branking o'er the fell — 
 Carle, how the King's come ! 
 
 '* Bend up your bow each Archer spark, 
 For you're to guard him light and 
 
 dark; 
 Faith, lads, for ance ye've hit the mark — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 "Young Errol, IT take the sword of state, 
 The sceptre, Panie-Morarchate; ** 
 Kriight Mareschal, see ye clear the gate — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 "Kind cummer,Leith, ye've been mis-set, 
 But dinna be upon the fret — 
 Ye'se hae the handsel of him yet. 
 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 § Lord Melville, Colonel of the Mid-Lothian 
 Yeomanry Cavalry ; Sir John Hope of Pinkie, 
 Bart., major; Robert Cockburn, Esq., and Lord 
 Elcho, captain in the same corjis in whicli Sir 
 Walter Scott had formerly been quarter-master. 
 
 II The Scots Greys, of whom General Sir 
 James Stewart of Coltness, Bart, was commander. 
 Napoleon said of them at Waterloo: Ces beaux 
 chevaux gris, cotnme ih travaillent ! 
 
 1i The Karl of Errol is herediury Lord High 
 Constable of Scotland. 
 
 ** In more correct Gaelic autography, Benam- 
 horar-chat, Female Lord of the Chatte, or Great 
 Lady of the Cat, the Keltic title of the Countess 
 of Sutherland, whose cognizance was a wild cat 
 
5o8 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 " My daughters, come with een sae 
 
 blue. 
 Your garlands weave, your blossoms 
 
 strew. 
 He ne'er saw fairer flowers than you — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " What shall we do for the propine — 
 We used to offer something fine, 
 But ne'er a groat's in pouch of mine — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " Deil care — for that I'se never start, 
 We'll welcome him with Highland heart; 
 Whate'er we have he's get a part — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " I'll show him mason-work this day — 
 Nane of your bricks of Babel clay. 
 But towers shall stand till Time's away — 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 " I'll show him wit, I'll show him lair. 
 And gallant lads and lasses fair. 
 And what wad kind heart wish for mair ? 
 Carle, now the King's come ! 
 
 -' Step out. Sir John,* of projects rife, 
 Come win the thanks of an auld wife. 
 And bring him health and length of 
 life — 
 
 Carle, now the King's come ! " 
 
 RHYMES OF ALSATIA. 
 1822. 
 
 THE CLAIMING OF PRIVILEGE. 
 Your suppliant, by name 
 
 Nigel Graham, 
 In fear of mishap 
 From a shoulder-tap. 
 And dreading a claw 
 From the talons of law, 
 
 That are sharper than briars, 
 His freedom to sue 
 And rescue by you, 
 
 * Sir John Sinclair, Bart., author of " Tlie 
 Code of Health and Longevity," and father of 
 the celebrated writer, Catherine Sinclair. 
 
 Thro' weapon and wit. 
 From warrant and writ. 
 From bailiff's hand. 
 From tip staff's wand 
 
 Is come hither to Whitefriars. 
 
 II. 
 THE OATH. 
 
 By spigot and barrel. 
 
 By bilboe and buff. 
 Thou art sworn to the quarrel 
 
 Of the blades of the huff. 
 For Whitefriars and its claims 
 
 To be champion or martyr. 
 And to fight for its Dames 
 
 Like a Knight of the Garter. 
 
 III. 
 THE PRIVILEGE OF SANCTUARY. 
 
 From the touch of the tip, 
 
 From the blight of the warrant. 
 From the watchmen who skip 
 
 On the harman-beck's errand ;t 
 From the Bailiff's cramp speech 
 
 That makes man a thrall, 
 I charm thee from each 
 
 And I charm thee from all 
 Thy freedom's complete 
 
 As a blade of the huff. 
 To be cheated and cheat. 
 
 To be cuff'd and to cuff; 
 To stride, swear, and swagger, 
 To drink till you stagger. 
 
 To stare and to stab. 
 And to brandish your dagger 
 
 In the cause of your drab; 
 To walk wool-ward in winter, 
 
 Drink brandy, and smok»^, 
 And go fresco in summer 
 
 For want of a cloak; 
 To eke out your living 
 
 By the wag of your elbow. 
 By falham and gourd 
 
 And by baring of bilboe; 
 To live by your shifts 
 
 And to swear by your honor 
 Are the freedom and gifts 
 
 Of which I am the donor. 
 The Fortunes of Nigel, chap. xvii. 
 
 t Constable. 
 
MOTTOES FROM ''THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL" 
 
 509 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM "THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL." 
 1822. 
 CHAP. I. 
 Now Scott and English are agreed. 
 And Saunders hastes to cross the Tweed, 
 Where, such t he splendors that attend him. 
 His very mother scarce had kenned him. 
 His metamorphosis behold. 
 From Glasgow frieze to cloth of gold, 
 His backsword with the iron hilt. 
 To rapier fairly hatched and gilt; 
 Was ever seen a gallant braver? 
 His very bonnet's grown a beaver. 
 
 The Reformation. 
 
 CHAP. H. 
 
 This, Sir, is one among the Seignory, 
 Has wealth at will, and will to use his 
 
 wealth. 
 And wit to increase it. Marry, his worst 
 
 folly 
 Lies in a thriftless sort of charity. 
 That goes a-gadding sometimes after 
 
 objects 
 Which wise men will not see when thrust 
 
 upon them. 
 
 The Old Couple. 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 Ay, sir, the clouted shoe hath ofttimes 
 craft in't, 
 
 As says the rustic proverb: and your 
 citizen, 
 
 In's grogram suit, gold chain, and well- 
 blacked shoes, 
 
 Bears under his flat cap ofttimes a brain 
 
 Wiser than burns l>eneath the cap and 
 feather, 
 
 Or seethes within the statesman's velvet 
 nightcap. 
 
 Read me my Riddle. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 Wherefore come ye not to court? 
 Certain 'tis the rarest sport; 
 There are silks and jewels glistening. 
 Prattling fools and wise men listening. 
 Bullies among brave men justling. 
 Beggars amongst nobles bustling; 
 I^w-breathed talkers, minion lispers, 
 Cutting honest throats by whispers; 
 
 Wherefore come ye not to court ? 
 Skelton swears 'tis glorious sport. 
 
 Skelton Skeltoniztth. 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 O, I do know him, 'tis the mouldy lemon 
 Which our court wits will wet their lips 
 
 withal. 
 When they would sauce their honied con- 
 versation 
 With somewhat sharper flavor. — Marry, 
 
 sir. 
 That virtue's well-nigh left him — all the 
 
 juice 
 That was so sharp and poignant, is 
 
 squeezed out; 
 While the poor rind, although as sour as 
 
 ever, 
 Must season soon the draff we give our 
 
 grunters, 
 For two-legged things are weary on't. 
 The Chamberlain, a Comedy. 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 Things needful we have thought on; but 
 
 the thing 
 Of all most needful — that which Scrip- 
 ture terms. 
 As if alone it merited regard. 
 The ONE thing needful — that's yet un- 
 considered. 
 
 The Chamberlain. 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 Ay! mark the matron well; and laugh 
 
 not, Harry, 
 At her old steeple-hat and velvet guard. 
 I've call'd her like the ear of Dionysius; 
 I mean that ear-form'd vault, buill on 
 
 his dungeon 
 To catch the groan and discontented 
 
 murmurs 
 Of his poor bondsmen. — Even so doth 
 
 Martha 
 Drink up, for her own purpose, all that 
 
 passes. 
 Or is supposed to pass, in this wide city — 
 She can retail it too, if that her profit 
 Shall call on her to do so; and retail it 
 For your advantage, so that you can 
 
 make 
 Your profit jump with hers. 
 
 The Conspiracy. 
 
5IO 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 . This is the very barnyard, 
 
 Where muster daily the prime cocks o' 
 
 the game, 
 Ruffle their pinions, crow till they are 
 
 hoarse, 
 And spar alx)ut a barleycorn. Here, too, 
 
 chickens. 
 The callow, unfledged brood of forward 
 
 folly. 
 Learn first to rear the crest, and aim the 
 
 spur. 
 And tune their note like full-plumed 
 
 Chanticleer. 
 
 The Bear Garden. 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 Let the proud salmon gorge the feathered 
 
 hook. 
 Then strike, and then you have him. — 
 
 He will wince; 
 Spin out your line that it shall whistle 
 
 from you 
 Some twenty yards or so, yet you shall 
 
 have him — 
 Marry! you must have patience. — The 
 
 stout rock 
 Which is his trust, hath edges something 
 
 sharp; 
 And the deep pool hath ooze and sludge 
 
 enough 
 To mar your fishing — 'less you are more 
 
 careful. 
 
 Albion, or the Double Kings. 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 Bingo, why, Bingo ! hey, boy, — here, 
 
 sir, here — 
 He's gone and off, but he'll be home 
 
 before us; — 
 'Tis the most wayward cur e'er mumbled 
 
 bone. 
 Or dogged a master's footsteps. — Bingo 
 
 loves me 
 Better than beggar ever loved his 
 
 alms; 
 Yet when he takes such humor, you may 
 
 coax 
 Sweet Mistress Fantasy, your worship's 
 
 mistress. 
 Out of her sullen moods, as soon as Bingo. 
 The Dominie and his Dog. 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 
 'Twas when fleet Snowball's head was 
 woxen gray, 
 
 A luckless leveret met him on his way, — 
 
 Who knows not Snowball — he whose 
 race renowned 
 
 Is still victorious on each coursing ground ? 
 
 Swaffham, Newmarket, and the Roman 
 camp 
 
 Have seen them victors o'er each meaner 
 stamp. — 
 
 In vain the youngling sought with doub- 
 ling wile 
 
 The hedge, the hill, the thicket, or the 
 stile. 
 
 Experience sage the lack of speed sup- 
 plied, 
 
 •\nd in the gap he sought, the victim died, 
 
 •So was I once, in thy fair street. Saint 
 James, 
 
 Through walking cavaliers, and car-borne 
 dames, 
 
 Descried, pursued, turned o'er again and 
 o'er, 
 
 Coursed, coted, mouthed by an unfeeling 
 bore. 
 
 Etc., etc., etc. 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 Give way — give way — I must and will 
 
 have justice ! 
 And tell me not of privilege and place; 
 Where I am injured, there I'll sue redress. 
 Look to it, every one who bars my access; 
 I have a heart to feel the injury, 
 A hand to right myself, and, by my honor. 
 That hand shall grasp what gray-beard 
 
 Law denies me. 
 
 The Chamberlain. 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 Come hither, young one — Mark me I 
 Thou art now 
 
 'Mongst men o' the sword, that live by 
 reputation 
 
 More than by constant income. — Single- 
 suited 
 
 They are, I grant you; yet each single 
 suit 
 
 Maintains, on the rough guess, a thousand 
 followers — 
 
 And they be men, who, hazarding their all, 
 
MOTTOES FROM '^TIIE FORTUNES OF NIGEL.' 
 
 S'l 
 
 Needful apparel, necessary income, 
 And human body, and immortal soul, 
 Do in the very deed but hazard nothing — 
 So strictly is that all bound in reversion; 
 Clothes to the broker, income to the 
 
 ursurer, — 
 And body to disease, and soul to the foul 
 
 fiend; 
 Who laughs to see soldadoes and foola- 
 
 does. 
 Play better than himself his game on earth. 
 7 'he Mohocks. 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 By this good light, a wench of matchless 
 mettle ! 
 
 This were a leaguer-lass to love a soldier, 
 
 To bind his wounds, and kiss his bloody 
 brow, 
 
 And sing a roundel as she help'd to arm 
 him, 
 
 Though the rough foeman's drums were 
 beat so nigh. 
 
 They seem'd to bear the burden. 
 
 Old Play. 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 Credit me, friend, it hath been ever thus, 
 
 Since the ark rested on Mt. Ararat, — 
 
 False men hath sworn, and woman hath 
 believed. 
 
 Repented, and reproach'd, and then be- 
 lieved once more. 
 
 The New World. 
 
 CHAP. XXI. 
 Rove not from pole to pole; the man 
 
 lives here 
 Whose razor's edge's only equal'd by his 
 
 beer; 
 And where in either sense the Cockney- 
 put 
 May, if he pleases, get confounded cut. 
 On the Sign of an Ale-House 
 kept by a Barber. 
 
 CHAP. XXII. 
 Chance will not do the work. — Chance 
 
 sends the breeze; 
 But if the pilot slumlx;r at the helm, 
 The very wind that wafts us towards the 
 
 port 
 
 May dash us on the shelves. — The steers- 
 man's part is vigilance. 
 Blow it or rough or smooth. 
 
 Old Play. 
 CHAP. XXIII. 
 SwASH-BUCKLEK. Bilboe's the word. 
 Pierrot. It hath been spoke too 
 often, 
 The spell hath lost its charm; — I tell 
 
 thee, friend, 
 The meanest cur that walks the streets 
 
 will turn ' 
 
 And snarl against your proffer'd basti- 
 nado. 
 Swash-buckler. Tis art shall do it, 
 then. I will dose the mongrels. 
 Or in plain terms, I'll use the private 
 
 knife 
 'Stead of the brandish'd falchion. 
 
 Old Play. 
 CHAP. XXIV. 
 This is the time — heaven's maiden-sen- 
 tinel 
 Hath quitted her high watch — the lesser 
 
 spangles 
 Are paling one by one; give me the 
 
 ladder 
 And the short lever ; — bid Anthony 
 Keep with his carabine the wicket-gate; 
 And do thou bare thy knife and follow me, 
 For we will in and do it. Darkness like 
 
 this 
 Is dawning of our fortunes. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXV. 
 
 Death finds us mid our playthings — 
 
 snatches us, 
 As a cross nurse nriight do a wayward 
 
 child, 
 From all our toys and baubles. His 
 
 rough call 
 Unlooses all our favorite ties on earth; 
 And well if they are such as may be an- 
 
 swer'd 
 In yonder world, where all is judged of 
 
 truly. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXVI. 
 Give us good voyage, gentle stream — 
 
 we stun not 
 Thy sober ear with sounds of revelry; 
 
512 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Wake not the slumbering echoes of thy 
 
 banks 
 With voice of flute and horn; — we do 
 
 not seek 
 On the broad pathway of thy swelling 
 
 bosom 
 To glide in silent safety. 
 
 The Double Bridal, 
 
 CHAP. XXVII. 
 
 This way lie safety and a sure retreat, 
 
 Yonder lie danger, shame, and punish- 
 ment. 
 
 Most welcome danger, then. Nay, let 
 me say, 
 
 Tho' spoke with swelling heart, — wel- 
 come e'en shame, 
 
 And welcome punishment; for, call me 
 guilty, 
 
 I do but pay the tax that's due to justice; 
 
 And call me guiltless, then that punish- 
 ment 
 
 Is shame to those alone who do inflict it. 
 The Tribunal. 
 
 CHAP. XXIX. 
 How fares the man on whom good men 
 
 would look 
 With eyes where scorn and censure com- 
 bated, 
 But that kind Christian love hath taught 
 
 the lesson — 
 That they who merit most contempt and 
 
 hate, 
 Do most deserve our pity. 
 
 Old Play. 
 CHAP. XXXI. 
 Marry, come up, sir, with your gentle 
 
 blood ! 
 Here's a red stream beneath his coarse 
 
 blue doublet, 
 That warms the heart as kindly as if 
 
 drawn 
 From the far source of old Assyrian kings, 
 Who first made mankind subject to their 
 
 sway. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXV. 
 
 We are not worse at once — the course 
 
 of evil 
 Begins so slowly, and from such slight 
 
 source. 
 
 An infant's hand might stem its breacli 
 with clay; 
 
 But let the stream get deeper, and phi- 
 losophy — 
 
 Ay, and religion too — shall strive in vain 
 
 To turn the headlong torrent. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 THE BANNATYNE CLUB.* 
 
 1823. 
 
 I. 
 
 Assist me, ye friends of Old Books and 
 
 Old Wine, 
 To sing in the praises of sage Bannatyne, 
 Who left such a treasure of old Scottish lore 
 As enables each age to print one volume 
 more. 
 One volume more, my friends, one vol- 
 ume more. 
 We'll ransack old Banny for one vol- 
 ume more. 
 
 II. 
 And first, Allan Ramsay was eager toglean 
 From Bannatyne's Horlus his bright 
 
 Evergreen; 
 Two light littlevolumes(intendedforfour) 
 Still leave us the task to print one volume' 
 more. 
 
 One volume more, etc. 
 
 His ways were not ours, for he cared not 
 
 a pin 
 How much he left out, or how much he 
 
 put in; 
 The truth of the reading he thought was 
 
 a bore. 
 So this accurate age calls for one volume 
 
 more. 
 
 One volume more, etc. 
 
 Correct and sagacious, then came my 
 
 Lord Hailes, 
 And weigh'd every letter in critical scales, 
 
 * This Club was founded in 1822 for the pub- 
 lication or reprint of rare and curious works con- 
 nected with the history and antiquities of Scotland. 
 Sir Walter Scott was its first president, and wrote 
 these verses for the anniversary dinner of March, 
 1823. 
 
MOTTOES FROM '' PEVERIL OF THE PEAK:' 
 
 513 
 
 But left out some brief words, which the 
 
 prudish alihor, 
 And castrated Banny in one volume more. 
 One volume more, my friends, one 
 
 volume more. 
 We'll restore Banny's manhood in one 
 volume more. 
 
 V. 
 John Pinkerton next, and I'm truly con- 
 cern' d 
 I can't call that worthy so candid as 
 
 learnM; 
 He rail^l at the plaid and blasphemed the 
 
 Claymore, 
 And set Scots by the ears in his one vol- 
 ume more. 
 One volume more, my friends, one 
 
 volume more, 
 Kelt and Cloth shall be pleased with 
 one volume more. 
 
 As bitter as gall, and as sharp as a razor. 
 And feeding on herbs as a Nebuchad- 
 nezzar ; 
 His diet too acid, his temper too sour. 
 Little Ritson came out with his two vol- 
 umes more. 
 But one volume more, my friends, one 
 
 volume more. 
 We'll dine on roast beef and print one 
 volume more. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The stout Gothic yeditur next on the roll. 
 With his beard like a brush and as black 
 
 as a coal, 
 And honest Graysteel that was true to 
 
 the core,* 
 Lent their hearts, and their hands each 
 
 to one volume more. 
 
 One volume more, etc. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Since by these single champions what 
 
 wonders were done, 
 What may not be achieved by our Thirty 
 
 and One; 
 
 * "The stout Gothic yeditur" was James 
 Sibbold ; the nickname was bestowed upon him 
 by Lord Eldin, then Mr. John Clerk. David 
 Herd, editor of " Songs and Historical Ballads, 
 was called Graysteel from having been long in 
 unsuccessful quest of the romance of that name. 
 
 Law, Gospel, and Commerce we count 
 
 in our corps, 
 And the Trade and the Press join for one 
 
 volume more. 
 
 One volume more, etc. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ancient liliels and contraband books I 
 
 assure ye. 
 We'll print as secure from Exchequer or 
 
 Jury; 
 Then hear your Committee and let them 
 
 count o'er 
 The Chiels they intend in their three 
 
 volumes more. 
 
 Three volumes more, etc. 
 
 They'll produce you King Jamie the 
 
 sapient and Sext, 
 And the Rob of Dumblane and her Bishops 
 
 come next; 
 One tome miscellaneous they'll add to 
 
 your store, 
 Resolving next year to print four volumes 
 
 more. 
 Four volumes more, my friends, four 
 
 volumes more; 
 Pay down your subscriptions for four 
 
 volumes more. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM " PEVERIL OF THE PEAK." 
 
 1823. 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 Why, then, we will have liellowing of 
 
 beeves. 
 Broaching of barrels, brandishing of 
 
 spigots; 
 Blood shall flow freely, but it shall be gore 
 Of herds and flocks, and venison and 
 
 poultry, 
 Join'd to the brave heart's-blood of John- 
 
 a-Barley-corn ! 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. HI. 
 Here's neither want of appetite nor 
 
 mouths; 
 Pray Heaven we be not scant of meat or 
 mirth ! 
 
 Old Play. 
 
514 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 No, sir, — I will not pledge ; — I'm one 
 
 of those 
 Who think good wine needs neither bush 
 
 nor preface 
 To make it welcome. If you doubt my 
 
 word, 
 Fill the quart-cup, and see if I will choke 
 
 on't. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. VK 
 
 You shall have no worse prison than my 
 
 chamber, 
 Nor jailer than myself. 
 
 The Captain. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 Bkssus. 'Tis a challenge, Sir, is it not ? 
 Gentleman. 'Tis an inviting to the 
 field. 
 
 King and No King. 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 ASCASTO. Can she not speak? 
 Oswald. If speech be only in accented 
 
 sounds. 
 Framed by the tongue and lips, the 
 
 maiden's dumb; 
 But if by quick and apprehensive look, 
 By motion, sign, and glance, to give 
 
 each meaning, 
 Express as clothed in language, be term'd 
 
 speech. 
 She hath that wondrous faculty; for her 
 
 eyes, 
 Like the bright stars of heaven, can 
 
 hold discourse. 
 Though it be mute and soundless. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 This is a love meeting? See, the maiden 
 
 mourns. 
 And the sad suitor bends his looks on 
 
 earth. 
 There's more hath pass'd between them 
 
 than belongs 
 To Love's sweet sorrows. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 Now, hoist the anchor, mates, and let 
 the sails 
 
 Give their broad bosom to the buxom 
 
 wind, 
 Like lass that wooes a lover. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XXII. 
 He was a fellow in a peasant's garb; 
 Yet one could censure you a woodcock's 
 
 carving 
 Like any courtier at the ordinary. 
 
 The Ordinary. 
 CHAP. XXIII. 
 The Gordon theri his bugle blew,* 
 
 And said : — " Awa, awa ! 
 The Mouse of Rhodes is all on flame, 
 I hauld it time to ga' ! " 
 
 Old Ballad. 
 
 CHAP. XXIV. 
 
 \Vc meet, as men see phantoms in a dream, 
 Which glide and sigh, and sign, and move 
 
 their lips. 
 But make no sound; or, if they utter voice, 
 'Tis but a low and undistinguished moan- 
 
 inR. 
 Which has nor word nor sense of uttered 
 sound. 
 
 The Chieftain. 
 
 CHAP. XXV. 
 
 The course of human life is changeful still. 
 As is the fickle wind and wandering rill; 
 Or, like the light dance which the wild 
 
 breeze weaves 
 Amidst the faded race of fallen leaves; 
 Which now its breath bears down, now 
 
 tosses high. 
 Beats to the earth, or wafts to middle sky. 
 Such, and so varied, the precarious play 
 Of fate with man, frail tenant of a day. 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XXVI. 
 
 Necessity — thou best of peacemakers. 
 As well as surest prompter of invention — 
 Help us to composition ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XXVII. 
 
 This is some creature of the elements 
 
 Most like your sea-gull. He can wheel 
 
 and whistle 
 His screaming song, e'en when the storm 
 
 is loudest. 
 
COUNTY GUY. 
 
 515 
 
 Take for his sheeted couch the restless 
 
 foam 
 Of the wild wave-crest, slumber in the 
 
 calm, 
 And dally with the storm. Yet 'tis a gull, 
 An arrant gull, with all this. 
 
 The Chieftain. 
 
 CHAP. XXXI. 
 
 I fear the devil worst when gown and 
 
 cassock, 
 Or, in the lack of them, old Calvin's cloak. 
 Conceals his cloven hoof. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP, xxxni. 
 'Tis the black ban-dog of our jail. Pray 
 
 look on him. 
 Hut at a wary distance; rouse him not; 
 Me bays not till he worries. 
 
 The Black Dog of Nev.igate. 
 
 CHAP, xxxvni. 
 "Speak not of nicencss when there's 
 
 chance of wreck," 
 The captain said, as ladies writhed their 
 
 neck 
 To see the dying dolphin flap the deck; 
 " If we go down, on us these gentry sup; 
 We dine upon them, if we haul them up. 
 Wise men applaud us when we eat the 
 
 eaters, 
 As the devil laughs when the keen folks 
 
 cheat the cheaters." 
 
 The Sea Voyage. 
 
 CHAP. XLIV. 
 
 And some for safety took the dreadful 
 
 leap; 
 Some for the voice of Heaven seemed 
 
 calling on them; 
 Some for advancement, or for lucre's 
 
 sake — 
 I leaped in frolic. The Dream. 
 
 CHAP. XLV. 
 
 High feasting was there there — the gilded 
 
 roofs 
 Rung to the wassail-health — the dancer's 
 
 step 
 Sprung to the chord responsive — the gay 
 
 gamester 
 To fate's disposal flung his heap of gold, 
 
 And laughed alike when it increased or 
 
 lessened; 
 Such virtue hath court-air to teach us 
 
 patience 
 Which schoolmen preach in vain. 
 
 Why come ye not to Court? 
 
 COUNTY GUY. 
 1823. 
 Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 
 
 The sun has left the lea, 
 The orange flower perfumes the bower. 
 
 The breeze is on the sea. 
 The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, 
 
 Sits hush'd his partner nigh; 
 Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hout, 
 
 But where is County Guy? 
 
 The village maid steals thro' the shade, 
 
 Her shepherd's suit to hear; 
 To beauty shy, by lattice high, 
 
 Sings high-born Cavalier. 
 The star of Love, all stars above. 
 
 Now reigns o'er earth and sky; 
 And high and low the influence know — 
 
 But where is County Guy? 
 
 Quentin Durward, chap, iv 
 
 PARAPHRASE FROM "ORLANDO 
 
 FURIOSO." 
 
 1823. 
 
 SoMK better bard shall sing in feudal state 
 
 How Braquemonl's Castle oped its Gothic 
 
 gate. 
 When on the wandering Scot its lovely 
 
 heir 
 Bestow'd her beauty and an earldom fair. 
 
 Quentin Dunoard, chap, xxxvii. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM "QUENTIN DURWARD." 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 Full in the midst a mighty pile arose. 
 Where iron-grated gates their strength 
 oppose 
 
5i6 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 To each invading step, and strongand steep 
 
 The battled walls arose, the fosse sunk 
 deep. 
 
 Slow round the fortress rolled the slug- 
 gish stream, 
 
 And high in middle air the warder's tur- 
 rets gleam. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 yustice of Peace. Here, hand me down 
 
 the statute — read the articles — 
 Swear, kiss the lx>ok — subscribe, and be 
 
 a hero; 
 
 Drawing a portion from the public stock 
 
 For deeds of valor to be done hereafter — 
 
 Sixpence per day, subsistence and arrears. 
 
 The Recruiting Officer. 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 
 Painters show Cupid blind ^ Hath Hy- 
 men eyes? 
 
 Or is his sight warped by those spectacles 
 
 Which parents, guardians, and advisers 
 lend him. 
 
 That he may look through them on lands 
 and mansions. 
 
 On jewels, gold, and all such rich dota- 
 tions, 
 
 And see their value ten times magnified ? — 
 
 Methinks 'twill brook a question. 
 The Miseries of Enforced Marriage. 
 
 CHAP. XII 
 This is a lecturer so skill'd in policy, 
 That (no disparagement to Satan's cun- 
 ning) 
 He well might read a lesson to the devil. 
 And teach the old seducer new tempta- 
 tions. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 I see thee yet, fair France — thou favor'd 
 land 
 
 Of art and nature — thou art still beforeme: 
 
 Thy sons, to whom their labor is a sport. 
 
 So well thy grateful soil returns its tribute ; 
 
 Thy sun-burnt daughters, with their laugh- 
 ing eyes 
 
 And glossy raven-locks. But, favor'd 
 France, 
 
 Thou hast had many a tale of woe to tell. 
 
 In ancient times as now. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 He was a son of Egypt, as he told me, 
 And one descended from those dread 
 
 magicians, 
 Who waged rash war, when Israel dwelt 
 
 in Goshen, 
 With Israel and her Prophet — matching 
 
 rod 
 With his the sons of Levi's — and en- 
 countering 
 Jehovah's miracles with incantations. 
 Till upon Egypt came the avenging Angel- 
 And those proud sages wept for their 
 
 first-born. 
 As wept the unlettered peasant. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 I am as free as Nature first made man. 
 Ere the base laws of servitude began. 
 When wild in woods the noble savage 
 ran. 
 
 The Conquest of Granada.* 
 
 CHAP. XXIV. 
 
 Rescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your 
 captive ; 
 
 Deal with me what your nobleness sug- 
 gests — 
 
 Thinking the chance of war may one day 
 place you 
 
 Where I must now be reckon 'd — i' the roll 
 
 Of melancholy prisoners. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XXV. 
 No human quality is so well wove 
 In warp and woof, but there's some flaw 
 
 in it; 
 I've known a brave man fly a shepherd's 
 
 cur, 
 A wise man so demean him, drivelling 
 
 idiocy 
 Had well-nigh been ashamed on't. For 
 
 your crafty, 
 Your worldly-wise man,he,above the rest, 
 Weaves his own snares so fine, he's often 
 
 caught in them. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 * It will be remembered that when Scott was 
 about fifteen he wrote a poem in four books, en- 
 titled, " The Conquest of Granada," but immedi- 
 ately burned it. The lines may be a reminis- 
 cence of the lost poem. 
 
MOTTOES FROM "ST. ROMAN'S WELL." 
 
 517 
 
 CHAP. XXVI. 
 
 When Princes meet, astrologers may 
 
 mark it 
 An ominous conjunction, full of boding. 
 Like that of Mars with Saturn. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXIX. 
 Thy time is not yet out — the devil thou 
 
 servest 
 Has not as yet deserted thee. He aids 
 The friends who drudge for him, as the 
 
 blind man 
 Was aided by the guide, who lent his 
 
 shoulder 
 O'er rough and smooth, until he reach'd 
 
 the brink 
 Of the fell precipice — then hurl'd him 
 
 downward. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXX. 
 
 Our counsels waver like the unsteady bark. 
 That reels amid the strife of meeting cur- 
 rents. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXI. 
 
 Hold fast thy truth, young soldier. — 
 Gentle maiden, 
 
 Keep you your promise plight — leave 
 age its subtleties, 
 
 And gray-hair'd policy its maze of false- 
 hood; 
 
 But be you candid as the morning sky, 
 
 Ere the high sun sucks vapors up to stain 
 it. 
 
 The Trial. 
 
 MOITOES. 
 
 FROM " ST. RONAN'S WELL." 
 
 1823. 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 There must be government in all society : 
 
 Bees have their Queen, and stag-herds 
 have their leader; 
 
 Rome had her consuls, Athens had her 
 archons, 
 
 And we, sir, have our Managing Com- 
 mittee. 
 
 The Album of St. Ronan's. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 We meet as shadows in the land of dreams 
 Which speak not but in signs. 
 
 Anonymotts. 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 Come, let me have thy counsel, for I 
 
 need it; 
 Thou art of those, who better help their 
 
 friends 
 With sage advice, than usurers with gold. 
 Or brawlers with their swords — I'll trust 
 
 to thee. 
 For I ask only from thee words, not deeds. 
 The Devil halh met his Match. 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 
 Nearest of blood should still be next in 
 love ; 
 
 And when I see these happy children 
 playing. 
 
 While William gathers flowers for Ellen's 
 ringlets. 
 
 And Ellen dresses flies for William's angle, 
 
 I scarce can think, that in advancing life. 
 
 Coldness, unkindness, interest, or sus- 
 picion, 
 
 Will e'er divide that unity so sacred, 
 
 Which Nature bound at birth. 
 
 Anonymotu. 
 
 CHAP. XXIII. 
 
 Oh ! you would be a vestal maid, I war- 
 rant. 
 The bride of Heaven —Come — we may 
 
 shake your purpose: 
 For here I bring in hand a jolly suitor 
 Hath ta'en degrees :n the seven sciences 
 The ladies love best — He is young and 
 
 noble. 
 Handsome and valiant, gay and rich, and 
 
 liberal. 
 
 The Nun. 
 
 CHAP. XXXII. 
 
 It comes — it wrings me in my parting 
 
 hour. 
 The long-hid crime— the well-disguised 
 
 guilt. 
 Bring me some lioly priest to lay tbe 
 
 '^'■''^' Old Play. 
 
5«8 
 
 MISCELLAXEOCS POEMS. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIII. 
 
 On the lee-bcam lies the land, boys, 
 See all clear to reef each course; 
 
 Let the fore-sheet go, don't mind, boys, 
 Though the weatlier should be worse. 
 The Storm. 
 
 CHAP. XXXVIII. 
 
 What sheeted ghost is wandering through 
 
 the storm? 
 For never did a maid of middle earth 
 Choose such a time or spot to vent her 
 
 sorrows. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIX. 
 
 Here come we to our close — for that 
 which follows 
 
 Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery. 
 
 Steep crags and headlong linns may court 
 the pencil 
 
 Like sudden haps, dark plots, and strange 
 adventures; 
 
 But who would paint the dull and fog- 
 wrapt moor, 
 
 In its long tract of sterile desolation? 
 Old Play. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 TO THE DRAMA FOUNDED ON " ST. RONAN'S 
 WELL." 
 
 1824. 
 
 " After the play, the following humorous 
 address (ascribed to an eminent literary char- 
 acter) was spoken with infinite effect by Mr. 
 Mackay in the character of Meg DotJS." — 
 Edittburgh Weekly J attrtud, ythjunc, 1S24. 
 
 Enter Meg Dods, encircled l>y a crcnod 
 of unruly hoys, -whom a Torwti's Offi- 
 cer is driving off. 
 
 That's right, friend — drive the gaitlings 
 
 back, 
 And lend yon muckle ane a whack ; 
 Your Embro' bairns are grown a pack 
 
 Sae proud and saucy, 
 They scarce will let an auld wife walk 
 
 Upon your causey. 
 
 I've seen the day they would been scaur'd 
 Wi' the Tolbooth, or wi' the Guard, 
 Or maybe wud hae some regard 
 
 For Jamie Laing * — 
 
 * James I^ing, head of the Edinburgh PoHce 
 at that time, and a constant terror to evil-doers. 
 
 The Water-hole t was right well wared 
 On sic a gang. 
 
 But whar's the gude Tolbooth t gane now ? 
 Whar's theauld Claught,§wi'redandblue? 
 Whar's Jamie Laing? and whar's John 
 Doo?ll 
 
 And whar's the Weigh-house ? 
 Deil hae't I see but what is new. 
 
 Except ihe Playhouse. 
 
 Yoursells are changed frae head to heel; 
 There's some that gar the causeway reel 
 With clashing hufe and rattling wheel. 
 
 And horses cantcrin', 
 Wha's fathers daunder'd hanie as weel 
 
 Wi' lass and lantern. 
 
 Mysell l>eing in the public line, 
 
 I look for howfs I kcnn'd lang syne, 
 
 Whar gentles used to drink gude wine. 
 
 And eat cheap dinners; 
 But deil a soul gangs there to dine. 
 
 Of saunts or sinners ! 
 
 Fortune's IT and Hunter's gane, alas! 
 And Bayle's is lost in empty space; 
 And now, if folk would splice a brace, 
 
 Or crack a bottle, 
 They gang to a new-fangled place 
 
 They ca' a Hottle. 
 
 The deevil hottle them for Meg. 
 They are sae greedy and sae gleg. 
 That if ye're served but wi' an egg, 
 
 (And that's puir pickin',) 
 In comes a chiel, and makes a leg, 
 
 And charges chicken ! 
 
 "And wha may ye be," gin ye speer, 
 "That brings your auld-warld clavers 
 
 here ! ' ' 
 Troth, if there's onylx)dy near 
 
 That kens the roads, 
 I'll haud ye Burgundy to beer, 
 
 He kens Meg Dods. 
 
 t Watcli-hole. 
 
 X The Tolbooth was the great Edinburgh Jail, 
 pulled down in 1817. 
 
 § The Claught was the old Town Guard. 
 
 II John Doo, or Dbu, one of the Guard or 
 Police. 
 
 T Fortune's, Hunter's, and Bayls's were li.\ 
 eras. 
 
COIVLEV'S CATCH AMPLIFIED. 
 
 519 
 
 I came a piece frac west o' Currie; 
 And, since I see you're in a hurry, 
 Your patience I'll nae langer worry. 
 
 But be sae crouse 
 As speak a word for ane Will Murray, 
 
 That keeps this house.* 
 
 Plays are auld-fashion'd things in truth. 
 And ye've seen wonders mair uncouth; 
 Yet actors shouldna suffer drouth. 
 
 Or want of dramock. 
 Although they speak but wi' their mouth. 
 
 Not with their staniock. 
 
 But ye take care of a' folk's pantry; 
 And surely to hae stooden sentry 
 Ower this big house (that's far frae rent 
 free). 
 
 For a lone sister. 
 Is claim as gude's to be a ventri t — 
 How'st ca'd — loquister. 
 
 Wee], sirs, gude-e'en, and have a care 
 The bairns make fun o' Meg nae 
 
 mair; 
 For gin they do, she tells you fair. 
 
 And without failzie. 
 As sure as ever ye sit there. 
 
 She'll tell the Bailie. 
 
 COWLEY'S CATCH AMPLIFIED. 
 
 1824. 
 For all our men were very very merry. 
 
 And all our men were drinking; 
 There were two men of mine. 
 Three men of thine. 
 And three that belong'd to old Sir Thorn 
 o' Lyne; — 
 
 As they went to the ferry 
 They were very very merry, 
 
 And all our men were drinking. 
 
 Jack look'd at the sun and cried " Fire ! 
 
 fire ! fire ! " 
 Tom startled his Keffel in Birkendale 
 
 mire; 
 
 • The Edinburgh Theatre. 
 \ An allusion to the recent performances of 
 Alexandre, the ventriloquist. 
 
 Jem started a calf andhalloo'd for a stag; 
 Will mounted a gate-port instead of his 
 nag; — 
 
 For all of our men were very very merry, 
 And all our men were drinking; 
 
 There were three men of mine. 
 Three men of thine. 
 And three that belong'd to old Sir Thorn 
 o' Lyne; — 
 
 As they went to the ferry 
 They were very very merry. 
 For all our men were drinking. 
 
 Red Gauntlet, Letter x. 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 1824. 
 As lords their laborers' hire delay. 
 
 Fate quits our toil with hopes to come. 
 Which, if far short of present pay, 
 .Still owns a debt and names a sum. 
 
 Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, then. 
 Although a distant date be given; 
 
 Despair is treason towards man. 
 And blasphemy to Heaven. 
 
 Redgauntlet, chap. ix. 
 
 TO J. G. LOCKHART, ESQ. 
 
 ON THE COMPOSITION OF MAIDA'S 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 1824. 
 
 " Maidx Marmorea dorniis sub imagine Maida ! 
 Ad i.viuam domini sit tibi terra levis. 
 
 See Li/e of Scott. 
 
 " Dear John, — I some time ago wrote 
 to inform his 
 
 Fat Worship o\ jafes, misprinted for dor- 
 mis ; 
 
 But that several Southrons assured me 
 
 Was a twitch to Iwth ears of Ass Pris- 
 
 cian's cranium. 
 You, perhaps, m.iy oliserve that one 
 
 Lionel Bcrguer, 
 In defence of our blunder appears a 
 
 stout arguer; 
 
520 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But at length I have settled, I hope, all 
 
 these clatters. 
 By a rowt in the papers — fine place for 
 
 such matters. 
 I have, therefore, to make it for once 
 
 my command, sir, 
 That my [judeson shall leave the whole 
 
 thing in my hand, sir. 
 And by no means accomplish what James 
 
 says you threaten, 
 Some banter in Blackwood to claim your 
 
 dog- Latin. 
 I have various reasons of weight, on my 
 
 word, sir. 
 For pronouncing a step of this sort were 
 
 absurd, sir.^ — - 
 Firstly, erudite sir, 'twas against your 
 
 advising 
 I adopted the lines this monstrosity lies in; 
 For you modestly hinted my English 
 
 translation 
 Would become better far such a digni- 
 fied station. 
 Second — how, in God's name, would my 
 
 bacon be saved. 
 By not having writ what I clearly en- 
 graved ? 
 On the contrary, I, on the whole, think 
 
 it better 
 To be whipped as the thief, than his 
 
 lousy resetter. 
 Thirdly — don't you perceive that I 
 
 don't care a boodle, 
 Although fifty false metres were flung at 
 
 my noodle. 
 For my back is as broad and as hard as 
 
 Benlomon's, 
 And I treat as I please both the Greeks 
 
 and the Romans; 
 Whereas the said heathens might rather 
 
 look serious 
 At a kick on their drum from the scribe 
 
 of Vakrius. 
 And, fourthly and lastly — it is my good 
 
 pleasure 
 To 1 ;main the sole source of that mur- 
 derous measure. 
 So sM pro rafiflue 7/oluntas — be tractile. 
 Invade not, I say, my own dear little dactyl, 
 If you do, you'll occasion a breach in 
 
 our intercourse. 
 To-morrow will see me in town for the 
 
 winter-course, 
 
 But not at your door, at the usual hour, sir, 
 My own pye-house daughter's good prog 
 
 to devour, sir. 
 Ergo — peace ! — on your duty, your 
 
 squeamishness throttle. 
 And we'll soothe Priscian's spleen with 
 
 a canny third bottle. 
 A fig for all dactyls, a fig for all spondees, 
 A fig for all dunces and dominie Grundys; 
 A fig for dry thrapples, south, north, 
 
 east, and west, sir, 
 Speates and raxes* ere five for a famish- 
 ing guest, sir; 
 And as Fatsman t and I have some topics 
 
 for haver, he'll 
 Be invited, I hope, to meet me and 
 
 Dame Peveril, 
 Upon whom, to say nothing of Oury and 
 
 Anne, you a 
 Dog shall be deemed if you fasten your 
 
 yatina. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO 
 
 MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE, t 
 
 THE CELEBRATED VENTRILOQUIST. 
 1824. 
 
 Of yore, in old England, it was not 
 
 thought good 
 To carry two visages under one hood; 
 What should folk say Xo you '^ who have 
 
 faces such plenty. 
 That from under one hood you last night 
 
 show'd us twenty ! 
 Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in 
 
 truth. 
 Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in 
 
 youth ! 
 
 * See Scott's Essays. 
 
 t A nickname for James Ballantynt. 
 
 X " When Monsieur Alexandre, the cele- 
 brated ventriloquist, was in Scotland, in 1824, 
 he paid a visit to Abbotsford, where he enter- 
 tained his distinguished host and the other 
 visitors with his unrivalled imitations. Next 
 moniing, when he was about to depart, Sir 
 Walter felt a good deal embarrassed as to the 
 sort of acknowledgment he should offer; but at 
 length, resolving that it would probably be most 
 agreeable to the young foreigner to be p.iid in 
 professional coin, if in any, he stepped aside for 
 a few minutes, and, on returning, presented him 
 wuh this epigram." The lines were published 
 in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1824. 
 
LIFE OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 521 
 
 Man, woman, or child — a dog or a mouse ? 
 Or are you at once, each live thing in 
 
 the house? 
 Each live thing did I ask ? — each dead 
 
 implement, too, 
 A workshop in your person, — saw, 
 
 . chisel, and screw ! 
 Above all, are you one individual? I 
 
 know 
 You must be at least Alexandre and Co. 
 But I think you're a troop — an assem- 
 blage — a mob. 
 And that I, as the Sheriff, should take 
 
 up the job; 
 And instead of rehearsing your wonders 
 
 in verse, 
 Must read you the Riot Act, and bid you 
 
 disperse. 
 
 LIFE OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 June, 1825. 
 
 " The rapid accumulation of books and MSS. 
 for the life of Napoleon was at once flattering 
 and alarming; and one of his notes to me, about 
 the middle of June, had these rhymes by way of 
 postscript : — " 
 
 When with Poetry dealing 
 Room enough in a shieling; 
 Neither cabin nor hovel 
 Too small for a novel : 
 Tho' my back I should rub 
 On Diogenes' tub, 
 How my fancy could prance 
 In a dance of romance ! 
 But my house I must swap 
 With some Brobdignag chap. 
 Ere I grappe, God bless me ! with Em- 
 peror Nap. 
 
 Lockhart's Life of Scott. 
 
 SOLDIER, WAKE. 
 1825. 
 
 Soldier, wake — the day is peeping, 
 Honor ne'er was won in sleeping, 
 Never when the sunbeams still 
 Lay unreflected on the hill : 
 'Tis when they are glinted back 
 From ax and armor, spear and jack, 
 
 That they promise future story 
 Many a page of deathless glory. 
 Shields that are the foeman's terror. 
 Ever are the morning's mirror. 
 
 Arm and up — the morning beam 
 Hath call'd the rustic to his team, 
 Hath call'd the falconer to the lake, 
 Hath call'd the huntsman to the brake; 
 The early student ponders o'er 
 His dusty tomes of ancient lore. 
 Soldier, wake — thy harvest, fame ; 
 Thy study, conquest; war, thy game. 
 Shield, that would be foeman's terror. 
 Still should gleam the morning's mirror. 
 
 Poor hire repays the rustic's pain; 
 More paltry still the sportsman's gain; 
 Vainest of all, the student's theme 
 Ends in some metaphysic dream : 
 Yet each is up, and each has toil'd 
 Since .irst the peep of dawn has smiled; 
 And each is eagerer in his aim 
 Than he who barters life for fame. 
 Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror ! 
 Be thy bright shield the morning's 
 mirror. 
 
 The Betrothed, chap. xiv. 
 
 SONGS FROM "THE BETROTHED. 
 THE TRUTH OF WOMAN. 
 1825. 
 I. 
 Woman's faith, and woman's trust — 
 Write the characters in dust; 
 Stamp them on the ruiming stream. 
 Print them on the moon's pale beam. 
 And each evanescent letter 
 Shall be clearer, firmer, better. 
 And more permanent, I ween. 
 Than the thing those letters mean. 
 
 I have strain'd the spider's thread 
 'Gainst the promise of a maid; 
 I have weigh'd a grain of sand 
 'Gainst her plight of heart and hand; 
 
522 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I told my true love of the token. 
 
 How her faith proved liyht, and her word 
 
 was broken : 
 Again her word and truth she plight, 
 And I believed them again ere night. 
 The Betrothed, chap. xx. 
 
 A WELSH LAY. 
 
 1825. 
 
 I asked of my harp, " Who hath injured 
 
 thy cords?" 
 And she replied, "The crooked finger, 
 
 which I mocked in my tune." 
 A blade of silver may be bended — a 
 
 blade of steel abideth — 
 Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance 
 
 endureth. 
 
 The sweet taste of mead passelh from 
 
 the lips. 
 But they are long corroded by the juice 
 
 of wormwood : 
 The lamb is brought to the shamljles, but 
 
 the wolf rangeth the mountain; 
 Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance 
 
 endureth. 
 
 I asked the red-hot iron, when it glim- 
 mered on the anvil, 
 
 " Wherefore glowest thou longer than 
 the fire-brand? " — 
 
 " I was born in the dark mine, and the 
 brand in the pleasant greenwood." 
 
 Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance 
 endureth. 
 
 I asked the green oak of the assembly, 
 " Wherefore its lioughs were dry and 
 seared like the horns of the stag? " 
 
 And it showed me that a small worm had 
 gnawed its roots. 
 
 The boy who remembered the scourge, 
 undid the wicket of the castle at mid- 
 night. 
 
 Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance 
 endureth. 
 
 Lightningdestroyeth temples, though their 
 spires pierce the clouds; 
 
 Storms destroy armadas, though their 
 
 sails intercept the gale. 
 He that is in his glory falleth, and that 
 
 by a contemptible enemy. 
 Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance 
 
 endureth. 
 
 The Betrothed, chap, xxxi. . 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM "THE BETROTHED." 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 In Madoc's tent the clarion sounds, 
 With rapid clangor hurried far; 
 
 Each hill and dale the note rebounds. 
 But when return the sons of war ! 
 
 Thou, lx)rn of stern Necessity, 
 
 Dull Peace ! the valley yields to thee, 
 And owns thy melancholy sway. 
 
 Welsh Poem. 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 O, sadly shines the morning sun 
 
 On leagur'd castle wall. 
 When Ijastion, tower, and battlement, 
 
 Seem nodding to their fall. 
 
 Old Ballad. 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 Now all ye ladies of fair Scotland, 
 
 And ladies of England that happy 
 would prove. 
 Marry never for houses, nor marry for land, 
 Nor marry for nothing but only love. 
 Family Quarrels. 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 Too much rest is rust. 
 
 There's ever cheer in changing; 
 We tyne by too much trust. 
 
 So we'll be up and ranging. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 Ring out the merry bell, the bride ap- 
 proaches; 
 
 The blush upon her cheek has shamed 
 the morning. 
 
 For that is dawning palely. Grant, good 
 saints, 
 
 These clouds betoken naught of evil omen ! 
 Old Play. 
 
AHRIMAN. 
 
 523 
 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 The king call'd down his merry men all 
 
 By one and by two and three; 
 Earl Marshal was wont to be the foremost 
 one. 
 But the hindermost man was he. 
 
 Old Ballad. 
 
 CHAP. XXVU. 
 
 Gentle sir, 
 
 Julia. 
 
 You are our captive — but we'll use you so, 
 That you shall think your prison joys may 
 
 match 
 Whate'er your liberty hath known of 
 pleasure. 
 Roderick. No, fairest, we have trifled 
 here too long; 
 And, lingering to see your roses blossom, 
 I've let my laurels wither. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXI. 
 
 Ohj fear not, fear not, good Lord '^ohn, 
 
 That I would you Ix-'lray, 
 Or sue requital for a debt. 
 
 Which Nature cannot pay. 
 
 Bear witness, ail ye sacred powers. 
 
 Ye lights that 'gin to shine 
 This night shall prove the sacred tie 
 
 That binds your faith and mine. 
 
 AHRIMAN. 
 1825. 
 Dark Ahriman, whom Irak still 
 Holds origin of woe and ill ! 
 
 When bending at thy shrine, 
 We view the world with troubled eye, 
 Where see we 'neath the extended sky, 
 An empire matching thine? 
 
 If the Benigner Power can yield 
 A fountain in the desert field. 
 
 Where weary pilgrims drink; 
 Thine are the waves that lash the rock. 
 Thine the tornado's deadly shock, 
 
 Where countless navies sink ! 
 
 Or, if He bid the soil dispense 
 Balsams to cheer the sinking sense, 
 How few can they deliver 
 
 From lingermg pains, 01 pang intense. 
 Red Fever, spotted Pestilence, 
 The arrows of thy quiver ! 
 
 Chief in Man's bosom sits thy sway. 
 And frequent, while in words we pray 
 
 Before another throne, 
 Whate'er of specious form be there, 
 The secret meaning of the prayer 
 
 Is, Ahriman, thine own. 
 
 Say, hast thou feeling, sense, and form. 
 Thunder thy voice, thy garments storm. 
 
 As Eastern Magi say; 
 With sentient soul of hate and wrath. 
 And wings to sweep thy deadly path, 
 
 And fangs to tear thy prey? 
 
 Or art thou mixt in Nature's source. 
 An ever operating force. 
 
 Converting good to ill; 
 An evil principle innate 
 Contending with our better fate, 
 
 And, oh ! victorious still ? 
 
 Howe'er it be, dispute is vain. 
 
 On all without thou hold'st thy reign, 
 
 Nor less on all within; 
 Each mortal passion's fierce career. 
 Love, hate, ambition, joy, and fear. 
 
 Thou goadest into sin. 
 
 Whene'er a sunny gleam appears. 
 To brighten up our vale of tears, 
 
 Thou art not distant far; 
 Mid such brief solace of our lives, 
 Thou whett'st our very banquet -knives 
 
 To tools of death and war. — 
 
 Thus, from the moment of our birth. 
 Long as we linger on the earth. 
 
 Thou rul'st the fate of men; 
 Thine are the pangs of life's last hour. 
 And — who dare answer ? — is thy power. 
 
 Dark Spirit ! ended Then? 
 
 The Talisman, chap. iii. 
 
 TO THE ARCH-DUKE OF AUSTRIA. 
 
 1825. 
 
 What brave chief shall head the forces, 
 
 Where the red-cross legions gather? 
 
524 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Best of horsemen, best of horses, 
 Highest head and fairest feather. 
 
 Hoch lebe Herzog I^eopold ! 
 
 Ask not Austria why mid princes 
 Still her banner rises highest; 
 
 Ask as well the strong-wing'd eagle 
 Why to heaven he soars the nighest ! 
 The Talisman, chap. xi. 
 
 SONG OF BLONDEL. -THE BLOODY 
 VEST. 
 
 1825. 
 
 'TvvAS near the fair city of Benevent, 
 When the sun was setting on bough and 
 
 bent, 
 And knights were preparing in bower and 
 
 tent. 
 On the eve of the Baptist's tournament; 
 When in Lincoln green a stripling gent. 
 Well seeming a page by a princess sent, 
 Wander'd the camp, and, still as he went. 
 Enquired for the Englishman, Thomas a 
 
 Kent. 
 
 Far hath he fared, and farther must fare. 
 Till he finds his pavilion nor stately nor 
 
 rare, — 
 Little save iron and steel was there; 
 And, as lacking the coin to pay armorer's 
 
 care, 
 With his sinewy arms to the shoulders 
 
 bare. 
 The good knight -.vith hammer and file 
 
 did repair 
 The mail that to-morrow must see him 
 
 wear, 
 ] or the honor of Saint John and his lady 
 
 fair. 
 
 " Thus speaks my lady," the page said he, 
 And the knight bent lowly both head and 
 
 knee, 
 "She is Benevent's Princess so high in 
 
 degree. 
 And thou art as lowly as knight may 
 
 well be — 
 He that would climb so lofty a tree. 
 Or spring such a gulf as divides her from 
 
 thee, 
 
 Must dare some high deed, by which all 
 
 men may see 
 His ambition is back'd by his high chi- 
 
 valrie. 
 
 "Therefore thus speaks my lady," the 
 fair page he said. 
 
 And the knight lowly louted with hand 
 and with head, 
 
 " Fling aside the good armor in which 
 thou art clad. 
 
 And don thou this weed of her night- 
 gear instead, 
 
 For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of 
 thread : 
 
 And charge, thus attired, in the tourna- 
 ment dread. 
 
 And fight as thy wont is where most blood ' 
 is shed. 
 
 And bring honor away, or remain with 
 the dead." 
 
 Untroubled in his look, and untroubled 
 in his breast. 
 
 The knight the weed hath taken, and 
 reverently hath kiss'd; 
 
 " Now blest be the moment, the mes- 
 senger be blest ! 
 
 Much honor'd do I hold me in my lady's 
 high behest; 
 
 And say unto my lady, in this dear night- 
 weed drest, 
 
 To the best arm'd champion I will not 
 vail my crest; 
 
 But if I live and bear me well 'tis her 
 turn to take the test." 
 
 Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of 
 the Lay of the bloody Vest. 
 
 FYTTE SECOND. 
 
 The Baptist's fair morrow beheld gallant 
 
 feats — • 
 There was winning of honor, and losing 
 
 of seats — 
 There was hewing with falchions, and 
 
 splintering of staves. 
 The victors won glory, the vanquish'd 
 
 won graves. 
 O, many a knight there fought bravely 
 
 and well. 
 Yet one was accounted his peers to 
 
 excel; 
 
THE SONG OF BLONDE L. 
 
 52s 
 
 And 'twas he whose sole armor on body 
 
 and breast, 
 Seem'd the weed of a damsel when boune 
 
 for her rest. 
 
 There were some dealt him wounds that 
 
 were bloody and sore, 
 But others respected his plight, and for- 
 bore. 
 " It is some oath of honor," they said, 
 
 " and I trow 
 'Twere unknightly to slay him achieving 
 
 his vow." 
 Then the Prince, for his sake, bade the 
 
 tournament cease. 
 He flung down his warder, the trumpets 
 
 sung peace; 
 And the judges declare, and competitors 
 
 yield, 
 That the Knight of the Night-gear was 
 
 first in the field. 
 
 The feast it was nigh, and the mass it 
 
 was nigher, 
 When before the fair Princess low loutod 
 
 a squire, 
 And deliver'd a garment unseemly to 
 
 view, 
 With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all 
 
 hack'd and pierced through; 
 All rent and all tatter'd, all clotted with 
 
 blood. 
 With foam of the horses, with dust, and 
 
 with mud. 
 Not the point of that lady's small finger, 
 
 I ween. 
 Could have rested on spot was unsullied 
 
 and clean. 
 
 * This token my master. Sir Thomas a 
 
 Kent, 
 Restores to the Princess of fair Benevent. 
 He that climbs the tall tree has won right 
 
 to the fruit, 
 He that leaps the wide gulf should pre- 
 vail in his suit; 
 Thro' life's utmost peril the prize I have 
 
 won. 
 And now must the faith of my mistress 
 
 be shown: 
 For she who prompts knight on such 
 
 danger to run, 
 Much avouch his true service in front of 
 
 the sun. 
 
 " ' I restore,' says my master, ' the gar- 
 ment I've worn, 
 
 And I claim of the Princess to don it in 
 turn; 
 
 For its stains and its rents she should 
 prize it the more. 
 
 Since by shame 'tis unsullied, tho' crim- 
 son' d with gore.' " 
 
 Then deep blush'd the Princess — yet 
 kiss'd she and prest 
 
 The blood-spotted robe to her lips and 
 her breast. 
 
 "Go tell my true knight, church and 
 chamber shall show. 
 
 If I value the blood on this garment or 
 no. " 
 
 And when it was lime for the nobles to 
 
 pass 
 In solemn procession to minster and mass. 
 The first walk'd the Princess in purple 
 
 and pall. 
 But the blood-besmear'd night-robe she 
 
 wore over all ; 
 And eke, in the hall, where they all sat 
 
 at dine. 
 When she knelt to her father and prof- 
 
 fer'd the wine. 
 Over all her rich robes and state jewels 
 
 she wore. 
 That wimple unseemly bedabbled with 
 
 gore. 
 
 Then lords whisper'd ladies, as well you 
 
 may think. 
 And ladies replied, with nod, titter, and 
 
 wink; 
 And the Prince, who in anger and shame 
 
 had look'd down, 
 Turn'd at length to his daughter, and 
 
 spoke with a frown: — 
 "Now since thou hast publish'd thy folly 
 
 and guilt. 
 E'en atone with thy hand for the blood 
 
 thou has spilt : 
 Yet sore for thy boldness you both will 
 
 repent. 
 When you wander as exiles from fair 
 
 Benevent." 
 
 Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall 
 
 where he stood. 
 Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of 
 
 mood : — 
 
526 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 " The Vilood that I lost for this daughter 
 of thine, 
 
 I pour'd forth as freely as flask gives its 
 wine; 
 
 And if for my sake she brooks penance 
 and blame. 
 
 Do not doubt I will save her from suffer- 
 ing and shame; 
 
 And light will she reck of thy princedom 
 and rent. 
 
 When I hail her, in England, the Countess 
 of Kent." 
 
 The Talisman, chap. xxvi. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM " THE TALISMAN." 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 Now change the scene and let the trum- 
 pets sound, 
 For we must rouse the lion from his lair. 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 This is the Prince of Leeches; fever, 
 
 plague. 
 Cold rheum, and hot podagra, do but look 
 
 on him. 
 And quit their grasp upon the tortured 
 
 sinews. 
 
 Ationymous. 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 You talk of Gayety and Innocence ! 
 
 The moment when the fatal fruit was 
 eaten. 
 
 They parted ne'er to meet again; and 
 Malice 
 
 Mas ever since been playmate to light 
 Gayety, 
 
 From the first moment when the smiling 
 infant 
 
 Destroys the flower or butterfly he toys 
 with. 
 
 To the last chuckle of the dying miser. 
 
 Who on his deathbed laughs his last to hear 
 
 His wealthy neighbor hasljecome a bank- 
 rupt. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 'Tis not her sense — for sure, in that 
 There's nothing more than common; 
 
 And all her wit is only chat. 
 Like any other woman. 
 
 Song. 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 Were every hair upon his head a life. 
 And every life were to be supplicated 
 By numbers equal to those hairs quad- 
 rupled. 
 Life after life should out like waning stars 
 Before the daybreak — or as festive lamps, 
 Which have lent lustre to the midnight 
 
 revel, 
 E^ch after each are quench'd when guests 
 depart. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 Must we then sheath our still victorious 
 
 sword; 
 Turn back our forward step which ever 
 
 trode 
 O'er foemen's necks the onward path of 
 
 glory; 
 Unclasp the mail, which with a solemn 
 
 vow, 
 In God's own house we hung upon our 
 
 shoulders; 
 That vow, as unaccomplish'd as the 
 
 promise 
 Which village nurses make to still their 
 
 children. 
 And after think no more of? — 
 
 The Crusade, a Tragedy. 
 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 When beauty leads the lion in her toils. 
 Such are her charms, he dare not raise his 
 
 mane, 
 Far less expand the terror of his fangs. 
 So great Alcides made his club a distaff, 
 And spun to please fair Omphale. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XXIII. 
 
 Mid these wild scenes Enchantment 
 
 waves her hand. 
 To change the face of the mysterious land, 
 Till the bewildering scenes around us seem 
 The vain productions of a feverish dream. 
 Astolpho, a Romance. 
 
 CHAP. XXIV. 
 
 A grain of dust 
 
 Soiling our cup, will make our sense reject 
 
OBEY THE DOOM. 
 
 527 
 
 Fastidiously the draught which we did 
 thirst for; 
 
 A rusted nail placed near the faithful 
 compass, 
 
 Will sway it from the truth, and wreck 
 the argosy. 
 
 Even this small cause of anger and dis- 
 gust 
 
 Will break the bonds of amity 'mongst 
 princes, 
 
 And wreck their noblest purposes. 
 
 The Crusade. 
 
 CHAP. XXVI. 
 The tears I shed must ever fall ! 
 
 I weep not for an absent swain, 
 For time may happier hours recall, 
 
 And parted lovers meet again. 
 
 I weep not for the silent dead, 
 
 Their pains are past, their sorrows o'er. 
 
 And those that loved their steps must 
 tread 
 When death shall join to part no more. 
 
 But worse than absence, worse than death. 
 She wept her lover's sullied fame. 
 
 And, fired with all the pride of birth. 
 She wept a soldier's injured name. 
 Ballad.* 
 
 OBEY THE DOOM. 
 1826. 
 By pathless march, by greenwood tree. 
 It is thy weird to follow me — 
 To follow me thro' the ghastly moon- 
 light- 
 To fi)lIow me thro' the shadows of 
 
 night — 
 To follow me, comrade, still art thou 
 
 bound : 
 I conjure thee by the unstanch'd 
 
 wound — 
 I conjure thee by the last words I spoke, 
 When the body slept and the spirit awoke 
 In the very last pangs of the deadly 
 stroke. 
 
 Woodstock, chap. xiv. 
 
 • The last four lines of this ballad were writ- 
 ten by Scott ; the eight preceding are from " The 
 Song of Genius," by Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun, 
 afterwards Mrs. Dugaid Stewart. 
 
 GLEE FOR KING CHARLES. 
 1826. 
 Bring the bowl which you boast. 
 
 Fill it up to the brim; 
 'Tis to him we love most. 
 
 And to all who love him. 
 Brave gallants, stand up, 
 
 And avaunt, ye base carles ! 
 Were there death in the cup. 
 
 Here's a health to King Charles ! 
 
 Tho' he wanders thro' dangers, 
 
 Unaided, unknown, 
 Dependent on strangers, 
 
 Estranged from his own; 
 Tho' 'tis under our breath, 
 
 Amidst forfeits and perils, 
 Here's to honor and faith. 
 
 And a health to King Charles ! 
 
 Let such honors abound 
 
 As the time can afford, 
 The knee on the ground, 
 
 And the hand on the sword; 
 But the time shall come round. 
 
 When mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, 
 The loud trumpets shall sound. 
 
 Here's a health to King Charles ! 
 
 Woodstock, chap. xx. 
 
 ONE HOUR WITH THEE.t 
 1826. 
 An hour with thee ! — When earliest day 
 Dapples with gold the eastern gray, 
 Oh, what can frame my mind to Ijear 
 The toil and turmoil, cark and care. 
 New griefs, which coming hours unfold, 
 And sad remembrance of the old ? 
 
 One hour with thee ! 
 
 One hour with thee ! — When burning June 
 Waves his red flag at pitch of noon ; 
 What shall repay the faithful swain, 
 His labor on the sultry plain; 
 And more than cave or sheltering bough. 
 Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow ? 
 One hour with thee ! 
 
 t " He sung, but with more taste than execu- 
 tion, tlie air of a French rondelai, to which some 
 of the wits or sonnetteers in his py and roving 
 train had adapted Kngiish verses. ' 
 
528 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 One hour with thee ! — When sun is set, 
 O, what can teach me to forget 
 The thankless labors of the day; 
 The hopes, the wishes, flung away; 
 The increasing wants and lessening gains. 
 The master's pride, who scorns my 
 pains ? 
 
 One hour with thee ! 
 Woodstock, chap. xxvi. 
 
 WILDRAKE'S TOAST. 
 1826. 
 Son of a witch, 
 Mayst thou die in a ditch 
 
 With the butchers who backed thy 
 quarrels; 
 And rot above ground. 
 While the world shall resound 
 
 A welcome to Royal King Charles. 
 Woodstock, chap. xxx. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM "WOODSTOCK." 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 Come forth, old man — Thy daughter's side 
 
 Is now the fitting place for thee; 
 When timehathquel I'd the oak'sboldpride, 
 The youthful tendril yet may hide 
 The ruins of the parent tree. 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 Yon path of greensward 
 Winds round by sparry grot and gay pa- 
 vilion : 
 There is no flint to gall thy tender foot; 
 There's ready shelter from each breeze or 
 
 shower. — 
 But Duty guides not that way — see her 
 
 stand. 
 With wand entwined with amaranth, near 
 
 yon cliffs. 
 Oft where she leads, thy blood must mark 
 
 thy footsteps. 
 Oft where she leads, thy head must bear 
 
 the storm. 
 And thy shrunk form endure heat, cold, 
 
 and hunger; 
 But she will guide thee up to noble 
 
 heights. 
 
 Which he who gains seems native of the 
 
 sky. 
 While earthly things lie stretch'd beneath 
 
 his feet, 
 Diminish'd, shrunk, and valueless. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 My tongue pads slowly under this new 
 
 language. 
 And starts and stumbles at these uncouth 
 
 phrases. 
 They may be great in worth and weight, 
 
 but hang 
 Upon the native glibness of my language 
 Like Saul's plate-armor on the shepherd 
 
 boy, 
 Encumbering and not arming him. 
 
 y.B. 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 Here we have one head 
 Upon two bodies — your two-headed bul- 
 lock 
 Is but an ass to such a prodigy. 
 These two have but one meaning, 
 
 thought, and counsel; 
 And when the single noddle has spoke out. 
 The four legs scrape assent to it. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 Deeds are done on earth 
 Which have their punishment ere the 
 
 earth closes 
 Upon the perpetrators. Be it the working 
 Of the remorse-stirr'd fancy, or the vision. 
 Distinct and real, of unearthly being. 
 All ages witness, that beside the couch 
 Of the fell homicide oft stalks the ghost 
 Of him he slew, and shows the shadowy 
 
 wound. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 We do that in our zeal, 
 Our calmer moments are afraid to answer. 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XXIV. 
 
 The deadliest snakes are those which 
 twined 'mongst flowers, 
 
 Blend their bright coloring with the varied 
 blossoms. 
 
 Their fierce eyes glittering like the span- 
 gled dewdrops. 
 
VERSES FROM SCOTT'S JOURNAL. 
 
 529 
 
 In allso like what nature has niostharmless, 
 That sportive inn<:>cence, which dreads 
 
 no danger, 
 Is poison' d unawares. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 VERSES FROM SCOIT'S 
 JOURNAL. 
 1826. 
 PARODY ON MOORE'S "MINSTREL 
 BOY." 
 O Land of Cakes! said the Northern 
 Bard, 
 Tho' all the world lietrays thee, 
 One faithful pen thy rights shall guard, 
 One faithful harp shall praise thee. 
 
 ON HIS PROCRASTINATION. 
 Heighho, 
 I can't say no. 
 But this piece of task -work off I can 
 
 stave, O, 
 For Malachi's * posting into an octavo; 
 To correct the proof sheets only this 
 
 night I have, O, 
 So, Madame Conscience, you've gotten 
 
 as good as you gave, 0; 
 But to-morrow's a new day, and we'll 
 
 better behave, O, 
 So I lay down the pen, and your pardon 
 
 I crave, O. 
 
 A SWIFTIANISM. 
 I LOLL in my chair. 
 And around me I stare 
 With a critical air. 
 Like a calf at a fair; 
 And, say I, Mrs. Duty, 
 Good-morrow to your beauty; 
 I kiss your sweet shoe-tie. 
 And hope I can suit ye. 
 
 ON LEAVING MRS. BROWN'S LODG- 
 INGS. 
 So goodbye, Mrs. Brown, 
 I am going out of town. 
 Over dale, over down, 
 
 * The " Epistles of Malachi Malagrowther, 
 Esq.," for writing which Scott neglected " Wood- 
 stock." 
 
 Where bugs bite not, 
 
 Where lodgers fight not, 
 
 Where below you chairmen drink not, 
 
 Where Ix-'side you gutters stink not; 
 
 But all is fresh and clean and gay, 
 
 And merry lambkins sport and play , 
 
 And they toss with rakes uncommonly 
 short hay. 
 
 Which looks as if it had been sown only 
 the other day. 
 
 And where oats are at twenty-five shil- 
 lings a boll they say; 
 
 But all's one for that, since I must and 
 will away. 
 
 ON A DAY'S STINT. 
 And long ere dinner-time I have 
 
 F"ull eight close pages wrote. 
 What, Duty, hast thou now to crave? 
 
 Well done. Sir Walter Scott ! 
 
 ON HIS SON'S QUARTERS. 
 LOUGHREA is a blackguard place. 
 
 To Gort I give my curse; 
 Athlone itself is bad enough. 
 
 But Ballinrobe is worse. 
 I cannot tell which is the worst. 
 
 They're all so very bad; 
 But of all towns I ever saw. 
 
 Bad luck to Kinnegad. 
 
 ON 
 
 A PROVOCATION FROM JOSEPH 
 HUME. 
 I'm not a King nor nae sic thing; 
 
 My word it may not stand; 
 But Joseph may a buffet bide. 
 
 Come he beneath my brand. 
 
 ON HIGH PRICES. 
 And so 'twill be when I'am gone. 
 The increasing charge will still go on, 
 And other bards shall climb these hills, 
 And curse your charge, </<^'<jr evening bills ! 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE OLD YEAR. 
 It's useless to murmur and pout. 
 
 There's no good in making ado; 
 'Tis well the old year is out, 
 
 And time to begin a new ! 
 
530 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 MOTTO FROM "THE HIGHLAND 
 
 WIDOW." 
 
 1827. 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 O, I'M come to the Low Country, 
 
 Och, och, ohonochie, ' 
 Without a iienny in my pouch 
 
 To buy a meal for me. 
 I was the proudest of my clan, 
 
 Long, long, may I repine; 
 And Donald was the liravest man, 
 
 And Donald he was mine. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 MOTTO FROM "THE TWO 
 
 DROVERS." 
 
 1827. 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 Were ever two such loving friends ! — 
 
 How could they disagree? 
 O thus it was, he loved him dear, 
 
 And thought how to requite him; 
 And having no friend left but he. 
 
 He did resolve to fight him. 
 
 Duke upon Duke. 
 
 VERSES FROM SCOTT'S 
 
 JOURNAL. 
 
 1827. 
 
 ON HIS WORK. 
 
 He walk'd and wrought, poor soul! 
 
 What then? 
 Why, then he walk'd and wrought again. 
 
 AFTER MORNING VISITORS. 
 I GROW vaporish and odd, 
 And would not do the least right thing. 
 Neither for goddess nor for god. 
 Nor paint nor jest nor laugh nor sing. 
 
 THE DEATH OF KEELDAR. 
 
 These stanzas were written for Hood's 
 "Gem," 1828, and accompanied an engraving 
 from Cooper's painting of the Death of Keeldar. 
 
 Up rose the sun o'er moor and mead; 
 Up with the sun rose Percy Rede; 
 
 Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed, 
 
 Career'd along the lea; 
 The palfrey sprung with sprightly bound, 
 As if to match the gamesome hound; 
 His horn the gallant huntsman wound: 
 
 They were a jovial three ! 
 
 Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame, 
 To wake the wild deer never came. 
 Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game 
 
 On Cheviot's rueful day; 
 Keeldar was matchless in his speed. 
 Than Tarras, ne'er was stauncher steed, 
 A peerless archer, Percy Rede, 
 
 And right dear friends were they. 
 
 The chase engross'd their joys and woes. 
 Together at the dawn they rose, 
 Together shared the noon's repose. 
 
 By fountain or by stream; 
 And oft, when evening skies were red, 
 The heather was their common bed. 
 Where each, as wildering fancy led, 
 
 Still hunted in his dream. 
 
 Now is the thrilling moment near, 
 Of sylvan hope, and sylvan fear, 
 Yon thicket holds the harbor'd deer, 
 
 The signs the hunters know; — 
 With eyes of flame, and quivering ears, 
 The brake sagacious Keeldar nears; 
 The restless palfrey paws and rears; 
 
 The archer strings his bow. 
 
 The game's afoot ! — Halloo ! Halloo ! 
 Hunter, and horse, and hound pursue: — 
 But woe the shaft that erring flew — 
 
 That e'er it left the siring ! 
 And ill betide the faithless yew! 
 The stag bounds scathless o'er the dew, 
 And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true 
 
 Has drench'd the gray goose wing. 
 
 The noble hound — he dies, he dies, 
 Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes, 
 Stiff on the bloody heath he lies. 
 
 Without a groan or quiver. 
 Now day may break and bugle soimd, 
 And whoop and halloo ring around, 
 And o'er his couch the stag may bound. 
 
 But Keeldar sleeps forever. 
 
MOTTO FROM '^MY AUNT MARGARET'S MIRROR." 531 
 
 Dilated nostrils, staring eyes, 
 
 Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise. 
 
 He knows not that his comrade dies, 
 
 Nor what is death — but still 
 His aspect hath expression drear 
 Of grief and wonder, mix'd with fear, 
 Like startled children when they hear 
 
 Some mystic tale of ill. 
 
 But he that bent the fatal bow, 
 Can well the sun of evil know, 
 And o'er his favorite, bending low. 
 
 In speechless grief recline; 
 Can think he hears the senseless clay 
 In unreproachful accents say : — 
 " The hand that took my life away, 
 
 Dear master, was it thine? 
 
 " And if it be, the shaft be blest. 
 Which sure some erring aim addrest. 
 Since in your service prized, carest 
 
 I in your service die; 
 And you may have a fleeter hound. 
 To match the dun-deer's merry bound. 
 But by your couch wilt ne'er be found 
 
 So true a guard as I." 
 
 And to his last stout Percy rued 
 The fatal chance; for when he stood 
 'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud, 
 
 And fell amid the fray. 
 E'en with his dying voice he cried, 
 " Had Keeldar but been at my side, 
 Your treacherous ambush had been spied, 
 
 I had not died to-day ! ' ' 
 
 Remembrance of the erring bow 
 
 Long since had joined the tideswhich flow, 
 
 Conveying human bliss and woe 
 
 Down dark oblivion's river; 
 But Art can Time's stern doom arrest, 
 And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast. 
 And, in her Cooper's colors drest. 
 
 The scene shall live forever. 
 
 MOTTO FROM "MY AUNT MAR- 
 GARET'S MIRROR." 
 1828. 
 There are times 
 When Fancy plays her gambols, in despite 
 Even of our watchful senses, when in sooth 
 Substance seems shadow, shadow sub- 
 stance seems. 
 
 When the broad, palpable, and mark'd 
 
 partition, 
 'Twixt that which is and is not, seems 
 
 dissolved. 
 As if the mental eye gain'd power to 
 
 gaze 
 Beyond the limits of the existing world. 
 Such hours of shadowy dreams I better 
 
 love 
 Than all the gross realities of life. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM "THE FAIR MAID OF PERTH." 
 
 1828. 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 " Behold the Tiber ! " the vain Roman 
 
 cried. 
 Viewing the ampleTay from Baiglie's side; 
 But where's the Scot that would the 
 
 vaunt repay. 
 And hail the puny Tiber for the Tay? 
 Anonymous. 
 CHAP. vni. 
 Within the bounds of Annandale, 
 
 The gentle Johnstones ride; 
 They have been there a thousand years, 
 A thousand more they'll bide. 
 
 Old Ballad. 
 CHAP. XI. 
 Fair is the damsel, passing fair, — 
 
 Sunny at distance gleams her smile; 
 Approach — the cloud of woeful care 
 Hangs trembling in her eye the while. 
 Lucinda, a Ballad. 
 CHAP. XXXIU. 
 The hour is nigh: now hearts beat high; 
 
 E^ch sword is sharpened well; 
 And who dares die, who stoops to fly. 
 To-morrow's light shall tell. 
 
 Sir Edwald. 
 
 THE LAY OF POOR LOUISB. 
 1828. 
 Ah, poor Louise ! The livelong day 
 She roams from cot to castle gay; 
 And still her voice and viol say. 
 Ah, maids, beware the woodland way, 
 Think on Louise ' 
 
532 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Ah, poor Louise ! The sun was high, 
 It smirch'd her check, it dimm'd her eye. 
 The woodland walk was cool and nigh, 
 Where birds with chiming streamlets vie 
 To cheer Louise. 
 
 Ah, poor Louise ! The savage bear 
 Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair; 
 The wolves molest not paths so fair — 
 But better far had such been there 
 
 For poor Louise. 
 
 Ah, poor Louise ! In woody wold 
 She met a huntsman fair and bold; 
 His baldric was of silk and gold. 
 And many a witching tale he told 
 
 To poor Louise. 
 
 Ah, poor Louise ! Small cause to pine 
 Hast thou for treasures of the mine; 
 For peace of mind, that gift divine. 
 And spotless innocence, were thine, 
 
 Ah, poor Louise ! 
 
 Ah, poor Louise! Thy treasure's reft! 
 I know not if by force or theft. 
 Or part by violence, part by gift; 
 But misery is all that's left 
 
 To poor Louise. 
 
 Let poor Louise some succor have ! 
 She will not long your bounty crave. 
 Or tire the gay with warning stave — 
 For Heaven has grace, and earth a grave 
 For poor Louise. 
 Fair AI aid of Perth, chap, x. 
 
 OLIVER PROUDFUTE'S GLEE. 
 1828. 
 My dog and I we have a trick 
 To visit maids when they are sick; 
 When they are sick and like to die, 
 O thither do come my dog and I ! 
 
 And when I die, as needs must hap, 
 Then bury me under the good ale-tap; 
 With folded hands there let me lie. 
 Cheek for jowl, my dog and I. 
 
 Fair Maid of Perth, chap. xvi. 
 
 CHANT OVER THE DEAD. 
 1828. 
 Viewless Essence, thin and bare. 
 Well-nigh melted into air; 
 Still with fondness hovering near 
 The earthly form thou once didst wear. 
 
 Pause upon thy pinion's flight, 
 Be thy course to left or right; 
 Be thou doom'd to soar or sink, 
 Pause upon the awful brink. 
 
 To avenge the deed expelling 
 Thee untimely from thy dwelling, 
 Mystic force thou shalt retain 
 O'er the blood and o'er the brain. 
 
 When the form thou shalt espy 
 That darken'd on thy closing eye, 
 When the footstep thou shalt hear, 
 That thrill'd upon thy dying ear; 
 
 Then strange sympathies shall wake, 
 The flesh shall thrill, the nerves shall 
 
 quake; 
 The wounds renew their clotter'd flood, 
 And every drop cry blood for blood. 
 F^air Maid of Perth, chap. xxii. 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 1828. 
 Yes, thou mayst sigh. 
 And look once more at all around, 
 At stream and bank, and sky and ground. 
 Thy life its final course has found. 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Yes, lay thee down, 
 And while thy struggling pulses flutter, 
 Bid the gray monk his soul mass mutter. 
 And the deep bell its death-tone utter — 
 
 Thy life is gone. 
 
 Be not afraid. 
 'Tis but a pang, and then a thrill, 
 A fever fit, and then a chill; 
 And then an end of human ill. 
 
 For thou art dead. 
 Fair Maid of Perth, chap. xxx. 
 
VERSE FROM SCOTT'S JOURNAL. 
 
 533 
 
 VERSE FROM SCOTT'S JOURNAL. 
 1828. 
 ON THE COLNE. 
 For the Colne 
 Is black and swollen. 
 
 Snake-like he winds his way, 
 Unlike the burns 
 From Highland urns 
 
 That dance by crag and brae. 
 
 GLENGARRY'S DEATH-SONG.* 
 
 1828. 
 I^AND of the Gael, thy glory has flown ! 
 For the star of the North from its orbit 
 
 is thrown; 
 Dark, dark is thy sorrow, and hopeless 
 
 thy pain. 
 For no star e'er shall beam with its lustre 
 
 again. 
 
 Glengarry — Glengarry is gone ever- 
 more. 
 
 Glengarry — Glengarry we'll ever de- 
 plore. 
 
 O tell of the warrior who never did yield, 
 O tell of the chief who was falchion and 
 
 shield, 
 O think of the patriot, most ardent and 
 
 kind; 
 Then sigh for Glengarry, in whom all 
 
 were joined. 
 
 The chieftains may gather — the com- 
 batants call. 
 
 One champion is absent — that champion 
 was all; 
 
 The bright; eye of genius and valor may 
 flame, 
 
 But who now shall light it to honor and 
 fame. 
 
 • Miss Macdonell wrote from 
 " Mavis Bank, Rothesay, 
 
 on the l^th of April, 1893 : — 
 
 " My father died in January, 1828, and my 
 mother came to Merchiston Castle, Edinburgh, 
 where she lived from May, 1828, to May, 1830. 
 It was there I first saw the " Death-Song," and 
 was told by mother that Sir Walter Scott had 
 written it and sent it to her. I believe she got it 
 soon after we all came South in May 1S28, and 
 it has always been in whatever houses we lived 
 tver since 
 
 lys 
 
 See the light bark how toss'd! she's 
 
 wreck 'd on the wave ! 
 See dauntless Glengarry on the verge of 
 
 the grave ! 
 See his leap — see that gash, and that eye 
 
 now so dim ! 
 And thy heart must be steel'd, if it bleed 
 
 not for him. 
 
 Arise, thou young branch of so noble a 
 
 stem, 
 Obscurity marks not the worth of a gem; 
 O hear the last wish of thy father for thee : 
 " Be all to thy country. Glengarry should 
 
 be." 
 
 Why sounds the loud pibroch, why tolls 
 the death bell. 
 
 Why crowd our bold clansmen to Garry's 
 green vale? 
 
 'Tis to mourn for their chief — for Glen- 
 garry the brave, 
 
 Tis to tell that a hero is laid in his grave. 
 
 O ! heard ye that anthem, slow, pealing 
 
 on high ! 
 The shades of the valiant are come from 
 
 the sky, 
 And the Genii of Gaejdoch are first in 
 
 the throng, 
 O list to the theme of their aerial song. 
 
 It's " Welcome Glengarry, thy clans- 
 men's fast friend." 
 
 It's "Welcome to joys that shall ne'er 
 have an end. 
 
 The halls of great Odin are open to thee, 
 
 O welcome Glengarry, the gallant and 
 free." 
 
 THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. -- 
 1829. 
 The Initiated. 
 Measurers of good and evil, 
 Bring the square, the line, the level, — 
 Rear the altar, dig the trench. 
 Blood both stone and ditch shall drench, 
 Cubits six, from end to end. 
 Must the fatal bench extend, — 
 Cubits six, from side to side, 
 Judge and culprit must divide. 
 
534 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 On the east the Court assembles, 
 On the west the Accused trembles — 
 Answer, brethren, all and one, 
 Is the ritual rightly done? 
 
 Answer. 
 On life and soul, on blood and bone, 
 One for all, and all for one, 
 We warrant this is rightly done. 
 
 Judges. 
 How wears the night? — Doth morning 
 
 shine 
 In early radiance on the Rhine? 
 What music floats upon his tide? 
 Do birds the tardy morning chide ? 
 Brethren, look out from hill and height. 
 And answer true, How wears the night ? 
 
 Answer. 
 The night is old; on Rhine's broad 
 
 breast 
 Glance drowsy stars which long to rest. 
 
 No beams are twinkling in the east. 
 There is a voice upon the flood. 
 The stern still call of blood for blood : 
 
 'Tis time we listen the behest. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Up, then, up ! When day's at rest, 
 
 Tis time that such as we are watchers : 
 Rise to judgment, brethren, rise! 
 Vengeance knows not sleepy eyes. 
 He and night are matchers. 
 
 Anne of Geierstcin, chap. xx. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM ANNE OF GEIERSTEIN. 
 
 1829. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 I WAS one 
 Who loved the greenwood bank and low- 
 ing herd. 
 The russet prize, the lowly peasant's life, 
 Season'd with sweet content, more than 
 
 the halls 
 Where revellers feast to fever-height. 
 
 Believe me. 
 There ne'er was poison mixt in maple 
 bowl, 
 
 AnonymotK, 
 
 CHAP. vni. 
 They saw that city welcoming the Rhine, 
 As from his mountain heritage he bursts, 
 As purposed proud Orgetorix of yore, 
 Leaving the desert region of the hills. 
 To lord it o'er the fertile plains of Gaul. 
 Helvetia. 
 CHAP. X. 
 We know not when we sleep nor when 
 
 we wake. 
 Visions distinct and perfect cross our eye. 
 Which to the slumberer seem realities; 
 And while they waked, some men have 
 
 seen such sights 
 As set at naught the evidence of sense. 
 And left them well persuaded they were 
 
 dreaming. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 CHAP. XI. 
 These be the adept's doctrines — every 
 
 element 
 Is peopled with its separate race of spirits. 
 The airy Sylphs on the blue ether float; 
 Deep in the earthy cavern skulks the 
 
 Gnome ; 
 The sea-green Naiad skims the ocean 
 
 billow, 
 And the fierce fire is yet a friendly home 
 To its peculiar sprite — the Salamander. 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XXH. 
 
 Tell me not of it — I could ne'er abide 
 
 The mummery of all that forced civility. 
 
 " Pray, seat yourself, my lord," with 
 cringing hams 
 
 The speech is spoken, and, with bended 
 knee. 
 
 Heard by the smiling courtier. — " Be- 
 fore you, sir? 
 
 It must be on the earth then." Hang it 
 all! 
 
 The pride which cloaks itself in such poor 
 fashion 
 
 Is scarcely fit to swell a beggar's bosom. 
 Old Play. 
 
 ^ CHAP. XXIX. 
 
 A mirthful man he was — the snows of 
 
 age 
 Fell, but they did not chill him. Gaiety, 
 Even in life's closing, touched his teeming 
 
 brain 
 
VERSES FROM SCOTT'S JOURNAL. 
 
 S35 
 
 With such wild visions as the setting sun 
 Raises in front of some hoar glacier, 
 Painting the bleak ice with a thousand 
 hues. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXX. 
 
 Ay, this is he who wears the wreath of bays 
 Wove by Apollo and the Sisters Nine, 
 Which Jove's dread lightning scathes not. 
 
 He hath doft 
 The cumbrous helm of steel, and flung 
 
 aside 
 The yet more galling diadem of gold : 
 While, with a leafy circlet round his brows. 
 He reigns the King of Lovers and of Poets. 
 
 CHAP. XXXI. 
 
 Want you a man 
 
 Experienced in the world and its affarrs? 
 Here he is for your purpose. He's a monk. 
 He hath forsworn the world and all its 
 
 work — 
 The rather that he knows it passing well. 
 Special the worst of it; for he's a monk. 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIU. 
 
 Toll, toll the bell ! 
 Greatness is o'er, 
 The heart has broke. 
 To ache no more; 
 An unsubstantial pageant all — 
 Drop o'er the scene the funeral pall. 
 Old Poem. 
 
 CHAP. XXXV. 
 
 Here's a weapon now, 
 
 Shall shake a conquering general in his 
 
 tent, 
 A monarch on his throne, or reach a 
 
 prelate, 
 However holy be his offices. 
 E'en while he serves the altar. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 fERSES FROM SCOTT'S 
 JOURNAL. 
 
 1829. 
 LATE FRIENDSHIP. 
 No after friendships e'er can raise 
 The endearments of our early days. 
 
 ON THE CATASTROPHE TO "ANNE 
 
 OF GEIERSTEIN." 
 It sticks like a pistol half out of its holster, 
 Or rather indeed like an obstinate bolster, 
 Which I think I have seen you attempt- 
 ing, my dear. 
 In vain to cram into a small pillow-beer. 
 
 JOY AND WEALTH. 
 Give me the joy that sickens not the heart. 
 Give me the wealth that has no wings to fly. 
 
 A MORAL. 
 So there ends the tale 
 With a hey, with a hoy, 
 So there ends the tale 
 
 With a ho ! 
 There is a moral. If you fail 
 To seize it by the tale. 
 Its import will exhale, 
 
 You must know. 
 
 ON FAILING TO HEAR MADAME CA- 
 RADORI SING JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 
 
 However, Madame Caradori, 
 
 To miss you I am very sorry; 
 
 I should have taken it for glory 
 
 To have heard you sing my Border story. 
 
 LOCALITIES AT BLAIR-ADAM. 
 LOCHORNIE and Lochornie Moss, 
 The Louting Stane and Dodgell's Cross, 
 Craigen Cat and Craigen Crow, 
 Craigg.avcral, the King's Cross, and Dun- 
 glow. 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE REV. 
 
 GEORGE SCOTT. 
 
 1830. 
 
 To youth, to age, alike, this t.ablet pale 
 Tells the brief moral of its tr.igic tale. 
 Art thoua parent ? — Reverence this bier — 
 The parents' fondest hopes lie buried here. 
 
536 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start, 
 With opening talents and agenerousheart, 
 Fair hopes and flattering prospects all 
 
 thine own? 
 I^ ! here their end — a monumental stone ! 
 But let submission tame each sorrowing 
 
 thought, 
 Heaven crown 'd its champion ere the 
 
 fight was fought. 
 
 THE FORAY. 
 
 1830. 
 The last of our steers on our board has 
 
 been spread, 
 And the last flask of wine in our goblet 
 
 is red; 
 Up ! up, my brave kinsmen ! belt swords, 
 
 and begone ! — 
 There are dangers to dare, and there's 
 
 spoil to be won. 
 
 The eyes, that so lately mixf glances with 
 
 ours, 
 For a space must be dim, as they gaze 
 
 from the towers. 
 And strive to distinguish, thro' tempest 
 
 and gloom. 
 The prance of the steed, and the toss of 
 
 the plume. 
 
 The rain is descending, the wind rises 
 
 loud. 
 And the moon her red beacon has veil'd 
 
 with a cloud; 
 ' Tis the better, my mates ! for the warder's 
 
 dull eye 
 Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream 
 
 we are nigh. 
 
 Our steeds are impatient ! I hear my 
 blithe Gray ! 
 
 There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope 
 in his neigh; 
 
 Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of 
 his mane 
 
 Shall marshal your match thro' the dark- 
 ness and rain. 
 
 The drawbridge has dropped, the bugle 
 
 has blown; 
 One pledge is to quaff yet — then mount 
 
 and begone ! — 
 
 To their honor and peace, that shall rest 
 
 with the slain ! 
 To their health and their glee, that see 
 
 Teviot again ! 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM " COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS." 
 
 183I. 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 Othus. This superb successor 
 
 Of the earth's mistress, as thou vainly 
 
 speakcst. 
 Stands midst these ages as, on the wide 
 
 ocean. 
 The last spared fragment of a spacious 
 
 land. 
 That in some grand and awful ministration 
 Of mighty nature has engulfed been. 
 Doth lift aloft its dark and rocky cliffs 
 O'er the wild waste around, and sadly 
 
 frowns 
 In lonely majesty. 
 
 Constantine Paleologus, scene ». 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 Here, youth, thy foot unbrace, 
 
 Here, youth, thy brow unbraid, 
 Each tribute that may grace 
 
 The threshold here bo paid. 
 Walk with the stealthy pace 
 
 Which Nature teaches deer, 
 When, echoing in the chase. 
 
 The hunter's horn they hear. 
 
 7'//^ Court. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 The storm increases — 'tis no sunny 
 
 shower. 
 Fostered in the moist breast of March or 
 
 April, 
 Or such as parched Summer cools his lip 
 
 with: 
 Heaven's windows are flung wide; the 
 
 inmost deeps 
 Call in hoarse greeting one upon another; 
 On comes the flood in all its foaming 
 
 horrors. 
 And where's the dike shall stop it? 
 
 7'/4< Deluge, a Poem. 
 
MOTTOES FROM " COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS: 
 
 537 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 Vain man, thou may'st esteem thy love 
 
 as fair 
 As fond hyperboles suffice to raise. 
 She may be all that's matchless in her 
 
 person. 
 And all-divine in soul to match her body; 
 But lake this fioni me — thou shalt never 
 
 call her 
 Superior to her sex, while one survives, 
 And I am her true votary. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 Between the foaming jaws of the white 
 
 torrent. 
 The skilful artist draws a sudden mound; 
 By level long he subdivides their strength. 
 Stealing the waters from their rocky 
 
 bed, 
 First to diminish what he means to con- 
 quer ; 
 Then, for the residue he forms a road. 
 Easy to keep, and painful to desert. 
 And guiding to the end the planner aim'd 
 at. 
 
 The Engineer. 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 These were wild times — the antipodes 
 of ours: 
 
 Ladies weie there, who oftener saw them- 
 selves 
 
 In the broad lustre of a foeman's shield 
 
 Than in a mirror, and who rather sought 
 
 To match themselves in battle than in 
 dalliance 
 
 To meet a lover's onset. — But though 
 Nature 
 
 Was outraged thus, she was not over- 
 come. 
 
 Feudal Times. 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 
 Without a ruin, broken, tangled, cum- 
 brous. 
 
 Within it was a little paradise. 
 
 Where Taste had made her dwelling 
 Statuary, 
 
 First-born of human art, moulded her 
 images. 
 
 And bade men mark and worship. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 The parties met. The wily, wordy Greek, 
 
 Weighing each word, and canvassing each 
 syllable; 
 
 Evading, arguing, equivocating. 
 
 And the stern Frank came with his two- 
 hand sword, 
 
 Watchmg to see which way the balance 
 sways. 
 
 That he may throw it in, and turn the 
 scales. 
 
 Palestine. 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 Strange ape ol man ! who loathes thee 
 
 while he scorns thee; 
 Half a reproach to us and half a jest. 
 What fancies can be ours ere we have 
 
 pleasure 
 In viewmg our own form, our pride and 
 
 passions. 
 Reflected in a shape grotesque as thine ! 
 Ancnyviotts. 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 'Tis strange that, in the dark sulphureous 
 mine, 
 
 Where wild ambition piles its ripening 
 stores 
 
 Of slumbering thunder. Love will inter- 
 pose 
 
 His tiny torch, and cause the stern ex- 
 plosion 
 
 To burst, when the deviser's least aware. 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 She comes ! she comes ! in all the charms 
 
 of youth, 
 Unequall'd love, and unsuspected truth. 
 
 CHAP. XXIV. 
 
 All is prepared — the chamliers of the 
 
 mine 
 Arc crammed with the combustible, 
 
 which, harmless 
 While yet unkindled, as the sable sand. 
 Needs but a spark to change its nature so, 
 That he who wakes it from its slumbrous 
 
 mood, 
 Dreads scarce the explosion less than he 
 
 who knows 
 That 'tis his towers which meet its fury. 
 Anonymotti. 
 
538 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 CHAP. XXV. 
 
 Heaven knows its time; the bullet has 
 its billet, 
 
 Arrow and javelin each its destined pur- 
 pose; 
 
 The fated beasts of Nature's lower strain 
 
 Have each their separate task. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XXVI. 
 
 Will you hear of a Spanish Lady, 
 
 How she woo'd an Englishman? 
 Garments gay, as rich as may be, 
 Deck'd with jewels, she had on. 
 Of a comely countenance and grace was 
 
 she. 
 And birth and parentage of high degree. 
 Old Ballad. 
 
 MOTTOES. 
 
 FROM " CASTLE DANGEROUS." 
 
 183I. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 A TALE of sorrow, for your eyes may weep; 
 A tale of horror, for your flesh may tingle ; 
 A tale of wonder, for the eyebrows arch, 
 And the flesh curdles if you read it rightly. 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 
 Where is he? Has the deep earth swal- 
 lowed him? 
 Or hath he melted like some airy phantom 
 That shuns the approach of morn and the 
 
 young sun? 
 Or hath he wrapped him in Cimmerian 
 
 darkness. 
 And pass'd beyond the circuit of the sight 
 With things of the night's shadows? 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 The way is long, my children, long and 
 
 rough — 
 The moors are dreary, and the woods are 
 
 dark ; 
 But he that creeps from cradle on to 
 
 grave, 
 Unskill'd save in the velvet course of 
 
 fortune, 
 Hath missed the discipline of noble 
 
 hearts. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XVIII. 
 
 His talk was of another world — his bode- 
 
 ments 
 Strange, doubtful, and mysterious; those 
 
 who heard him 
 Listen'd as to a man in feverish dreams, 
 Who speaks of other objects than the 
 
 present. 
 And mutters like to him who sees a 
 
 vision. 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 Cry the wild war-note, let the champions 
 pass. 
 
 Do bravely each, and God defend the 
 right; 
 
 Upon Saint Andrew thrice can they thus 
 cry, 
 
 And thrice they shout on height. 
 
 And then marked them on the English- 
 men, 
 
 As I have told you right. 
 
 Saint George the bright, our ladics'knight, 
 
 To name they were full fain; 
 
 Our Englishmen they cried on height, 
 
 And thrice they shout again. 
 
 Old Ballad. 
 
FRAGMENTS. 
 
 OF VERY EARLY DATE. 
 
 BOTH WELL CASTLE. 
 1799. 
 
 When fruitful Clydesdale's apple bowers 
 
 Are mellowing in the noon; 
 When sighs round Pembroke's ruin'd 
 towers 
 
 The sultry breath of June; 
 
 When Clyde, despite his sheltering wood, 
 
 Must leaVe his channel dry; 
 And vainly o'er the limpid flood 
 
 The angler guides his fly; 
 
 If chance by Bothwell's lovely braes 
 
 A wanderer thou hast been, 
 Or hid thee from the summer's blaze 
 
 In Blantyre's bowers of green. 
 
 Full where the copsewood opens wild 
 
 Thy pilgrim step hath staid, 
 Where Bothwell's towers, in ruin piled, 
 
 O'erlook the verdant glade; 
 
 And many a tale of love and fear 
 Hath mingled with the scene — 
 
 Of Bothwell's banks that bloom'd so dear. 
 And Bothwell's bonny Jean. 
 
 O, if with rugged minstrel lays 
 
 Unsated be thy ear, 
 And thou of deeds of other days 
 
 Another tale wilt hear, — 
 
 Then all beneath the spreading beech. 
 
 Flung careless on the lea, 
 The Gothic muse the tale shall teach 
 
 Of Bothwell's sisters three. 
 
 Wight Wallace stood on Deckmont head, 
 
 He blew his bugle round. 
 Till the wild bull in Cadyow wood 
 
 Has started at the sound. 
 
 St. George's cross, o'er Bothwell hung, 
 
 Was waving far and wide, 
 And from the lofty turret flung 
 
 Its crimson blaze on^Clyde; 
 
 And rising at the bugle blast 
 That mark'd the Scottish foe. 
 
 Old England's yeomen muster 'd fast, 
 And bent the Norman bow. 
 
 Tall in the midst Sir Aylmer rose, 
 
 Proud Pembroke's Earl was he — 
 While ****»»* 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S TALE. 
 1799. 
 
 And ne'er but once, my son, he says. 
 
 Was yon sad cavern trod. 
 In persecution's iron days. 
 
 When the land was left by God. 
 
 From Bewlie bog, with slaughter red, 
 
 A wanderer hither drew, 
 And oft he stopt and turn'd his head. 
 
 As by fits the night wind blew; 
 
 For trampling round by Cheviot edge 
 Were heard the troopers keen, 
 
 And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge 
 The death-shot flash'd between. 
 
 S39 
 
Jf/SCEZZJJVffeCS /WElfS. 
 
 OiBSM* 
 
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 r^bMM 
 
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 JkaiowlidhtiaiiallKdtaKt!" — 
 
 A %^ «as soea to aiiae. 
 
 
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 I Ac ciiMJia o\3r; 
 iHt toOK 4eri|y Uk was dbe 2|ha9% k> 
 Of 1b c]CB «ha ihe tipor boK. 
 
 <tf*el If i.1 I I. 
 
 CBasni Sis fae^ 
 
 Be liii <M ks hoii ai koMl Hke lead. 
 As hcny. fok^jM^ oMz — 
 
 B Aykistf fcefinaadlHidL 
 
 
 Oh 
 
 -My! 
 
 r'd: 
 
 :sa-iMHr^ 
 
 KJUiaidiGbnaarlMraf pdlr^ 
 
 Isl 
 O 
 
 rUiAe. 
 bortofidi. 
 
 - Aari a «y paws caa ipoea dK i 
 
 TkoB he Ac fate. fcoM k^gc aiai pof. 
 ToiErdtf 
 
 He &nnK laakd Uto to Ae far- 
 Jtoi 1^ calor fled wiA ^eei: — 
 
 M Kar ai^ ^^Bili wBg ■■£■& 
 
 fee 
 To B*fc dy wad aari deed. 
 
 «laa «aciadai»a*eaE agPA 
 
 Ihe 
 
 Kta. 
 
THE SHBPHERB'S TALE. 
 
 S** 
 
 ' A wadbdk Inml Ae vonkr wa. 
 
 Sk IGkhicl ScBtt ky BMC, 
 
 "i the 
 
 Ike 
 
 ' For JOS 
 Thr wanaoB's Imhks kai 
 
 Sr Bfidhad Soott vass 
 
 .ladfetkAc 
 
 At Ike foot of cadk Stocd, 
 Ifekcsid, 
 
542 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 From Forth to Tees, from seas to seas, 
 
 The awful bugle rung; 
 On Carlisle wall, and Berwick withal, 
 
 To arms the warders sprung. 
 
 With clank and clang the cavern rang, 
 The steeds did stamp and neigh; 
 
 And loud was the yell as each warrior fell 
 Sterte up with whoop and cry. 
 
 " Woe, woe," they cried, " thou caitiff 
 coward, 
 
 That ever thou wert born ! 
 Why drew ye not the knightly sword 
 
 Before ye blew the horn? " 
 
 The morning on the mountain shone. 
 
 And on the bloody ground, 
 Hurl'd from the cave with shiver'd bone, 
 
 The mangled wretch was found. 
 
 And still beneath the cavern dread. 
 
 Among the glidders gray, 
 A shapeless stone with lichens spread, 
 
 Marks where the wanderer lay. 
 
 CHEVIOT. 
 
 1799. 
 
 Go sit old Cheviot's crest below, 
 And pensive mark the lingering snow 
 
 In all his scaurs abide. 
 And slow dissolving from the hill 
 In many a sightless, soundless rill, 
 
 Feed sparkling Bowmont's tide. 
 
 Fair shines the stream by bank and lea, 
 As wimpling to the eastern sea 
 
 She seeks Till's sullen bed. 
 Indenting deep the fatal plain, 
 Where Scotland's noblest, brave in vain, 
 
 Around their monarch bled. 
 
 And westward hills on hills you see. 
 Even as old Ocean's mightiest sea 
 
 Heaves high her waves of foam. 
 Dark and snow-ridged from Cutsfeld's 
 
 wold 
 To the proud foot of Cheviot roll'd. 
 
 Earth's mountain billows come. 
 
 THE PAGE'S SONG. 
 1799. 
 
 It was a little naughty page. 
 
 Ha! ha! 
 Would catch a bird was clos'd in cagCj 
 
 Sa ! sa ! 
 
 Ha! ha! 
 
 Sa ! sa ! 
 
 He seiz'd the cage, the latch did draw, 
 
 Ha! ha! 
 And in he thrust his knavish paw, 
 
 Sa ! sa ! 
 
 Ha! ha! 
 
 Sa ! sa ! 
 
 The bird dash'd out and gain'd the thorn, 
 
 Ha! ha! 
 And laugh'd the silly fool to scorn, 
 
 Sa ! sa ! 
 
 Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sa ! sa ! 
 Goetz of Berlichingcn, act iii. sc. xix. 
 
 THE REIVER'S WEDDING. 
 1802. 
 
 O WILL ye hear a myrthful bourd.? 
 
 Or will ye hear of courtesie? 
 Or will ye hear how a gallant lord 
 
 Was wedded to a gay ladye? 
 
 " Ca' out the kyc," quo' the village hertf, 
 
 .AlS he stood on the knowe, 
 " Ca' this ane's nine and that anc's ten, 
 
 And bauld Lord William's cow." — 
 
 " .'Vh ! by my sooth," quoth William then, 
 " And stands it that way now, 
 
 When knave and churl have nine and ten. 
 That the lord has but his cow? 
 
 " I swear by the light of the Michaelmas 
 moon. 
 
 And the might of Mary high. 
 And by the edge of my braidsword brown, 
 
 They shall soon say Harden's kye." 
 
 He took a bugle frae his side. 
 
 With names carv'd o'er and o'er — 
 
THE REIVER'S WEDDING. 
 
 543 
 
 Full many a chief of meikle pride 
 That Border bugle bore — 
 
 He blew a note baith sharp and hie, 
 Till rock and water rang around — 
 
 Threescore of moss-troopers and thrte 
 Have mounted at that bugle sound. 
 
 The Michaelmas moon had enter'd then, 
 
 And ere she wan the kill, 
 Ye might see by her light in Harden 
 Glen 
 
 A bow o' kye and a bassen'd bull. 
 
 And loud and loud in Harden tower 
 The quaigh gaed round wi' meikle glee; 
 
 For the English beef was broughf in 
 bower. 
 And the English ale flow'd merrilie. 
 
 And mony a guest from Teviotside 
 And Yarrow's Braes was there; 
 
 Was never a lord in Scotland wide 
 That made more dainty fare. 
 
 They ate, they laugh'd, they sang, and 
 quaff'd, 
 Till naught on board was seen. 
 When knight and squire were boune to 
 dine. 
 But a spur of silver sheen. 
 
 Lord William has ta'en his berry brown 
 steed — 
 
 A sore shent man was he; 
 " Wait ye, my guests, a little speed — 
 
 Weel feasted ye shall be." 
 
 He rode him down by Falsehope burn. 
 
 His cousin dear to see. 
 With him to take a riding turn — 
 
 Wat-draw-the-sword was he. 
 
 And when he came to Falsehope glen 
 
 Beneath the trysting-tree, 
 On the smooth green was carved plain, 
 
 "To Lochwood bound are we." 
 
 "O, if they be gane to dark Lochwood 
 
 To drive the Warden's gear, 
 Betwixt our names, I ween, there's 
 feud; 
 
 I'll go and have my share: 
 
 " For little reck I for Johnstone's feud, 
 The Warden though he be." 
 
 So Lord William is away to dark Loch- 
 wood, 
 With riders barely three. 
 
 The Warden's daughters in Lochwood 
 sate. 
 
 Were all both fair and gay, 
 All save the Lady Margaret, 
 
 And she was wan and wae. ■ 
 
 The sister, Jean, had a full fair skin, 
 And Grace was bauld and braw; 
 
 But the leal-fast heart her breast within. 
 It weel was worth them a'. 
 
 Her father's pranked her sisters twa 
 
 With meikle joy and pride; 
 But Margaret maun seek Dundrennan's 
 w<i' — 
 
 She ne'er can be a bride. 
 
 On spear and casque by gallants gent 
 Her sisters' scarfs were borne. 
 
 But never at tilt or tournament 
 Were Margaret's colors worn. 
 
 Her sisters rode to Thirlstane bower. 
 
 But she was left at hame 
 To wander round the gloomy tower. 
 
 And sigh young Harden's name. 
 
 "Of all the knights, the knight most fair. 
 
 From Yarrow to the Tyne," 
 Soft sigh'd the maid, " is Harden's heir, 
 
 But ne'er can he be mine; 
 
 "Of all the maids, the foulest maid 
 
 From Teviot to the Dee, 
 Ah ! " sighing sad, that lady said, 
 
 " Can ne'er young Harden's be." 
 
 She looked up the briery glen, 
 
 And up the mossy brae, 
 And she saw a score of her father's men 
 
 Yclad in the Johnstone gray. 
 
 O fast and fast they downwards sped 
 
 The moss and briers among. 
 And in the midst the troopers led 
 
 A shackled knight along. 
 
DRAMATIC PIECES, 
 
 HALIDON HILL; 
 
 A DRAMATIC SKETCH FROM SCOTTISH HISTORY. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The subject is to be found in Scottish history ; but not to overload so slight a publica- 
 tion with antiquarian research, or quotations from obscure chronicles, it may ba sufficient 
 to refer the reader to Pinkerton's History of Scotland, vol. i. p. 72. 
 
 The Regent of the sketch is a character purely imaginary. The tradition of the Swinton 
 family, which still survives in a lineal descent, and to which the author has the honor to Ix; 
 related, avers that the Swinton who fell at Homildon had slain Gordon's father ; which 
 seems sufficient ground for adopting that circumstance into the following dramatic sketch, 
 though it is rendered improbable by other authorities. 
 
 If any reader will take the trouble of looking at Froissart, Fordun, or other historians 
 of the period, he will find that the character of the Lord of Swinton, for strength, courage, 
 and conduct, is by no means exaggerated. 
 
 Abbotsford, 1822. W. S. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONyE. 
 
 SCOTTISH. 
 
 The Regent of Scotland. 
 
 Gordon, 
 
 Swinton, 
 
 Lennox, 
 
 Sutherland, 
 
 Ross, 
 
 Maxwell, 
 
 Johnston, 
 
 LiNDESAY, 
 
 Scottish chiefs and 
 Nobles. 
 
 Adam De Vipont, a Knight Templar. 
 
 The Prior of Maison-Dieu. 
 
 Reynald, Swinton'' s Squire. 
 
 Hob Hattely, a Border Moss-Trooper. 
 
 Heralds. 
 
 ENGLISH. 
 King Edward III. 
 
 Chandos, 
 
 Percy, 
 
 Ribaumont 
 
 The Abbot of Walthamstow 
 
 J 
 
 English and A^orman 
 A'ohles. 
 
 ACT I. — Scene I. 
 The northern side of the eminence of 
 Halidon. The back Scene represents 
 the summit of the ascent, occupied by 
 the Rear-guard of the Scottish army. 
 Bodies of armed Men appear as ad- 
 vancing from different points, to join 
 the main Body. 
 
 544 
 
 Enter De Vipont and t/u Prior of 
 
 Maison-Dieu. 
 ViP. No farther. Father — here I need 
 
 no guidance — 
 I have already brought your peaceful step 
 Too near the verge of battle. 
 
 Pri. Fain would I see you join some 
 Baron's banner. 
 
Scene I. 
 
 HALIDON HILL. 
 
 545 
 
 Before I say farewell. The honor'd sword 
 
 That fought so well in Syria, should not 
 wave 
 
 Amid the ignoble crowd. 
 
 ViP. Each spot is noble in a pitched 
 field, 
 
 So that a man has room to fight and fall 
 on't. 
 
 But I shall find out friends. 'Tis scarce 
 twelve years 
 
 Since I left Scotland for the wars of Pa- 
 lestine, 
 
 And then the flower of all the Scottish 
 nobles 
 
 Were known to me; and I, in my degree, 
 
 Not all unknown to them. 
 
 Pri. Alas ! there have been changes 
 since that time ! 
 
 The Royal Bruce, with Randolph, Doug- 
 las, Grahame, 
 
 Then shook in field the banners which 
 now moulder 
 
 Over their graves i' the chancel. 
 ViP. And thence comes it. 
 
 That while I look'd on many a well-known 
 crest 
 
 And blazon'd shield, as hitherward we 
 came, 
 
 The faces of the Barons who display'd 
 them 
 
 Were all unknown to me. Brave youths 
 they seem'd; 
 
 Yet, surely, fitter to adorn the tilt-yard, 
 
 Than to be leaders of a war. Their fol- 
 lowers. 
 
 Young like themselves, seem like them- 
 selves unpractised — 
 
 Look at their battle-rank. 
 
 Pri. I cannot gaze on't with undazzled 
 eye, 
 
 So thick the rays dart back from shield 
 and helmet, 
 
 And sword and battle-ax, and spear and 
 pennon. 
 
 Sure, 'tis a gallant show ! The Bruce 
 
 himself 
 Hath often conquer'd at the head of 
 fewer 
 
 And worse appointed followers. 
 
 ViP. Ay, but 'twas Bruce that led 
 them. Reverend Father, 
 'Tis not the falchion's weight decides a 
 combat; 
 
 It is the strong and skilful hand that 
 
 wields it. 
 Ill fate, that we should lack the noble 
 
 King, 
 And all his champions now ! Time call'd 
 
 them not. 
 For when I parted hence for Palestine, 
 The brows of most were free from grizzl'd 
 
 hair. 
 Pri. Too true, alas! But well you 
 
 know, in Scotland 
 Few hairs are silver'd underneath the 
 
 helmet; 
 'Tis cowls like mine which hide them. 
 
 'Mongst the laity, 
 War's the rash reaper, who thrusts in his 
 
 sickle 
 Before the grain is white. In threescore 
 
 years 
 And ten, which I have seen, I have out- 
 lived 
 Well-nigh two generations of our nobles. 
 The race which holds yon summit is the 
 
 third. 
 Vip. Thou mayst outlive them also. 
 Pri. Heaven forfend ! 
 
 My prayer shall be, that Heaven will 
 
 close my eyes, 
 Before they look upon the wrath to come. 
 ViP. Retire, retire, good Father ! — 
 
 Pray for Scotland — 
 Think not on me. Here comes an ancient 
 
 friend, 
 Brother in arms, with whom to-day I'll 
 
 join me. 
 Back to your choir, assemble all your 
 
 brotherhood. 
 And weary Heaven with prayers for 
 
 victory. 
 Pri. Heaven's blessing rest with thee, 
 Champion of Heaven, and of thy suffer- 
 ing country ! 
 
 [Exii Prior. Vipont draws a 
 little aside and lets down tht 
 beaver of his helmet. 
 
 Enter Swinton, followed by Reynai.d 
 
 and others, to whom he speaks as he 
 
 enters. 
 
 Swi. Halt here, and plant my pennon, 
 till the Regent 
 Assign our band its station in the host. 
 
 Rev. That must be by the Standard. 
 
546 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 We have had 
 That right since good Saint David's reign 
 
 at least. 
 Fain would I see the Marcher would dis- 
 pute it. 
 Swi. Peace, Reynald ! Where the 
 
 general plants the soldier, 
 There is his place of honor, and there only 
 His valor can" win worship. Thou'rt of 
 
 those 
 Who would have war's deep art bear the 
 
 wild semblance 
 Of sonic disorder'd hunting, whore, pell 
 
 mell, 
 Each trusting to the swiftness of his horse, 
 Gallants press on to see the quarry fall. 
 Yon steel-clad Southrons, Reynald, are 
 
 no deer; 
 And England's Edward is no stag at bay. 
 ViP. i^advancing^. There needed not, 
 
 to blazon forth the Swinton, 
 His ancient burgonet, the sable Boar 
 Chain'd to the gnarled oak,* — nor his 
 
 proud step. 
 Nor giant stature, nor the pondrous mace, 
 Which only he, of Scotland's realm, can 
 
 wield; 
 His discipline and wisdom mark the 
 
 leader. 
 As doth his frame the champion. Hail, 
 
 brave Swinton ! 
 Swi. Brave Templar, thanks ! Such 
 
 your cross'd shoulder speaks you; 
 But the closed visor, which conceals your 
 
 features, 
 Forbids more knowledge. Umfraville, 
 
 perhaps — 
 ViP. {unclosing his heltnef) . No; one 
 
 less worthy of our sacred Order. 
 Yet, unless Syrian suns have scorch'd 
 
 my features 
 Swart as my sable visor, Alan Swinton 
 Will welcome Symon Vipont. 
 
 Swi. {embracing him). As the blithe 
 
 reaper 
 Welcomes a practised mate, when the 
 
 ripe harvest 
 
 * "The armorial bearings of the ancient family 
 of Swinton are sahle, a chevron, or between 
 three boars' heads erased arf^ent. Crest, a boar 
 chaintd to a tree, and above, on a %cxa\\,J''esptre. 
 Supporters — two boars standing on a compart- 
 ment whereon are the words Je pense." — Dim/B- 
 ias's Baronage. 
 
 Lies deep before him, and the sun is high ! 
 Thou 'It follow yon old pennon, wilt thou 
 
 not? 
 'Tis tatter'd since thou saw'st it, and the 
 
 Boar-heads 
 Look as if brought from off some Christ- 
 mas board, 
 Where knives had notch'd them deeply. 
 Vip. Have with them, ne'ertheless. 
 
 The Stuart's Chequer, 
 The bloody Heart of Douglas, Ross's 
 
 Lymphads, 
 Sutherland's Wild-cats, nor the royal 
 
 Lion, 
 Rampant in golden treasure, wins me 
 
 from them. 
 We'll back the Boar-heads bravely. I 
 
 see round them 
 A chosen band of lances — some well- 
 known to me. 
 Where's the main body of thy followers? 
 Swi. Symon de Vipont, thou dost 
 
 see them all 
 That Swinton's bugle-horn can call to 
 
 battle, 
 However loud it rings. There's not a 
 
 Ixjy 
 Left in my halls, whose arm has strength 
 
 enough 
 To bear a sword — there's not a man 
 
 behind, 
 However old, who moves without a staff. 
 Striplings and graybeards, every one is 
 
 here. 
 And here all should Ix; — Scotland needs 
 
 them all, 
 And more and better men, were each a 
 
 Hercules, 
 And yonder handful centupled. 
 
 Vip. a thousand followers — such, 
 
 with friends and kinsmen. 
 Allies and vassals, thou wert wont to 
 
 lead — 
 A thousand followers shrunk to sixty 
 
 lances 
 In twelve years' space? — And thy brave 
 
 sons, Sir Alan? 
 Alas ! I fear to ask. 
 
 Swi. All slain, De Vipont. In my 
 
 empty home 
 A puny babe lisps to a widow'd mother : — 
 "Where is my grandsire? wherefore do 
 
 you weep? " 
 
Scene I. 
 
 HALIDON HILL. 
 
 547 
 
 But for that prattler, Lyulph's house is 
 
 heirless. 
 I'm an old oak, from which the foresters 
 Have hew'd four goodly boughs, and 
 
 left beside me 
 Only a sapling which the fawn may crush 
 As he springs over it. 
 ViP. All slain ? — alas ! 
 Swi. Ay, all, De Vipont. And their 
 
 attributes, 
 John with the Long Spear — Archibald 
 
 with the Ax — 
 Richard the Ready — and my youngest 
 
 darling, 
 My Fair-hair'd William — do but now 
 
 survive 
 In measures which the gray-hair'd min- 
 strels sing 
 When they make maidens weep. 
 
 Vip. These wars with England they 
 
 have rooted out 
 The flowers of Christendom. Knights, 
 
 who might win 
 The sepulchre of Christ from the rude 
 
 heathen, 
 Fall in unholy warfare ! 
 
 Swi. Unholy warfare? ay, well hast 
 
 thou named it; 
 But not with England — would her cloth- 
 yard shafts 
 Had bored their cuirasses ! Their lives 
 
 had been 
 Lost like their grandsire's, in the bold 
 
 defence 
 Of their dear country;— but in private feud 
 With the proud Gordon, fell my Long- 
 
 spear'd John, 
 He with the Ax, and he men call'd the 
 
 Ready, 
 Ay, and my fair-hair'd Will —the Gor- 
 don's wrath 
 Devour'd my gallant issue. 
 
 Vip. Since thou dost weep, their death 
 
 is unavenged? 
 Swi. Templar, what think'st thou me? 
 
 — See yonder rock. 
 From which the fountain gushes — is it less 
 Compact of adamant, tho' waters flow 
 
 from it? 
 Firm hearts have moister eyes. — They 
 
 arr nvrnf^ed; 
 I wept not till they were — till the proud 
 
 Gordon 
 
 Had with his life-blood dyed my father's 
 
 sword. 
 In guerdon that he thinn'd my father's 
 
 lineage. 
 And then I wept my sons; and, as the 
 
 Gordon 
 Lay at my feet, there was a tear for him, 
 Which mingled with the rest. We had 
 
 been friends, 
 Had shared the banquet and the chase 
 
 together. 
 Fought side by side, — and our first cause 
 
 of strife. 
 Woe to the pride of both, was but a light 
 
 one! 
 Vip, You are at feud, then, with the 
 
 mighty Gordon? 
 Swi. At deadly feud. Here in this 
 
 Borderland, 
 Where the sire's quarrels descend upon 
 
 the son, 
 As due a part of his inheritance. 
 As the strong castle and the ancient blazon, 
 Where private Vengeance holds the scales 
 
 of justice, [lously 
 
 Weighing each drop of blood as scrupu- 
 Asjews or Lombards balance silver pence. 
 Not in this land, 'twixt Solway and Saint 
 
 Abb's, 
 Rages a bitterer feud than mine and theirs. 
 The Swinton and the Gordon. 
 
 ViP. You, with some threescore lances 
 
 — and the Gordon 
 Leading a thousand followers. 
 
 Swi. You rate him far too low. Since 
 
 you sought Palestine, 
 He hath had grants of baronies and lord- 
 ships 
 In the far-distant North. A thousand horse 
 His southern friends and vassals always 
 
 number'd. 
 Add Badenoch kerne, and horse from 
 
 Dey and Spey, 
 He'll count a thousand more. — And 
 
 now, De Vipont, 
 If the Boar -heads seem in your eyes less 
 
 worthy 
 For lack of followers — seek yonder stand- 
 ard — 
 The bounding Stag, with a brave host 
 
 around it; 
 There the young Gordon makes his earli- 
 est field, 
 
548 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 And pants to win his spurs. His father's 
 
 friend, 
 As well as mine, thou wert — go, join his 
 
 pennon, 
 And grace him with thy presence. 
 
 ViP. When you were friends, I was the 
 
 friend of both. 
 And now I can be enemy to neither; 
 But my poor person, tho' but slight the 
 
 aid. 
 Joins on this field the banner of the two 
 Which hath the smnjlest following. 
 Swi. Spoke like the generous Knight, 
 
 who gave up all, 
 Leading and lordship, in a heathen land 
 To fight, a Christian soldier! Vet, in 
 
 earnest, 
 I pray, De Vipont, you would join the 
 
 Gordon 
 In this high battle. Tis a noble youth, — 
 So fame doth vouch him, — amorous, 
 
 quick, and valiant; 
 Takes knighthood, too, this day, and 
 
 well may use 
 His spurs too rashly in the wish to win 
 
 them. 
 A friend like thee beside him in the fight. 
 Were worth a hundred spears, to rein his 
 
 valor 
 And temper it with prudence: — 'tis the 
 
 aged eagle 
 Teaches his brood to gaze upon the sun. 
 With eye undazzled. 
 
 ViP. Alas! brave Swi nton ! Would'st 
 
 thou train the hunter 
 That soon must bring thee to the bay? 
 
 Your custom. 
 Your most unchristian, savage, fiend-like 
 
 custom. 
 Binds Ciordon to avenge his father's 
 
 death. 
 Swi. Why, be it so ! I look for noth- 
 ing else; 
 My part was acted when I slew his father. 
 Avenging my four sons. — Young Gor- 
 don's sword. 
 If it should find my heart, can ne'er 
 
 inflict there 
 A pang so poignant as his father's did. 
 But I would perish by a noble hand, 
 And such will his he if he bear him 
 
 nobly. 
 Nobly and wisely on this field of Halidon. 
 
 Enter a Pursuivant. 
 Pur. Sir Knights, to council ! — 'tis 
 
 the Regent's order, 
 That knights and men of leading meet 
 
 him instantly 
 Before the royal standard. Edward's army 
 Is seen from the hill summit. 
 
 Svvi. Say to the Regent, we obey his 
 
 orders. \^Exit Pursuivant. 
 
 [ I'o Revnald. ] Hold thou my casque, 
 
 and furl my pennon up 
 Close to the staff. I will not show my 
 
 crest. 
 Nor standard, till the common foe shall 
 
 challenge them. 
 I'll wake no civil strife, nor tempt the 
 
 Gordon 
 With aught that's like defiance. 
 
 ViP. Will he not know your features? 
 Swi. He never saw me. In the dis- 
 tant North, 
 Against his will, 'tis said, his friends de- 
 
 tain'd him 
 During his nurture — caring not, belike. 
 To trust a pledge so precious near the 
 
 Boar-tusks. 
 It was a natural but needless caution; 
 I wage no war with children, for I think 
 Too deeply on mine own. 
 
 ViP. I have thought on it, and will see 
 
 the Gordon 
 As we go hence to council. I do bear 
 A cross, which binds me to be Christian 
 
 priest 
 As well as Christian champion. God 
 
 may grant 
 That I, at once his father's friend and 
 
 yours. 
 May make some peace betwixt you. 
 Swi. When that your priestly zeal and 
 
 knightly valor 
 Shall force the grave to render up the 
 
 dead. [/s'.n'Mw/ severally. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 The summit of HaliJon Hill, before the 
 Regent^ s tent. The royal standard of 
 Scotland is seen in the background, 
 ■loith the Pennons and Banners of the 
 principal A'obles around it. 
 
 Council of Scottish Nobles and Chiefs. 
 Sutherland, Ross, Lennox, Max- 
 well, and other nobles of the highest 
 
Scene II. 
 
 HA LI DON HILL. 
 
 549 
 
 rank, are close to the Regent's/^ a j<;«, 
 and in the act of keen debate. ViPONT 
 with Gordon and others remain 
 grouped at some distance on the right 
 hand of the Stage. On the left, stand- 
 ing also apart, is SwiNTON, alone and 
 bareheaded. The A'obles are dressed 
 in Highland or Lowland habits, as 
 historical costume requires. Trum- 
 pets, Heralds, etc., are in attendance. 
 
 Len. Nay, Ltirdings, put no shame 
 
 upon my counsels. 
 I did but say, if we retired a little, 
 We should have fairer field and better 
 
 vantage. 
 I've seen King Rolx.Tt — ay, the Bruce 
 
 himself — 
 Retreat six leagues in length, and think 
 
 no shame on't. 
 Reg. Ay, but King Edward sent a 
 
 haughty message. 
 Defying us to battle on this field. 
 This very hill of Halidon; if we leave 
 
 it 
 Unfought withal, it squares not with our 
 
 honor. 
 Swi. {apart). A perilous honor that 
 
 allows the enemy. 
 And such an enemy as this same Edward, 
 To choose our field of battle ! He knows 
 
 how 
 To make our Scottish pride betray its 
 
 master 
 Into the pitfall. 
 
 [During this speech the debate among 
 
 the N^ohles is continued."] 
 
 SUTH. (aloud). We will not back one 
 furlong — not one yard. 
 
 No, nor one inch; where'er we find the 
 foe.. 
 
 Or where Vhe foe finds us, there will we 
 fight him. 
 
 Retreat will dull tlie spirit of our fol- 
 lowers. 
 
 Who now stand prompt for battle. 
 
 Ross. My Lords, methinks great Mor- 
 archat * has doubts, 
 
 That, if his Northern clans once turn the 
 seam 
 
 • Morarchate in the ancient Gaelic designa- 
 tion of the Earls of Sutherland. 
 
 Of their check 'd hose behind, it will be 
 
 hard 
 To halt and rally them. 
 
 SuTH. Say'st thou, MacDonnell? — 
 
 Add another falsehood, 
 And name when Morarchat was coward 
 
 or traitor? 
 Thine island race, as chronicles can tell. 
 Were oft affianced to the Southron cause; 
 Loving the weight and temper of their 
 
 gold. 
 More than the weight and temper of their 
 
 steel. 
 Reg. Peace, my lords, ho. 
 Ross (thro7oing do7vn his glove). Mac- 
 Donnell will not peace ! There lies my 
 
 pledge. 
 Proud Morarchat, to witness thee a liar. 
 Max. Brought I all Nithsdale from the 
 
 Western Border; 
 Left I my towers exposed to foraying 
 
 Erigland, 
 And thieving Annandale, to see such 
 
 misrule? 
 Johnstone. Who speaks of Annan- 
 dale? 
 Dare Maxwell slander 
 The gentle House of Lochwood?t 
 Reg. Peace, Lordings, once again. 
 
 We represent 
 The Majesty of Scotland — in our presence 
 Brawling is treason. 
 
 SuTH. Were it in presence of the King 
 
 himself. 
 What should prevent my saying 
 
 ILnter LiNDESAY. 
 LiN. You must determine quickly. 
 
 Scarce a mile 
 Parts our vanguard from Edward's. On 
 
 the plain 
 Bright gleams of armor flash thro' clouds 
 
 of dust. 
 Like stars thro' frost-mist — steeds neigh, 
 
 and weapons clash — 
 And arrows soon will whistle — the worst 
 
 sound 
 That waits on English war. — You must 
 
 determine. 
 Reg. We are determined. We will 
 
 spare proud Edward 
 
 t Lochwood Castle was the ancient seat •( lh« 
 Johnstones, Lords of Annandale. 
 
5SO 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Half of the ground that parts us. — On- 
 ward, Lords; 
 
 Saint Andrew strike for Scotland ! We 
 will lead 
 
 The middle ward ourselves, the Royal 
 Standard 
 
 Display 'd beside us; and beneath its 
 shadow 
 
 Shall the young gallants, whom we knight 
 this day, 
 
 Fight for their golden spurs. — Lennox, 
 thou'rt wise, 
 
 And wilt obey command — lead thou the 
 rear. 
 Len. The rear ? — why I the rear ? 
 The van were fitter 
 
 For him who fought abreast with Robert 
 Bruce. 
 Swi. («/«/-/). Discretion hath for- 
 saken Lennox too ! 
 
 The wisdom he was forty years in gathering 
 
 Has left him in an instant. 'Tis con- 
 tagious 
 
 Even to witness frenzy. 
 
 SuTH. The Regent hath determined 
 well. The rear 
 
 Suits him the best who counsell'd our re- 
 treat. 
 Len. Proud Northern Thane, the van 
 were soon the rear, 
 
 Were thy disorder'd followers planted 
 there. 
 SuTH. Then, for that very word I 
 make a vow. 
 
 By my broad Earldom and my father's 
 soul. 
 
 That, if I have not leading of the van, 
 
 I will not fight to-day ! 
 
 Ross. Morarchat ! thou the leading of 
 the van ! 
 
 Not whilst MacDonnell lives. 
 
 Swi. {apart). Nay, then a stone would 
 speak. 
 
 [Addresses the Regent.] May't please 
 your Grace, 
 
 And you, great Lords, to hear an old 
 man's counsel. 
 
 That hath seen fights enow. These open 
 bickerings 
 
 Dishearten all our host. If that your 
 Grace 
 
 With these great Earls and Lords must 
 needs debate, 
 
 Let the closed tent conceal your disagree- 
 ment; 
 
 Else 'twill be said, ill fares it with the 
 flock. 
 
 If shepherds wrangle when the wolf is 
 nigh. 
 Reg. The old Knight counsels well. 
 Let every Lord 
 
 Or Chief, who leads five hundred men 
 or more. 
 
 Follow to council — others are excluded — 
 
 We'll have no vulgar censurers of our 
 conduct — [ Looking at SwiNTON. 
 
 Young Gordon, your high rank and nu- 
 merous following 
 
 Give you a seat with us, tho' yet un- 
 knighted. 
 Gordon. I pray you, pardon me. My 
 youth's unfit 
 
 To sit in council, when that Knight's gray 
 hairs 
 
 And wisdom wait without. 
 
 Reg. Do as you will; we deign not 
 bid you twice. 
 
 [ The Regent, Ross, Sutherland, 
 Lennox, Maxwell, etc., enter the 
 Tent. The rest I'emain grouped 
 about the Stage. 
 GOR. {^observing Svvi). That helmet- 
 less old Knight, his giant stature. 
 His awful accents of rebuke and wisdom. 
 Have caught my fancy strangely. He 
 
 doth seem 
 Like to some vision'd form which I have 
 
 dream'd of. 
 But never saw with waking eyes till now. 
 I will accost him. 
 
 ViP. Pray you, do not so; 
 Anon I'll give you reason why you should 
 not. 
 
 There's other work in hand 
 
 GoR. I will but ask his name. There's 
 in his presence 
 Something that works upon me like a 
 
 spell. 
 Or like the feeling made my childish ear 
 Dote upon tales of superstitious dread. 
 Attracting while they chill'd my heart 
 
 with fear. 
 Now, born the Gordon, I do feel right well 
 I'm bound to fear naught earthly — and 
 I fear naught. 
 
Scene II. 
 
 HALIDON HILL. 
 
 55» 
 
 I'll know who this man is 
 
 \_Accosts SWINTON. 
 Sir Knight, I pray you, of your gentle 
 
 courtesy, 
 To tell your honor'd name. I am ashamed, 
 Being unknown in arms, to say that mine 
 Is Adam Gordon. 
 
 SwiNTON i^sho'ws emotion, but instantly 
 subdues if). It is a name that sound- 
 eth in my ear 
 Like to a death-knell — ay, and like the 
 
 call 
 Of the shrill trumpet to the mortal lists; 
 Yet, 'tis a name which ne'er hath been 
 
 dishonor'd; 
 And never will, 1 trust — most surely never 
 By such a youth as thou. 
 
 GoR. There's a mysterious courtesy in 
 this, 
 And yet it yields no answer to my question. 
 I trust you hold the Gordon not unworthy 
 To know the name he asks? 
 
 Swi. Worthy of all that openness and 
 honor 
 May show to friend or foe — but, for my 
 
 name, 
 Vipont will show it you; and, if it sounds 
 Harsh in your ear, remember that it 
 
 knells there 
 But at your own request. This day, at 
 
 least, 
 Tho' seldom wont to keep it in conceal- 
 ment. 
 As there's no cause I should, you had 
 not heard it. 
 GoR. This strange — 
 Vip. The mystery is needful. Follow 
 me. [ They retire behind the side 
 scene. ] 
 Swi. {looking after them'). "Tisabrave 
 youth. How blush'd his noble cheek. 
 While youthful modesty, and the embar- 
 rassment 
 Of curiosity, combined with wonder, 
 And half suspicionof someslightintended, 
 All mingled in the flush; but soon 'twill 
 
 deepen 
 Into revenge's glow. How slow is Vipont ! 
 I wait the issue, as I've seen spectators 
 Suspend the motion even of the eyelids, 
 When the slow gunner, with his lighted 
 
 match, 
 Approach'd the charged cannon, in the act 
 
 To waken its dread slumbers. — Now 'tis 
 
 out; 
 He draws his sword, and rushes towards 
 
 me. 
 Who will not seek nor shun him. 
 
 Enter Gordon, withheld by ViPONT. 
 Vip. Hold, for the sake of Heaven ! — 
 
 O, for the sake 
 Of your dear country, hold ! — Has Swin- 
 
 ton slain your father, 
 And must you, therefore, be yourself a 
 
 parricide, 
 And stand recorded as the selfish traitor. 
 Who in her hour of need, his country's 
 
 cause 
 Deserts, that he may wreak a private 
 
 wrong ? 
 Look to yon banner — that is Scotland's 
 
 standard; 
 Look to the Regent — he is Scotland's 
 
 general ; 
 Look to the English — they are Scotland's 
 
 foemen ! 
 Bethink thee, then, thou art a son of 
 
 Scotland, 
 And think on naught Ixjside. 
 
 GOR. He hath come here to brave me ! 
 
 — Off ! unhand me ! — 
 Thou canst not be my f ather'sancient friend, 
 That stand'st 'twixt me and him who slew 
 
 my father. 
 Vip. You know not Swinton. Scarce 
 
 one passing thought 
 Of his high mind was with you; now, his 
 
 soul 
 Is fix'd on this day's battle. You might 
 
 slay him 
 At unawares, before he saw your blade 
 
 drawn, — 
 Stand still, and watch him close. 
 
 Enter Maxwell /row the tent. 
 Swi. How go our councils. Maxwell, 
 
 may I ask? 
 Max. As wild, as if the very wind 
 and sea 
 With every breeze and every billow battled 
 For their precedence. 
 
 Swi. Most sure they are possess'd ! 
 Some evil spirit. 
 To mock their valor, robs them of dis* 
 cretion. 
 
552 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Fie, fie upon 't ! — O, that Dunfermline's 
 
 tomb 
 Could render up The Bruce ! that Spain's 
 
 red shore 
 Could give us back the good Lord James 
 
 of Douglas ! 
 Or that fierce Randolph, with his voice 
 
 of terror. 
 Were here, to awe these brawlers to sub- 
 mission ! 
 Vip. (/o Gor). Thou hast perused him 
 
 at more leisure now. 
 GoR. I see the giant form which all 
 
 men speak of. 
 The stately port — but not the sullen eye. 
 Not the bloodthirsty look, that should 
 
 belong 
 To him that made me orphan. I shall 
 
 need 
 To name my father twice ere I can strike 
 At such gray hairs, and face of such com- 
 mand; 
 Yet my hand clenches on my falchion hilt, 
 In token he shall die. 
 
 Vip. Need I again remind you, that 
 
 the place 
 Permits not private quarrel? 
 
 GoR. I'm calm. I will not seek — 
 
 nay, I will shun it — 
 And yet methinks that such debate's the 
 
 fashion. 
 You've heard how taunts, reproaches, 
 
 and the lie, 
 The lie itself, have flown from mouth to 
 
 mouth ; 
 As if a band of peasants were disputing 
 Alwut a foot-ball match, rather than 
 
 Chiefs 
 Were ordering a battle. I am young, 
 And lack experience; tell me, brave De 
 
 Vipont, 
 Is such the fashion of your wars in Pales- 
 tine? 
 Vip. Such it at times hath been; and 
 
 then the Cross 
 Hath sunk before the Crescent. Heaven's 
 
 cause 
 Won us not victory where wisdom was 
 
 not. — 
 Behold yon English host come slowly on. 
 With equal front, rank marshall'd upon 
 
 rank, 
 As if one spirit ruled one moving body; 
 
 The leaders, in their places, each prepared 
 To charge, support, and rally, as the 
 
 fortune 
 Of changeful battle needs; then look on 
 
 ours. 
 Broken, disjointed, as the tumbling surges 
 Which the winds wake at random. Look 
 
 on both, 
 And dread the issue; yet there might be 
 
 succor. 
 GoR. We're fearfully o'ermatched in 
 
 discipline; 
 So even my inexperienced eye can judge. 
 What succor save in Heaven? 
 
 Vip. Heaven acts by human means. 
 
 The artist's skill 
 Supplies in war, as in mechanic crafts. 
 Deficiency of tools. There's courage, 
 
 wisdom. 
 And skill enough, live in one leader here. 
 As, flung into the balance, might avail 
 To counterpoise the odds 'twixt that ruled 
 
 host 
 And our wild multitude. — I must not 
 
 name him. 
 GOR. I guess, but dare not ask. — 
 
 What band is yonder. 
 Arranged as closely as the English dis- 
 cipline 
 Hath marshall'd their best files? 
 
 ViP. Know'st thou not the pennon? 
 One day, perhaps, thou'lt see it all too 
 
 closely; — ■ 
 It is Sir Alan Swinton's. 
 
 GoR. These, then, are his, — the relics 
 
 of his power; 
 Yet worth an host of ordinary men. — 
 And I must slay my country's sagest 
 
 leader. 
 And crush by numbers that determined 
 
 handful. 
 When most my country needs their prac- 
 tised aid. 
 Or men will say, " There goes degenerate 
 
 Gordon ; 
 His father's blood is on the Swinton's 
 
 sword. 
 And his is in his scabbard! " [Muses. 
 Vip. {(ipiiri). High blood and mettle, 
 
 mix'd with early wisdom, 
 Sparkle in this brave youth. If he survive 
 This evil-omen'd day, I pawn my word, 
 That, in the ruin which I now forebode, 
 
Scene II. 
 
 HALIDON HILL. 
 
 553 
 
 Scotland has treasure left. — How close 
 
 he eyes 
 Each look and step of Swinton ! Is it 
 
 hate, 
 Or is it admiration, or are both 
 Commingled strangely in that steady gaze? 
 
 [SwiNTON and Maxwell return 
 
 from the bottom of the stage. 
 Max. The storm is laid at length 
 amongst these counsellors; 
 See, they come forth. 
 
 Swi. And it is more than time; 
 For I can mark the vanguard archery 
 Handling their quivers — bending up their 
 bows. 
 
 Enter the Regent and Scottish Lords. 
 Reg. Thus shall it be, then, since we 
 may no better; 
 And, since no Lord will yield one jot of 
 
 way 
 To this high urgency, or give the vanguard 
 Up to another's guidance, we will abide 
 
 them 
 Even on this bent; and as our troops are 
 
 rank'd. 
 So shall they meet the foe. Chief, nor 
 
 Thane, 
 Nor Noble, can complain of the preced- 
 ence 
 Which chance has thus assigned him. 
 Swi. (a/art). O, sage discipline, 
 That leaves to chance tlie marshalling of 
 a battle ! 
 GoK. Move him to speech, De Vifront. 
 V'ic. Move him ! — Move whom? 
 GoR. Even him, whom, but brief space 
 since, 
 My hand did burn to put to utter silence. 
 ViP. I'll move it to him. — Swinton, 
 speak U> them, 
 They lack thy counsel sorely. 
 
 Swi. Had I the thousand spears which 
 once I led, 
 I had not thus been silent. But men's 
 
 wisdom 
 Is rated by their means. From the poor 
 
 leader 
 Of sixtylances,whoseekswordsof weight ! 
 GOR. (^steps forward). Swinton, there's 
 that of wisdom on thy brow. 
 And valor in thine eye, and that of peril 
 
 In this most urgent hour, that bids me 
 
 say, — 
 Bids me, thy mortal foe, say, — Swinton, 
 
 speak, 
 For King and Country's sake. 
 
 Swi. Nay, if that voice commands me, 
 speak I will; 
 It sounds as if the dead lays charge on me. 
 Reg. {to Lennox, with whom he has 
 been consulting). 'Tis better than 
 you think. This broad hillside 
 Affords fair compass for our power's dis- 
 play. 
 Rank above rank rising in seemly tiers; 
 So that the rearward stands as fair and 
 open — 
 Swi. As e'er stood mark before an 
 
 English archer. 
 Reg. Who dares to say so ? — Who 
 is't dare impeach 
 Our rule of discipline ? 
 
 Swi. a poor Knight of these Marches, 
 good my Lord; 
 Alan of Swinton, who hath kept a house 
 
 here. 
 He and his ancestry, since the old days 
 Of Malcolm, called the Maiden. 
 
 Reg. Vou have brought here, even 
 to this pitched field, 
 In which the Royal Banner is display 'd, 
 I think some sixty sjjcars, Sir Knight of 
 
 Swinton; 
 Our musters name no more. 
 
 Swi. I brought each man I had; and; 
 Chief, or Earl, 
 Thane, Duke, or dignitary, brings no 
 
 more : 
 And with them brought I what may here 
 
 be useful — 
 An aged eye; which, what in England, 
 
 Scotland, 
 Spain, France, and Flanders, hath seen 
 
 fifty battles. 
 And ta'en some judgment of them; a 
 
 stark hand too. 
 Which plays as with a straw with this 
 
 same mace, — 
 Which if a young arm here can wield 
 
 more lightly, 
 I never more will offer word of counsel. 
 Len. Hear him, my Lord; it is the 
 noble Swinton — 
 He hath had high experience. 
 
554 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Max. He is noted 
 
 The wisest warrior 'twixt the Tweed and 
 
 Solway, — • 
 
 I do beseech you, hear him. 
 Johnstone. Ay, hear the Swinton — 
 
 hear stout old Sir Alan; 
 Maxwell and Johnstone both agree for 
 
 once. 
 Reg. Where's your impatience now? 
 Late you were all for battle, would not 
 
 hear 
 Ourself pronounce a word — and now 
 
 you gaze 
 On yon old warrior, in his antique armor. 
 As if he were arisen from the dead. 
 To bring us Bruce's counsel for the battle. 
 Swi. 'Tis a proud word to speak; but 
 
 he who fought 
 Long under Robert Bruce, may something 
 
 guess. 
 Without communication with the dead. 
 At what he would have cousell'd. — 
 
 Bruce had bidden ye 
 Review your battle-order, marshall'd 
 
 broadly 
 Here on the bare hillside, and bidden 
 
 you mark 
 Yon clouds of Southron archers, bearing 
 
 down 
 To the green meadow-lands which stretch 
 
 beneath; — 
 The Bruce had warn'd you, not a shaft 
 
 to-day 
 But shall find mark within a Scottish 
 
 bosom. 
 If thus our field be order'd. The callow 
 
 boys, 
 Who draw but four-foot bows, shall gall 
 
 our front, 
 While on our mainward, and upon the 
 
 rear, 
 The cloth-yard shafts shall fall like death's 
 
 own darts, 
 And, tho' blind men discharge them, find 
 
 a mark. 
 Thus shall we die the death of slaughter'd 
 
 deer, 
 Which, driven into the toils, are shot at 
 
 ease 
 By boys and women, while they toss 
 
 aloft 
 All idly and in vain their branchy horns. 
 As we shall shake our unavailing spears. 
 
 Reg. Tush, tell not me ! if their shot 
 
 fall like hail. 
 Our men have Milan coats to bear it out. 
 Swi. Never did armorer temper steel 
 
 on stithy 
 That made sure fence against an English 
 
 arrow; 
 
 A cobweb gossamer were guard as good I 
 Against a wasp-sting. j 
 
 Reg. Who fears a wasp-sting ? I 
 
 Swi. I, my Lord, fear none; 
 
 Yet should a wise man brush the insect 
 
 off. 
 Or he may smart for it. 
 
 Reg. We'll keep the hill; it is the 
 
 vantage ground 
 When the main battle joins. 
 
 Swi. It ne'er will join, while their 
 
 light archery 
 Can foil our spearmen and our barbed J 
 
 horse. \ 
 
 To hope Plantagenet would seek close 
 
 combat 
 When he can conquer riskless, is to deem 
 Sagacious Edward simpler than a babe 
 In battle knowledge. Keep the hill, my 
 
 Lord, 
 With the main body, if it is your pleasure; 
 But let a body of your chosen horse 
 Make execution on yon waspish archers. 
 I've done such work before, and love it 
 
 well; 
 If 'tis your pleasure to give me the leading, 
 The dames of Sherwood, Inglewood, and 
 
 Weardale, 
 Shall sit in widowhood and long for veni- 
 son. 
 And long in vain. Whoe'er remembers 
 
 Bannockburn, — 
 And when shall Scotsman, till the last 
 
 loud trumpet, 
 Forget that stirring word! — knows that 
 
 great battle 
 Even thus was fought and won. 
 
 Len. This is the shortest road to 
 
 bandy blows; 
 For when the bills step forth and bows 
 
 go back, 
 Then is the moment that our hardy spear- 
 men. 
 With their strong bodies, and their stub- 
 born hearts. 
 And limbs well knit by mountain exercise, 
 
Scene II. 
 
 HALIDON HILL. 
 
 555 
 
 At the close tug shall foil the short- 
 breath'd Southron. 
 Swi. I do not say the field will thus 
 be won; 
 The English host is numerous, brave, and 
 
 loyal; 
 ITieir Monarch most accomplish'd in war's 
 
 art, 
 Skill'd, resolute, and wary — 
 
 Reg. And if your scheme secure not 
 victory, 
 What does it promise us? 
 
 Swi. This much at least, — 
 
 Darkling we shall not die: the peasant's 
 
 shaft, 
 I^osen'd perchance without an aim or 
 
 purpose, 
 Shall not drink up the life-blood we deiive 
 From those famed ancestors, who made 
 
 their breasts 
 This frontier's barrier for a thousand 
 
 years. 
 We'll meet these Southron bravely hand 
 
 to hand. 
 And eye to eye, and weapon against 
 
 weapon; 
 Each man who falls shall see the foe who 
 
 strikes him. 
 While our good blades are faithful to the 
 
 hilts, 
 And our good hands to these good blades 
 
 are faithful. 
 Blow shall meet blow, and none fall un- 
 avenged — 
 We shall not bleed alone. 
 
 Reg. And this is all 
 
 Your wisdom hath devised ? 
 
 Swi. Not all; for I would pray you, 
 noble Lords, 
 (If one, among the guilty guiltiest, 
 
 might,) 
 For this one day to charm to ten hours' 
 
 rest 
 The never-dying worm of deadly feud. 
 The gnaws our vexed hearts — think no 
 
 one foe 
 Save Edward and his host : — days will 
 
 remain. 
 Ay, days by far too many will remain. 
 To avenge old feuds or struggle for pre- 
 cedence; — 
 Let this one day be Scotland's. — For 
 myself. 
 
 If there is any here may claim from mc 
 (As well may chance) a debt of blood 
 
 and hatred, 
 My life is his to-morrow unresisting. 
 So he to-day will let me do the best 
 That my old arm may achieve for the 
 
 dear country 
 That's mother to us both. 
 
 [Gordon shmvs much etnolton 
 Juting llm and the ptetediHg 
 speech of SwiNTON. 
 
 Reg. It is a dieam — a vision ! — if 
 one troop 
 Rush down upon the archers, all will 
 
 follow, 
 And order is destroy'd — we'll keep the 
 
 battle-rank 
 Our fathers wont to do. No more on't. 
 
 — Ho! 
 Where be those youths seek knighthood 
 from our sword? 
 Her. Here are the Gordon, Somer- 
 ville, and Hay, 
 And Hepburn, with a score of gallants 
 more. 
 Reg. Gordon, stand forth. 
 GoR. I pray your Grace forgive me. 
 Reg. How ! seek you not for knight- 
 hood? 
 GoR. I do thirst for't. 
 
 But, pardon me — 'lis from another sword. 
 Reg. It is your Sovereign's — seek you 
 
 for a worthier? 
 GoR. Who would drink purely, seeks 
 the secret fountain, 
 How small soever — not the general 
 
 stream, 
 TTio' it be deep and wide. My lord, I seek 
 The boon of knighthood from the honor'd 
 
 weapon 
 Of the best knight, and of the sagest 
 
 leader, 
 That ever graced a ring of chivalry. 
 — Therefore. I beg the boon on bended' 
 
 knee, 
 Even from Sir Alan Swinton. [Kneels. 
 Reg. Degenerate boy I Abject atonce 
 and insolent ! — 
 See, Lords, he kneels to him that slew 
 his father ! 
 GOR. (^sfartiiig up). Shame be on him 
 who speaks such shameful word ! 
 
556 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Shame be on him, whose tongue would 
 
 sow dissension, 
 When most the time demands that native 
 
 Scotsmen 
 Forget each private wrong ! 
 Swi. (^interruftifig him). Youth, since 
 
 you crave me 
 Fo be your sire in chivalry, I remind you 
 War has its duties. Office has its reverence; 
 Who governs in the Sovereign's name is 
 
 Sovereign ; 
 ^rave the Lord Regent's pardon. 
 GoR. You task me justly, and I crave 
 
 his pardon. [Bows to the Regent. 
 His and these noble Lords'; and pray 
 
 them all 
 Bear witness to my words. — Ye noble 
 
 presence, 
 [iere I remit unto the Knight of Swin- 
 
 ton 
 \11 bitter memory of my father's slaughter, 
 \11 thoughts of malice, hatred, and re- 
 venge; 
 By no base fear or composition moved, 
 But by the thought, that in our country's 
 
 battle 
 Ml hearts should be as one, I do for- 
 give him 
 \s freely as I pray to be forgiven. 
 \nd once more kneel to him to sue \ux 
 
 knighthood. 
 Swi . ( affcdt'd and dra-wing his rMord'). 
 \las ! brave youth, 'tis I should kneel to 
 
 you, 
 \nd, tendering thee the hilt of the fell 
 
 sword 
 rhat made thee fatherless, bid thee use 
 
 the point 
 \fter thine own discretion. For thy 
 
 boon — 
 Frumpets, be ready — in the Holiest name 
 ^nd in our Lady's and Saint Andrew's 
 
 name, 
 [ Touching his shoulder with his srvord. 
 [ dub thee knight ! — Arise, Sir Adam 
 
 Gordon ! 
 Be faithful, brave, and O, be fortunate, 
 Should this ill hour permit ! 
 
 [ The trumpets sound ; the Heralds 
 cry " Largesse," and the attend- 
 ants shout "A Gordon! A Gor- 
 don ! " 
 
 Rexj. Beggars and flatterers ! Peace, 
 
 peace, I say ! 
 We'll to the Standard; knights shall there 
 
 be made 
 Who will with better reason crave your 
 
 clamor. 
 Len. What of Swinton's counsel? 
 Here's Maxwell and myself think it worth 
 
 noting. 
 Reg. (joith concentrated indignation'). 
 Let the best knight, and let the sagest 
 
 leader — 
 So Gordon quotes the man who slew his 
 
 father, — 
 With his old pedigree and heavy mace. 
 Essay the adventure if it pleases him. 
 With his fair threescore horse. As for 
 
 ourselves, 
 We will not peril aught upon the measure. 
 GoR. Lord Regent, you mistake; for 
 
 if Sir Alan 
 Shall venture such attack, each man who 
 
 calls 
 The Gordon Chief, and hopes or fears 
 
 from him 
 Or good or evil, follows Swinton's banner 
 In this achievement. 
 
 Reg. Why, God ha' mercy ! This is 
 
 of a piece. 
 Let young and old e'en follow their own 
 
 counsel, 
 Since none will list to mine. 
 
 Ro.ss. The Border cockerel fain would 
 
 be on horseback; 
 'Tis safe to be prepared for fight or flight. 
 And this conies of it to give Northern 
 
 lands 
 To the false Norman blood. 
 
 GOK. Hearken, proud Cliief of Isles! 
 
 Within my stalls 
 I have two hundred horse; two hundred 
 
 riders 
 Mount guard upon my castle, who would 
 
 tread 
 Into the dust a thousand of your Red- 
 shanks, 
 Nor count it a day's service. 
 
 Swi. Hear I this 
 
 P'rom thee, young man, and on the day 
 
 of battle? 
 And to the brave MacDonnell ? 
 
 GoR. 'Twas he that urged me; but I 
 
 am rebuked. 
 
Scene II. 
 
 HALIDON HILL. 
 
 557 
 
 Reg. He crouches like a leash-hound 
 
 to his master ! * 
 Swi. Each hound must do so that 
 would head the deer -=- 
 'Tis mongrel curs that snatch at mate or 
 master. 
 Reg. Too much of this. Sirs, to the 
 Royal Standard ! 
 I bid you, in the name of good King 
 
 David. 
 Sound trumpets — sound for Scotland and 
 King David ! 
 
 [ The Regent and ihe rest go off, 
 and the Scene closes. Maneut 
 Gordon, Swinton, and Vi- 
 PONT, -wilh Reynald and fol- 
 lo-Mcrs. Lennox follozvs the 
 Regent; but returns, and ad- 
 dresses Swinton. 
 
 Len. O, were my western horsemen 
 but come up, 
 I would take part with you ! 
 
 Swi. Better that you remain; 
 
 They lack discretion; such gray head as 
 
 yours 
 May best supply that want. 
 Lennox, mine ancient friend, and honor'd 
 
 lord. 
 Farewell, I think, forever! 
 
 Len. Farewell, brave friend! — and 
 farewell, noble Gordon, 
 Whose sun will be eclipsed even as it 
 
 rises ! — 
 The Regent will not aid you. 
 
 Swi. We will so bear us, that as soon 
 the bloodhound 
 Shall halt, and take no part, what time 
 
 his comrade 
 Is grappling with the deer, as he stand still. 
 And see us overniatch'd. 
 
 Len. Alas ! thou dost not know how 
 mean his pride is, 
 How strong his envy. 
 
 Swi. Then we will die, and leave the 
 
 shame with him. [Exit Lennox. 
 
 ViP. {to Gordon). What ails thee, 
 
 noble youth? What means this 
 
 pause ? 
 
 Thou dost not rue thy generosity ? 
 
 * The laws of chivalr>' demanded this submis- 
 sion to a father in chivalry. 
 
 Gor. I have been hurried on by strong 
 impulse. 
 
 Like to a bark that scuds before the storm. 
 
 Till driven upon some strange and distant 
 coast. 
 
 Which never pilot dream'd of. — Have 
 I not forgiven? 
 
 And am I not still fatherless? 
 
 Swi. Gordon, no; 
 
 For while we live I am a father to thee. 
 Gor. Thou, Swinton? — no! — that 
 
 cannot, cannot be. 
 Swi. Then change the phrase, and say, 
 that while we live, 
 
 Gordon shall be my son. If thou art 
 fatherless. 
 
 Am I not childless too? Bethink thee, 
 Gordon, 
 
 Our death-feud was not like the house- 
 hold fire. 
 
 Which the poor peasant hides among its 
 embers. 
 
 To smoulder on, and wait a time for wak- 
 ing. 
 
 Ours was the conflagration of the forest. 
 
 Which, in its fury, spares nor sprout nor 
 stem. 
 
 Hoar oak, nor sapling — not to be extin- 
 guish 'd, 
 
 Till Heaven, in mercy, sends down all 
 her waters; 
 
 But, once suMued, its flame is quench'd 
 forever; 
 
 And spring shall hide the tract of devas- 
 tation. 
 
 With foliage and with flowers. — Give 
 me thy hand. 
 Gor. My hand and heart ! — And freely 
 
 now ! — to fight ! 
 ViP. How will you act? [ 7Vj Swin- 
 ton.] The Gordon's band and thine 
 
 Are in the rearward left, I think, in 
 scorn — 
 
 111 post for them who wish to charge the 
 foremost : 
 Swi. We'll turn the scorn to vantage, 
 and descend 
 
 Sidelong the hill — some winding path 
 there must be — 
 
 O, for a well-skill'd guide! 
 
 [Hob Hattely starts uf from 
 a thicket. 
 
558 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Hob. So here he stands. — An ancient 
 
 friend, Sir Alan. 
 Hob Hattely, or, if you like it lx;tter, 
 Hob of the Heron Plume, here stands 
 
 your guide. 
 Swi. An ancient friend? — a most 
 
 notorious knave, 
 Whose throat I've destin'd to the dod- 
 der 'd oak 
 Before my castle, these ten months and 
 
 more. 
 Was it not you who drove from Sim- 
 prim-mains, 
 And Swinton-quarter, sixty head of 
 
 cattle? 
 Hob. What then, if now I lead your 
 
 sixty lances 
 Upon the English flank, where they'll 
 
 find spoil 
 Is worth six hundred beeves? 
 
 Swi. Why, thou canst do it, knave. 
 
 I would not trust thee 
 With one poor bullock; yet would risk 
 
 my life, 
 And all my followers, on thine honest 
 
 guidance. 
 Hob. There is a dingle, and a most 
 
 discreet one 
 (I've trod each step by starlight), that 
 
 sweeps round 
 The rearward of this hill, and opens 
 
 secretly 
 Upon the archers' flank. — Will not that 
 
 serve 
 Your present turn, Sir Alan? 
 
 Swi. Bravely, bravely ! 
 
 GoR. Mount, sirs, and cry my slogan : 
 
 Let all who love the Gordon follow 
 
 me ! 
 Swi. Ay, let all follow — but in silence 
 
 follow. 
 Scare not the hare that's couchant on her 
 
 form — 
 The cushat from her nest — brush not, if 
 
 possible, 
 The dew-drop from the spray — 
 Let no one whisper, until I cry, 
 
 "Havoc!" 
 Then shout as loud's ye will. — On, on, 
 
 brave Hob; 
 On, thou false thief, but yet most faith- 
 ful Scotsman ! 
 
 [ Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. — Scene I. 
 
 A rising Ground immediately in front 
 of the Position of the English Main 
 Body. Percy, Chandos, Ribaumont, 
 and other English and Norman Nobles, 
 are grouped on the Stage. 
 
 Per. The Scots still keep the hill — 
 the sun grows high; 
 Would that the charge would sound. 
 Cha. Thou scent'st the slaughter, 
 Percy. — Who comes here? 
 
 {Enter the Abbot of Wai.thamstow.) 
 
 Now, by my life, the holy priest of Wal- 
 
 thamstow, 
 Like to a lamb among a herd of wolves ! 
 See, he's about to bleat. 
 
 Ab. The King, methinks, delays the 
 
 onset long. 
 Cha. Your general. Father, like your 
 
 rat-catcher. 
 Pauses to bait his traps, and set his snares. 
 Ab. The metaphor is decent. 
 Cha. Reverend sir, 
 
 I will uphold it just. Our good King 
 
 Edward 
 Will presently come to this battlc-fielfl, 
 And speak to)-ou of the last tilting match. 
 Or of some feat he did a twenty years 
 
 since; 
 But not a word of the day's work before 
 
 him. . • 
 
 Even as the artist, sir, whose name offends 
 
 you, 
 Sits prosing o'er his can, until the trap 
 
 fall, 
 Announcing that the vermin are secured. 
 And then 'tis u]i, and on them. 
 
 Per. Chandos, you give your tongue 
 
 too bold a license. 
 Cha. Percy, I am a necessary evil. 
 King Edward would not want me, if hr 
 
 could. 
 And could not, if he would. I know my 
 
 value. 
 My heavy hand excuses my light tongue. 
 So men wear weighty swords in their 
 
 defence, 
 Although they may offend the tender shin, 
 When the steel-boot is doff'd. 
 
 Ab. My Lord of Chandos, 
 
 This is but idle speech on brink of battle, 
 
Scene I. 
 
 HALIDON HILL. 
 
 559 
 
 When Christian men should think upon 
 
 their sins; 
 For as the tree falls, so the trunk must 
 
 lie, 
 Be it for good or evil. Lord, bethink 
 
 thee. 
 Thou hast witheld from our most reverend 
 
 house 
 The tithes of Everingham and Settleton; 
 Wilt thou make satisfaction to the Church, 
 Before her thunders strike thee? I do 
 
 warn thee 
 In most paternal sort. 
 
 Cha. I thank you, Father, filially; 
 Though but a truant son of Holy Church, 
 I would not choose to undergo her cen- 
 sures. 
 When Scottish blades are waving at my 
 
 throat. 
 I'll make fair composition. 
 
 Ab. No composition; I'll have all, or 
 
 none. 
 Cha. None, then — 'tis soonest spoke. 
 
 I'll take my chance, 
 And trust my sinful soul to Heaven's 
 
 mercy, 
 Rather than risk my worldly goods with 
 
 thee — 
 My hour may not be come. 
 Ab. Impious — impenitent — 
 Per. Hush ! — the King — the King ! 
 
 Enter King Edward, attended by 
 Baliol a7id otliers. 
 
 King {apart to Cha.). Hark hither, 
 Chandos ! — Have the Yorkshire 
 archers 
 Yet join'd the vanguard? 
 
 Cha. They are marching thither. 
 
 K. Ed. Bid them make haste, for 
 shame — send a quick rider. 
 The loitering knaves I were it to steal my 
 
 venison. 
 Their steps were hght enough. — How 
 
 now. Sir Abbot? 
 Say, is your reverence come to study 
 
 with us 
 TTie princely art of war? 
 
 Ab. I've had a lecture from my Lord 
 of Chandos, 
 In which he term'd your Grace a rat- 
 catcher. 
 K. Ed. Chandos, how's this? 
 
 Cha. O, I will prove it, Sir ! — These 
 skipping Scots 
 Have changed a dozen times 'twixt Bruce 
 
 and Baliol, 
 Quitting each House when it began to 
 
 totter; 
 They're fierce and cunning, treacherous, 
 
 too, as rats. 
 And we, as such, will smoke them in 
 their fastnesses. 
 K. Ed. These rats have seen your 
 back, my Lord of Chandos, 
 And noble Percy's too. 
 
 Per. Ay ; but the mass which now lies 
 weltering 
 On yon hill-side, like a Leviathan 
 That's stranded on the shallows, then 
 
 had soul in't. 
 Order and discipline, and power of action. 
 Now 'tis a heedless corpse, which only 
 
 shows. 
 By wild convulsions, that some life re- 
 mains in't. 
 K. Ed. True, they had once a head; 
 and 'twas a wise, 
 Altho' a rebel head. 
 
 Ab. {ficnvin^ to t/ie King). Would he 
 were here ! we should find one to 
 match him. 
 K. Ed. There's something in that wish 
 which wakes an echo 
 Within my bosom. Yet it is as well. 
 Or Ijetter, that the Bruce is in his grave. 
 We have enough of powerful foes on earth, 
 No need to summon them from other 
 worlds. 
 Per. Your Grace ne'er met the Bruce? 
 K. Ed. Never himself; but in my 
 earliest field 
 I did encounter with his famous captains, 
 Douglas and Randolph. Faith! they 
 press d me hard. 
 Ab. My Liege, if I might urge you 
 with a question. 
 Will the Scots fight to-day? 
 
 K. Ed. {sharply'). Go look your bre- 
 viary. 
 Cha. {apart). The Abbot has it — 
 Edward will not answer 
 On that nice point. We must observe 
 his humor. — [Addresses the KlNG.] 
 Your first campaign, my Liege? — That^ 
 was in Weardale, 
 
i;6o 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 When Douglas gave our camp yon mid- 
 night ruffle, 
 And turn'd men's beds to biers. 
 
 K. Ed. Ay, by Saint Edward ! — I 
 
 escaped right nearly. 
 I was a soldier then for holidays, 
 And slept not in mine armor; my safe rest 
 Was startled by the cry of "Douglas! 
 
 Douglas! " 
 And by my couch, a grisly chamberlain, 
 Stood Alan Swinton, with his bloody 
 
 mace ; 
 It was a churchman saved me — my stout 
 
 chaplain, 
 Heaven quit his spirit ! caught a weapon 
 
 up. 
 And grappled with the giant. — How 
 
 now, Louis ! 
 
 Enter an Officer, who whispers the King. 
 
 K. Ed. Say to him, — thus — and 
 thus — 
 
 [ Whispers. 
 Ab. That Swinton's dead. A monk 
 of ours reported, 
 Bound homeward from St. Ninian's pil- 
 grimage, 
 The Lord of Gordon slew him. 
 
 Per. Father, and if your house stood 
 on our borders. 
 You might have cause to know that Swin- 
 ton lives, 
 And is on horseback yet. 
 
 Cha. He slew the Gordon, 
 
 That's all the difference — a very trifle. 
 Ab. Trifling to those who wage a war 
 more noble 
 Than with the arm of flesh. 
 
 Cha. {apiirt). The Abbot's vex'd, 
 I'll rub the sore for him. — 
 {Aloud). I have seen priests that used 
 
 that arm of flesh. 
 And used it sturdily. — Most reverend 
 
 Father, 
 What say you to the chaplain's deed of 
 
 arms 
 In the King's tent at Weardale? 
 
 Ab. It was most sinful, being against 
 the canon 
 Prohibiting all churchmen to bear wea- 
 pons; 
 And as he fell in that unseemly guise. 
 Perchance his soul may rue it. 
 
 K. Ed. (^overhearing the last words'). 
 Who may rue? 
 And what is to l)e rued? 
 
 Cha. (apart). I'll match his Rever- 
 ence for the tithes of Everingham. 
 — The Abbot says, my Liege, the deed 
 
 was sinful. 
 By which your chaplain, wielding secular 
 
 weapons, 
 Secured your Grace's life and liberty. 
 And that he suffers for 't in purgatory. 
 K. Ei). {to ///d' Abbot). Say'st thou 
 
 my chaplain is in purgatory? 
 Ab. It is the canon speaks it, good my 
 
 Liege. 
 K. Ed. In purgatory ! thou shalt pray 
 him out on't. 
 Or I will make thee wish thyself beside 
 him. 
 Ab. My Lord, perchance his soul is 
 past the aid 
 Of all the Church may do; — there is a 
 
 place 
 From which there's no redemption. 
 K. Ed. And if I thought my faithful 
 chaplain there, 
 Thou shouldst there join him, priest ! — 
 
 Go, watch, fast, pray. 
 And let me have such prayers as will 
 
 storm Heaven — 
 None of your maim'd and mutter'd hunt- 
 ing masses. 
 Ab. (apart to Cha.). For God's sake 
 
 take him off. 
 Cha. Wilt thou compound, then. 
 The tithes of Everingham? 
 
 K. Ed. I tell thee, if thou bear'st the 
 keys of Heaven, 
 Abbot, thou shalt not turn a bolt with 
 
 them 
 'Gainst any well-deserving English sub- 
 ject. 
 Ab. (to Cha.). We will compound and 
 grant thee, too, a share 
 r the next indulgence. Thou dost need 
 
 it much, 
 And greatly 'twill avail thee. 
 
 Cha. Enough — we're friends, and 
 when occasion serves, 
 
 I will strike in. 
 
 [Aooi-s as if towards the Scottish Army. 
 K. Ed. Answer, proud Abbot; is my 
 chaplain's soul. 
 
Scene II. 
 
 HALIDON HILL. 
 
 561 
 
 If thou knowest aught on't, in the evil 
 place? 
 Cha. My. Liege, the Yorkshire men 
 have gain'd the meadow. 
 I see the pennon green of merry Sher- 
 wood. 
 K. Ed. Then give the signal instant ! 
 We have lost 
 But too much time already. 
 
 Ab. My Liege, your holy chaplain's 
 
 blessed soid — 
 K. Ed. To hell with it and thee ! Is 
 this a time 
 To speak of monks and chaplains? 
 
 [Flourish of 'I'r tan pets answered 
 by a distant sound of Bugles. 
 See, Chandos, Percy — Ha, Saint George ! 
 
 Saint Edward ! 
 See it descending now, the fatal hail- 
 shower, 
 The storm of England's wrath — sure, 
 
 swift, resistless, 
 Which no mail-coat can brook. — Brave 
 
 English hearts ! 
 How close they shoot together ! — as one 
 
 eye 
 Had aim'd five thousands shafts — as if 
 
 one hand 
 Had loosed five thousand bow-strings ! 
 Per. The thick volley 
 
 Darkens the air, and hides the sun from 
 us. 
 K. Ed. It falls on those shall see the 
 sun no more. 
 The winged, the resistless plague is with 
 
 them . 
 How their vex'd host is reeling to and 
 
 fro. 
 Like the chafed whale with fifty lances 
 
 in him. 
 They do not see, and cannot shun the 
 
 wound. 
 The storm is viewless as death's sable 
 
 wing. 
 Unerring as his scythe. 
 
 Per. Horses and riders are going down 
 together. 
 'Tis almost pity to see nobles fall. 
 And by a peasant's arrow. 1 
 
 Bal. I could weep them, 
 
 Altho' they are my rebels. 
 Cha. {aside to Per.). His conquerors, 
 he means, who cast him out 
 
 From 4iis usurped kingdom. — {Aloud.') 
 
 'Tis the worst of it, 
 That knights can claim small honor in 
 
 the field 
 Which archers win, unaided by our 
 lances. 
 K. Ed. The battle is not ended. 
 
 [Looks toT.vards the field. 
 Not ended? — scarce begun! What 
 
 horse are these, 
 Rush from the thicket underneath the hill ? 
 Per. They're Hainaulters, the follow- 
 
 lowers of Queen Isabel. 
 K. Ed. {hastily'). Hainaulters ! — thou 
 art blind — wear Hainaulters 
 Saint Andrew's silver cross? — or would 
 
 they charge 
 Full on our archers, and make havoc of 
 
 them? — 
 Bruce is alive again — ho, rescue ! 
 
 rescue ! — 
 Who was't survey'd the ground? 
 RiBA. Most loyal Liege — 
 K. Ed. a rose hath fallen from thy 
 
 chaplet,* Ribaumont. 
 
 RiBA. I'll win it back, or lay my head 
 
 beside it. [Exit. 
 
 K. Ed. Saint George ! Saint Edward ! 
 
 Gentlemen, to horse. 
 
 And to the rescue ! — Percy, lead the 
 
 billmen; 
 Chandos, do thou bring up the men-at- 
 arms. — 
 If yonder numerous host should now bear 
 
 down 
 Bold as their vanguard {to the Abbot), 
 
 thou mayst pray for us. 
 We may need good men's prayers. — 
 
 To the rescue. 
 Lords, to the rescue ! ha. Saint George ! 
 Saint Edward ! [Exeunt, 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 A part of the Field oj Battle l>etivtxt tht 
 
 tiuo Main Armies. Tumults oehina 
 
 the scenei ,• alarums, and cries of 
 
 "Gordon*, a Gordon ! " "Swinton!" 
 
 * The well-known expression by which Robert 
 rtruce censured the negligence of Randolph, for 
 permiuing an English body of cavalry to pass 
 his flank on the day preceding the battle of 
 Bannockbum. 
 
S62 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 I Enter, as victorious over the English van- 
 guard, ViPONT, Reynald, and others. 
 
 ViP. 'Tis sweet to hear these war-cries 
 
 sound together, — 
 Gordon and Swinton. 
 
 Rey. 'Tis passing pleasant, yet 'tis 
 
 strange withal. 
 Faith, when at first I heard the Gordon's 
 
 slogan 
 Sounded so near me, I had nigh struck 
 
 down 
 The knave who cried it. 
 
 Enter SwiNTON «W(/ Gordon. 
 
 Swi. Pitch down my pennon in yon 
 
 holly bush. 
 GOR. Mine in the thorn beside it; let 
 
 them wave. 
 As fought this morn their masters, side 
 
 by side. 
 Swi. Let the men rally, and restore 
 
 their ranks 
 Here in this vantage-ground — disorder'd 
 
 chase 
 Leads to disorder'd flight; we have done 
 
 our part. 
 And if we're succor'd now, Plantagenet 
 Must turn his bridle southward. — 
 Reynald, spur to the Regent with the 
 
 basnet 
 Of stout De Grey, the leader of their van- 
 guard ; 
 Say, that in battle-front the Gordon slew 
 
 him. 
 And by that token bid him send us suc- 
 cor. 
 GoR. And tell him that when Selby's 
 
 headlong charge 
 Had well-nigh borne me down. Sir Alan 
 
 smote him. 
 I cannot send his helmet, never nutshell 
 Went to so many shivers. — Harkye, 
 
 grooms ! [ To those behind the scenes. 
 Why do you let my noble steed stand 
 
 stiffening 
 After so hot a course? 
 
 Swi. Ay, breathe your horses, they'll 
 
 have work anon. 
 For Edward's men-at-arms will soon be 
 
 on us, 
 The flower of England, Gascony, and 
 
 Flanders; 
 
 But with swift succor we will bide them 
 
 bravely. — 
 De Vipont, thou look'st sad. 
 
 ViP. It is because I hold a Templar's 
 
 sword 
 Wet to the crossed hilt with Christian 
 
 blood. 
 Swi. The blood of English archers — 
 
 what can gild 
 A Scottish blade more bravely? 
 
 ViP. Even therefore grieve I for those 
 
 gallant yeomen, 
 England's peculiar and appropriate sons, 
 Known in no other land. Each boasts 
 
 his hearth 
 And field as free as the best lord his 
 
 barony, 
 Owing subjection to no human vassalage. 
 Save to their King and law. Hence are 
 
 they resolute, 
 Leading the van on every day of battle, 
 As men who know the blessings they 
 
 defend. 
 Hence are they frank and generous in 
 
 peace. 
 As men who have their portion in its 
 
 plenty. 
 No other kingdom shows such worth and 
 
 happiness 
 Veil'd in such low estate — therefore I 
 
 mourn them. 
 Swi. I'll keep my sorrow for our native 
 
 Scots, 
 Who, spite of hardship, poverty, oppres- 
 sion. 
 Still follow to the field their Chieftain's 
 
 banner, 
 And die in the defence on't. 
 
 GoR. And if I live and see my halls 
 
 again. 
 They shall have portion in the good they 
 
 fight for. 
 Each hardy follower shall have his field. 
 His household hearth and sod-built home 
 
 as free 
 As ever Southron had. They shall be 
 
 happy ! — 
 And my Elizabeth shall smile to see it ! — 
 I have betray 'd myself. 
 
 Swi. Do not l)elieve it. — 
 
 Vipont, do thou look out from yonder 
 
 height. 
 And see what motion in the Scottish host, 
 
Scene II. 
 
 HALIDON HILL. 
 
 563 
 
 And in King Edward's. [^jtzVVipont. 
 
 Now will I counsel thee; 
 The Templar's ear is for no tale of love, 
 Being wedded to his Order. But I tell 
 
 thee, 
 The brave young knight that hath no 
 
 lady-love 
 Is like a lamp unlighted; his brave deeds, 
 And its rich painting, do seem then most 
 
 glorious, 
 When the pure ray gleams through 
 
 them. — 
 Hath thy Elizabeth no other name? 
 GoR. Must I then speak of her to you. 
 
 Sir Alan? 
 The thought of thee, and of thy matchless 
 
 strength. 
 Hath conjured phantoms up amongst her 
 
 dreams. 
 The name of Swinton hath been spell 
 
 sufficient 
 To chase the rich blood from her lovely 
 
 cheek. 
 And wouklst thou know hers? 
 
 Swi. I would, nay must. 
 
 Thy father in the paths of chivalry. 
 Should know the load-star thou dost rule 
 
 thy course by. 
 GoR. Nay, then, her name is — hark — 
 ^Whispers. 
 Swi. I know it well, that ancient 
 
 northern house. 
 GoR. O, thou shalt see its fairest grace 
 
 and honor 
 In my Elizabeth. And if music touch 
 
 thee — 
 Swi. It did, before disasters had un- 
 tuned me. 
 GoR. O, her notes 
 Shall hush each sad remembrance to ob- 
 livion, 
 Or melt them to such gentleness of feel- 
 ing 
 That grief shall have its sweetness. Who, 
 
 but she, 
 Knows the wild harpings of our native 
 
 land? 
 Whether they lull the shepherd on his 
 
 hill. 
 Or wake the knight to battle; rouse to 
 
 merriment, 
 Or soothe to sadness; she can touch each 
 
 mood. 
 
 Princes and statesmen, chiefs renown'd 
 
 in arms, 
 And gray-hair'd bards, contend which 
 
 shall the first 
 And choicest homage render to the en- 
 chantress. 
 Svvi. You speak her talent bravely. 
 GoR. Tho' you smile, 
 
 I do not speak it half. Her gift creative. 
 New measures adds to every air she 
 
 wakes; 
 Varying and gracing it with liquid sweet- 
 ness. 
 Like the wild modulation of the lark; 
 Now leaving, now returning to the strain ! 
 To listen to her, is to seem to wander 
 In some enchanted labyrinth of romance. 
 Whence nothing but the lovely fairy's 
 
 will. 
 Who wove the spell, can extricate the 
 
 wanderer. 
 Methinks I hear her now ! — 
 
 Swi. Bless'd privilege 
 
 Of youth ! There's scarce three minutes 
 
 to decide 
 'Twixt death and life, 'twixt triumph and 
 
 defeat. 
 Yet all his thoughts are in his lady's 
 
 bower, 
 List'ning her harping ! \I'.nter VlPONT. 
 
 Where are thine, De Vipont? 
 ViP. On death — on judgment — on 
 
 eternity ! 
 For time is over with us. 
 
 Swi. There moves not, then, one pen- 
 non to our aid, 
 Of all that flutter yonder ! 
 
 ViP. From the main English host come 
 
 rushing forward 
 Pennons enow — ay, and their Royal 
 
 Standard. 
 But ours stand rooted, as for crows to 
 
 roost on. 
 Swi. (/£> himself). I'll rescue him at 
 
 least. — Young Lord of Gordon, 
 Spur to the Regent — show the instant 
 
 need 
 
 GoR. I penetrate thy purpose; but I 
 
 go not. 
 Swi. Not at my bidding? I thy sire 
 
 in chivalry? 
 Thy leader in the battle ? — I command 
 
 thee! 
 
S64 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 GOR. No, thou wilt not command me 
 
 seek my safety — 
 For such is thy kind meaning — at the 
 
 expense 
 Of the last hope which Heaven reserves 
 
 for Scotland. 
 While I abide no follower of mine 
 Will turn his rein for life; Init were I 
 
 gone, 
 What power can stay them? and, our 
 
 band dispersed. 
 What sword shall for an instant stem yon 
 
 host. 
 And save the latest chance for victory? 
 ViP. The noble youth speaks truth; 
 
 and were he gone. 
 There will not twenty spears be left with 
 
 us. 
 GOR. No, bravely as we have begun 
 
 the field. 
 So let us fight it out. The Regent's eyes, 
 More certain than a thousand messages, 
 Shall see us stand, the barrier of his host 
 Against yon blustering storm. If not for 
 
 honor, 
 If not for warlike rule, for shame at least 
 He must bear down to aid us. 
 
 Svvi. Must it be so? 
 
 And I am forced to yield the sad consent. 
 Devoting thy young life? O, Gordon, 
 
 Gordon 1 
 I do it as the patriarch doom 'd his issue: 
 I at my country's, he at Heaven's com- 
 mand ; 
 But I seek vainly some atoning sacrifice. 
 Rather than such a victim ! — ( J'runtpe/s.) 
 
 Hark, they come ! 
 That music sounds not like thy lady's lute. 
 GOR. Yet shall my lady's name mix 
 
 with it gayly. — 
 Mount, vassals, couch your lances, and 
 
 cry, " Gordon ! 
 Gordon for Scotland and Elizabeth ! " 
 
 [ Exeunt. Loud Alariiins. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Another part of the Field of Battle, adja- 
 cent to the former Scene. 
 
 Alarums. Enter Sw I STO'S, follo7iied 
 
 l>}' Hob Hattely. 
 Swi. Stand to it yet ! The man who 
 flies to-day. 
 
 May bastards warm them at his household 
 hearth ! 
 Hob. That ne'er shall be my curse. 
 My Magdalen 
 Is trusty as my broadsword, 
 
 Swi. Ha, thou knave, 
 
 Art thou dismounted too? 
 
 Hob. I know. Sir Alan, 
 
 You want no homeward guide; so threw 
 
 my reins 
 Upon my palfrey's neck, and let him 
 
 loose. 
 
 Within an hour he stands before my gate ; 
 
 And Magdalen will need no other token 
 
 To l^id the Melrose Monks say masses 
 
 for me. 
 
 .Swi. Thou art resolved to cheat the 
 
 halter, then? 
 Hob. It is my purpose. 
 
 Having lived a thief, to die a brave man's 
 
 death, 
 And never had I a more glorious chance 
 for't. 
 Swi. Here lies the way to it, knave. — 
 Make in, make in, 
 And aid young Gordon ! 
 
 [ Exeunt. Loud and long Alar- 
 ums. After which the back 
 Scene rises, and discovers SvviN- 
 TON on the ground, GORDON 
 supporting him, both much 
 wounded. 
 
 Swi. All are cut down — the reapers 
 
 have pass'd o'er us. 
 And hie to distant harvest. — My toil's 
 
 over; 
 There lies my sickle. (^Dropping his 
 
 s7iiord.) Hand of mine again 
 Shall never, never wield it ! 
 
 GOR. O valiant leader, is thy light ex- 
 
 tinguish'd? 
 That only beacon-flame which promised 
 
 safety 
 In this day's deadly wrack ! 
 
 Swi. My lamp hath long been dim ! 
 
 But thine, young Gordon, 
 Just kindled, to be quench'd so suddenly. 
 Ere Scotland saw its splendor ! — 
 
 GoR. Five thousand horse hung idly 
 
 on yon hill, 
 Saw us o'erpowered, and no one stirr'd 
 
 to aid us ! 
 
Scene III. 
 
 HALIDON HILL. 
 
 565 
 
 Swi. It was the Regent's envy. — 
 Out ! — alas ! 
 Why blame I him ! — It was our civil 
 
 discord, 
 Our selfish vanity, our jealous hatred, 
 Which framed this day of dole for our 
 
 poor country. — 
 Had thy brave father held yon leading 
 
 staff. 
 As well his rank and valor might have 
 
 claim'd it. 
 We had not falFn unaided. — How, O 
 
 how 
 Is he to answer it, whose deed pre- 
 vented — 
 GOR. Alas ! alas ! the author of the 
 death-feud, 
 He has his reckoning too ! for had your 
 
 sons 
 And num'rous vassals lived, we had lack'd 
 no aid. 
 Swi. May God assoil the dead, and 
 him who follows ! 
 We've drank the poison'd beverage which 
 
 we brew'd ! 
 Have sown the wind, and reap'd the 
 
 tenfold whirlwind ! — 
 But thou, brave youth, whose nobleness 
 
 of heart 
 Pour'd oil upon the wounds our hate in- 
 flicted; 
 Thou, who hast done no wrong, need'st 
 
 no forgiveness, — 
 Why should'st thou share our punish- 
 ment ? 
 GoR. All need forgiveness — (tiislant 
 alarums.') — Hark, in yonder shout, 
 Did the main battles counter ! 
 
 Swi. Look on the field, brave Gordon, 
 if thou canst, 
 And tell me how the day goes. — But I 
 
 guess. 
 Too surely do I guess — 
 
 GoR. All's lost! all's lost! — Of the 
 main Scottish host, 
 Some wildly fly, and some rush wildly 
 
 forward; 
 And some there are who seem to turn 
 
 their spears 
 Against their countrymen. 
 
 Swi. Rashness, and cowardice, and 
 secret treason 
 Combine to ruin us; and our hot valor. 
 
 Devoid of discipline, is madmen's 
 
 strength. 
 More fatal unto friends than enemies ! 
 I'm glad that these dim eyes shall see no 
 
 more on't. — 
 Let thy hands close them, Gordon — I 
 
 will dream 
 My fair-hair'd William renders me that 
 
 office ! \^Dies. 
 
 GoR. And, Swinton, I will think I do 
 
 that duty 
 To my dead father. 
 
 Enter De Vipont. 
 
 ViP. Fly, fly, brave youth ! — A hand- 
 ful of thy followers, 
 The scatter'd gleaning of this desperate 
 
 day, 
 Still hover yonder to essay thy rescue — 
 O linger not! — I'll be your guide to 
 them. 
 GoR. Look there, and bid me fly ! — 
 The oak has fall'n; 
 And the young ivy bush, which learn'd 
 
 to climb 
 By its support, must needs partake its 
 fall. 
 Vip. Swinton? Alas! the best, the 
 bravest, strongest, 
 And sagest of our Scottish chivalry ! 
 Forgive one moment, if to save the 
 
 living. 
 My tongue should wrong the dead. — 
 
 Gordon, bethink thee. 
 Thou dost but stay to perish with the 
 
 corpse 
 Of him who slew thy father. 
 
 GoR. Ay, but he was my sire in 
 chivalry ! 
 He taught my youth to soar alx)vc the 
 
 promptings 
 Of mean and selfish vengeance; gave my 
 
 youth 
 A name that shall not die even on this 
 
 death-spot. 
 Records shall tell this field had not been 
 
 lost. 
 Had all men fought like Swinton and 
 like Gordon. [ Trumpets. 
 
 Save thee, De Vipont. — Hark ! the 
 Southron trumpets. 
 Vip. Nay, without thee I stir not. 
 
566 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Enter Edward, Chandos, Percy, 
 Baliol, 6^<r. 
 
 GoR. Ay, they come on — The Tyrant 
 
 and the traitor, 
 Workman and tool, Plantagenet and 
 
 Baliol.— 
 O for a moment's strength in this poor 
 
 arm. 
 To do one glorious deed ! 
 
 \^He ?-ushes on the English, but is 
 made prisoner with V I PONT. 
 
 K. Ed. Disarm them — harm them 
 not; though it was they 
 Made havoc on the archers of our van- 
 guard. 
 They and that bulky champion. Where 
 is he? 
 Cha. Here lies the giant ! Say his 
 
 name, young Knight? 
 GoR. Let it suffice, he was a man this 
 
 morning. 
 Cha. I question'd thee in sport. I do 
 not need 
 Thy information, youth. Who that has 
 
 fought 
 Thro' all these Scottish wars, but knows 
 
 his crest ? 
 The sable boar chained to the leafy oak. 
 And that huge mace still seen where war 
 was wildest ! 
 K. Ed. 'Tis Alan Swinton ! 
 Grim Chamberlain, who in my tent at 
 
 Weardale, 
 Stood by my startled couch with torch 
 
 and mace, 
 When the Black Douglas' war-cry waked 
 my camp. 
 GOR. {sinking do7vn). If thus thou 
 know'st him. 
 Thou wilt respect his corpse. 
 
 K. Ed. As belted Knight and crowned 
 
 King, I will. 
 GOR. And let mine 
 
 Sleep at his side, in token that our death 
 Ended the feud of Swinton and of Gor- 
 don. 
 K. Ed. It is the Gordon ! — Is there 
 aught beside 
 Edward can do to honor bravery, 
 Even in an enemy? 
 
 GOR. Nothing but this; 
 Let not base Baliol, with his touch or 
 
 look, 
 Profane my corpse or Swinton's. I've 
 
 some breath still. 
 Enough to say — Scotland — Elizabeth ! 
 
 [Dies. 
 Cha. Baliol, I would not brook such 
 dying looks. 
 To buy the crown you aim at. 
 
 K. Ed. (/oVip.). Vipont, thy crossed 
 shield shows ill in warfare 
 Against a Christian King. 
 
 ViP. That Christian King is warring 
 upon Scotland. 
 I was a Scotsman ere I was a Templar, 
 Sworn to my country ere I knew my 
 Order. 
 K. Ed. I will l)ut know thee as a 
 Christian champion. 
 And set thee free unransom'd. 
 
 Enter Abbot of Walthamstow. 
 
 Ab. Heaven grant your Majesty 
 Many such glorious days as this has 
 
 been ! 
 K. Ed. It is a day of much and high 
 
 advantage; 
 Glorious it might have been, had all our 
 
 foes 
 l*"(juglit like these two brave champions. 
 
 — Strike the drums, 
 Sound trumpets, and pursue the fugitives. 
 Till the Tweed's eddies whelm them. 
 
 Berwick's render'd — 
 These wars, I trust, will soon find lasting 
 
 close. 
 
MACDUFF'S CROSS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 These few scenes had the honor to be included in a Miscellany, published in the year 
 1823, by Mrs. Joanna Baillie, and are here reprinted, to unite them with the trifles of the 
 same kind which owe their birth to the author. The singular history of the Gross and 
 Law of Clan MacDuff is given, at length enough to satisfy the keenest antiquary, in The 
 Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. It is here only necessary to state, that the Cross was 
 a place of refuge to any person related to MacDuft, within the ninth degree, who, having 
 committed homicide in sudden quarrel, should reach this place, prove his descent from 
 the Thane of Fife, and pay a certain penalty. 
 
 The shaft of the Cross was destroj'ed at the Reformation. The huge block of stone 
 which served for its pedestal is still in existence near the town of Newburgh, on a kind of 
 pass which commands the county of Fife to the southward, and to the north the windings 
 of the magnificent Tay and fertile country of Angusshire. The Cross bore an inscription, 
 which is transmitted to us in an unintelligible form by Sir Robert Sibbald. 
 
 ABBOTSFORD,/fl««arj', 1S30. 
 
 MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE, 
 
 AUTHORESS OF 
 
 THE PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS." 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 Nay, smile not, Lady, when I speak of 
 
 witchcraft, 
 And say that still there lurks amongst our 
 
 glens 
 Some touch of strange enchantment. — 
 
 Mark that fragment, 
 I mean that rough-hewn block of massive 
 
 stone. 
 Placed on the summit of this mountain 
 
 pass. 
 Commanding prospect wide o'er field and 
 
 fell. 
 And peopled village and extended moor- 
 land. 
 And the wide ocean and majestic Tay, 
 To the far distant Grampians. — Do not 
 
 deem it 
 A loosen'd portion of the neighboring 
 
 rock, 
 Detach'd by storm and thunder, — 'twas 
 
 the pedestal 
 
 On which, in ancient times, a Cross was 
 
 rear'd, 
 Carved o'er with words which foil'd phi- 
 lologists; 
 And the events it did commemorate 
 Were dark, remote, and undistinguishable. 
 As were the mystic characters it bore. 
 But, mark, — a wizard, born on Avon's 
 
 bank. 
 Tuned but his harp to this wild northern 
 
 theme. 
 And, lo ! the scene is hallow'd. None 
 
 shall pass. 
 Now, or in after days, lieside that stone, 
 But he shall have strange visions ; thoughts 
 
 and words. 
 That shake, or rouse, or thrill the human 
 
 heart. 
 Shall rush upon his memory when he hears 
 The spirit-stirring name of this rude 
 
 symbol ; — 
 
 567 
 
568 
 
 DKAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Oblivious ages, at that simple spell, 
 Shall render back their terrors with their 
 
 woes, 
 Alas ! and with their crimes — and the 
 
 proud phantoms 
 Shall move with step familiar to his eye. 
 And accents which, once heard, the ear 
 
 forgets not, 
 Though ne'er again to list them. Siddons, 
 
 thine. 
 Thou matchless Siddons ! thrill upon our 
 
 ear; 
 And on our eye thy lofty Brother's form 
 Rises as Scotland's monarch. — But, to 
 
 thee, 
 
 Joanna, why to thee speak of such visions ? 
 Thine own wild wand can raise them. 
 
 Yet since thou wilt an idle tale of mine, 
 Take one which scarcely is of worth 
 
 enough 
 To give or to withhold. — Our time 
 
 creeps on. 
 Fancy grows colder as the silvery hair 
 Tells the advancing winter of our life. 
 But if it be of worth enough to please, 
 That work it owes to her who set the 
 
 task; 
 If otherwise, the fault rests with the 
 
 author. 
 
 DRAMA TIS PERSOALE. 
 
 \ Movki of IJndores. 
 
 NiNIAN, 
 
 Waldhave 
 
 LlNDESAV, 1 
 
 Maurice Berkeley, j 
 
 Scottish Barons. 
 
 Scene. 
 
 The summit of a Rocky Pass near to 
 Netvburgh, about two miles from the 
 ancient Abbey of I.iuiiores, in Fife. In 
 the centre is AlacDuffs Cross, an an- 
 tique Monument : and at a small dis- 
 tance, on one side, a Chapel with a 
 lamp burning. 
 
 Enter, as hainng ascended the Pass, 
 NiNiAN and Waldhavk, Monks of 
 Lindorcs. Ninian crosses himself and 
 seems to recite his diTotions. Wald- 
 HAVE stands gazing on the prospect, as 
 if in deep contemplation. 
 
 NlN. Here stands the Cross, good brother, 
 consecrated 
 
 By the bold Thane unto his patron saint 
 
 Magridius, once a brother of our house. 
 
 Canst thou not spare an ave or a creed? 
 
 Or hath the steep ascent exhausted you? 
 
 You trode it stoutly, tho' 'twas rough 
 and toilsome. 
 Wal. I have trode a rougher. 
 NiN. On the Highland hills — 
 
 Scarcely within our sea-girt province here. 
 
 Unless upon the Lomonds or Bennarty. 
 
 Wal. I spoke not of the literal path, 
 good father. 
 
 But of the road of life which I have 
 travell'd. 
 
 Ere I assumed this habit; it was bounded, 
 
 Hedged in, and limited Vjy earthly pros- 
 pects. 
 
 As ours beneath was closed by dell and 
 thicket. 
 
 Here we see wide and far, and the broad 
 
 With wide horizon, opens full around, 
 While earthly objects dwindle. Brother 
 
 Ninian, 
 Fain would I hope that mental elevation 
 Could raise me equally o'er worldly 
 
 thoughts, 
 And place nie nearer heaven. 
 
 NiN. 'Tisgood morality. — But yet for- 
 get not. 
 That tho' we look on heaven from this 
 
 high eminence, 
 Yet doth the Prince of all the airy space. 
 Arch-foe of man, possess the realms be- 
 tween. 
 Wal. Most true, good Ijrother; and 
 men may be farther 
 
MA CD UFF ' 5 CR OSS. 
 
 569 
 
 From the bright heaven they aim at, even 
 
 because 
 They deem themselves secure on't. 
 
 NiN. (iijtcr a pause'). You do gaze — 
 Strangers are wont to do so - — - on the pros- 
 pect . 
 Yon is the Tay roll'd down from Highland 
 
 hills, 
 That rests his waves, after so rude a race. 
 In the fair plains of Gowrie; — farther 
 
 westward. 
 Proud Stirling rises; — yonder to the east, 
 Dundee, the gift of God, and fair Mont- 
 rose, 
 And still more northward lie the ancient 
 
 towers — 
 Wal. Of Edzell. 
 NiN. How? know you the 
 
 towers of Edzell? 
 Wal. I've heard of them. 
 NiN. Then have you 
 
 heard a tale. 
 Which when he tells, the peasant shakes 
 
 his head. 
 And shuns the mouldering and deserted 
 
 walls? 
 Wal. Why, and by whom deserted? 
 NiN. Long the tale — 
 
 Enough to say that the last Lord of 
 
 Edzell, 
 Bold Louis Lindesay, had a wife, and 
 
 found 
 
 Wal. Enough is said, indeed — since 
 
 a weak woman, 
 Ay, and a tempting fiend, lost Paradise, 
 When man was innocent. 
 
 NiN. They fell at strife, 
 
 Men say, on slight occasion : that fierce 
 
 Lindesay 
 Did bend his sword against De Berkeley's 
 
 breast, 
 And that the lady threw herself between : 
 That then De Berkeley dealt the Baron's 
 
 death-wound. 
 Enough, that from that time De Berkeley 
 
 bore 
 A spear in foreign wars. But, it is said. 
 He hath return'd of late; and, therefore, 
 
 brother. 
 The Prior hath ordain'd our vigil here. 
 To watch the privilege of the sanctuary. 
 And rights of Clan MacDuff. 
 
 Wal. What rights are these ? 
 
 NiN. Most true; you are but newly 
 come from Rome, 
 
 And do not know our ancient usages. 
 
 Know, then, when fell Macbeth beneath 
 the arm 
 
 Of the predestined knight, unborn of 
 woman. 
 
 Three boons the victor ask'd, and thrice 
 did Malcolm, 
 
 Stooping the sceptre by the Thane re- 
 stored. 
 
 Assent to his request. And hence the rule, 
 
 That first when Scotland's King assumes 
 the crown, 
 
 MacDuff's descendant rings his brow 
 with it: 
 
 And hence, when Scotland's King calls 
 forth his host, 
 
 MacDuff's descendant leads the van in 
 battle: 
 
 And last, in guerdon of the crown re- 
 stored, 
 
 Red with the blood of the usurping 
 tyrant, 
 
 The right was granted in succeeding 
 time, 
 
 That if a kinsman of the Thane of Fife 
 
 Commit a slaughter on a sudden impulse, 
 
 And fly for refuge to this Cross MacDuff, 
 
 For the Thane's sake he shall find sanc- 
 tuary ; 
 
 For here must the avenger's step be 
 staid. 
 
 And here the panting homicide find .safety. 
 Wal. And here a brother of your order 
 watches, 
 
 To see the custom of your place observed ? 
 NiN. Even so; — such is our convent's 
 holy right, 
 
 Since Saint Magrioius — blessed be his 
 memory ! — 
 
 Did by a vision warn the Abl>ot Eadmir. — 
 
 And chief we watch, when there is bicker- 
 ing 
 
 Among the neighboring nobles, now most 
 likely 
 
 From this return of Berkeley from abroad, 
 
 Having the Lindesay's blood upon his 
 hand. 
 Wal. The Lindesay, then, was loved 
 
 among his friends? 
 NiN. Honor'd and fear'd he was-- 
 but little loved; 
 
570 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 For even his bounty bore a show of 
 
 sternness; 
 And when his passion waked, he was a 
 
 Sathan 
 Of wrath and injury. 
 
 Wal. How now, Sir Priest ! {fiercely) 
 
 — Forgive me — • {recollecting him- 
 self) — I was dreaming 
 Of an old baron who did bear a^out him 
 Some touch of your Lord Reynold. 
 
 NiN. Lindesay's name, my brother, 
 Indeed was Reynold; — and methinks, 
 
 moreover, 
 That, as you spoke even now, he would 
 
 have spoken. 
 I brought him a petition from our convent ; 
 He granted straight, but in such tone and 
 
 manner, 
 By my good saint ! I thought myself scarce 
 
 safe 
 Till Tay roll'd broad between us. I must 
 
 now 
 Unto the chapel — meanwhile the watch 
 
 is thine : 
 And, at thy word, the hurrying fugitive, 
 Should such arrive, must here find sanc- 
 tuary; 
 And, at thy word, the fiery-paced avenger 
 Must stop his bloody course — e'en as 
 
 swoln Jordan 
 ControU'd his waves, soon as they touch 'd 
 
 the feet 
 Of those who bore the ark. 
 
 Wal. Is this my charge? 
 
 NiN. Even so; and I am near, should 
 
 chance require me. 
 At midnight I relieve you on your watch. 
 When we may taste together some refresh- 
 ment : 
 I have cared for it; and for a flask of 
 
 wine; — 
 There is no sin, so that we drink it not 
 Until the midnight hour, when lauds have 
 
 toll'd. 
 Farewell a while, and peaceful watch be 
 
 with you ! 
 
 \_Exit tcnvards the Chapel. 
 Wal. It is not with me, and alas ! 
 
 alas! 
 I know not where to seek it. This 
 
 monk's mind 
 Is with his cloister match'd, nor lacks 
 
 more room. 
 
 Its petty duties, formal ritual, 
 
 Its humble pleasuresandits paltry troubles, 
 
 Fill up his round of life; even as some 
 
 reptiles, 
 They say, are moulded to the very shape, 
 And all the angles of the rocky crevice. 
 In which they live and die. But for my- 
 self, 
 Retired in passion to the narrow cell, 
 Couching my tired limbs in its recesses. 
 So ill-adapted am I to its limits, 
 
 That every attitude is agony. 
 
 How now ! what brings him back ? 
 
 \^Re-enter Ninian. 
 NiN. Look to your watch, my brother, 
 
 — horsemen come; 
 I neard their tread when kneeling in the 
 
 chapel. 
 Wal, (looking to a distance). My 
 
 thoughts have wrapt me more then 
 
 thy devotion, 
 Else had I heard the tread of distant 
 
 horses 
 Farther than thou couldst hear the sacring 
 
 bell; 
 But now in truth they come : — flight and 
 
 pursuit 
 Are sights I've been long strange to. 
 NiN. See how they gallop down the 
 
 opposing hill ! 
 Yon gray steed bounding down the head- 
 long path. 
 As on the level meadow, while the black. 
 Urged by the rider with his naked sword, 
 Stoops on his prey, as I have seen the 
 
 falcon 
 Lashing upon the heron. — Thou dost 
 
 frown 
 And clench thy hand, as if it grasp'd a 
 
 weapon ? 
 Wal. 'Tis but for shame to see a man 
 
 fly thus 
 While only one pursues him. Coward, 
 
 turn ! — 
 Turn thee, I say ! thou art as stout as he. 
 And well niayst match thy single sword 
 
 with his — 
 Shame, that a man should rein a steed 
 
 like thee. 
 Yet fear to turn hisfront against a foe ! — ■ 
 I am ashamed to look on them. 
 
 NiN. Yet look again; they quit their 
 
 horses now. 
 
MACDUFF'S CROSS. 
 
 571 
 
 Unfit for the rough path : the fugitive 
 Keeps the advantage still. They strain 
 toward us. 
 Wal. I'll not believe that ever the 
 bold Thane 
 Rear'd up his Cross to be a sanctuarj* 
 To the base coward who shunn'd an 
 
 equal combat. — 
 How 's this? — that look, that mien — 
 mine eyes grow dizzy ! 
 NiN. He comes ! — thou art a novice 
 on this watch, — 
 Brother, I'll take the word and speak to 
 
 him. 
 Pluck down thy cowl : know that we 
 
 spiritual champions 
 Have honor to maintain, and must not 
 
 seem 
 To quail before the laity. 
 
 [Waldhave lets dcrwtt his coivl, 
 
 and steps back. 
 Enter Maurice Berkeley. 
 NiN. Who art thou, stranger! speak 
 
 thy name and purpose. 
 Ber. I claim the privilege of Clan 
 MacDuff. 
 My name is Maurice Berkeley, and my 
 
 lineage 
 Allies me nearly with thy Thane of Fife. 
 NiN. Give us to know the cause of 
 
 sanctuary? 
 Ber. Let him show it. 
 
 Against whose violence I claim the 
 
 privilege. 
 Enter Lindesay with his suwrd drawn. 
 He rushes at Berkeley : Ninian in- 
 terposes. 
 
 NiN. Peace, in the name of Saint Ma- 
 gridius ! 
 Peace, in our Prior's name, and in the 
 
 name 
 Of that dear symbol, which did purchase 
 
 peace 
 And good-will towards man ! I do com- 
 mand thee 
 To sheathe thy sword, and stir no contest 
 here. 
 Lin. One charm I'll try first. 
 To lure the craven from the enchanted 
 
 circle 
 Which he hath harbor'd in. — Hear you, 
 De Berkeley, 
 
 This is my brother's sword — the hand it 
 
 arms 
 Is weapon'd to avenge a brother's death : 
 If thou hast heart to step a furlong off, 
 And change three blows, — even for so 
 
 short a space 
 As these good men may say an ave- 
 
 marie, — 
 So, Heaven be good to me ! I will for- 
 give thee 
 Thy deed and all its consequences. 
 Ber. Were not my right hand fetter'd 
 
 by the thought 
 That slaying thee were but a double guilt 
 In which to steep my soul, no bridegroom 
 
 ever 
 Stept forth to trip a measure with his 
 
 bride 
 More joyfully than I, young man, would 
 
 rush 
 To meet thy challenge. 
 
 Lin. He quails, and shuns to look 
 
 upon my weapon. 
 Yet boasts himself a Berkeley ! 
 
 Ber. Lindesay, and if there were no 
 
 deeper cause 
 For shunning thee than terror of thy 
 
 weapon. 
 That rock-hewn Cross as soon should 
 
 start and stir. 
 Because a shepherd-boy blew horn be- 
 neath it. 
 As I for brag of thine. 
 
 NiN. I charge you both, and in the 
 
 name of Heaven, 
 Breathe no defiance on this sacred spot, 
 Where Christian men must bear them 
 
 peacefully. 
 On pain of the Church thunders. Calmly 
 
 tell 
 Your cause of difference ; and , Lord Linde- 
 say, thou 
 Be first to speak them. 
 
 Lin. Ask the blue welkin — ask the 
 
 silver Tay, 
 The Northern Grampians — all things 
 
 know my wrongs; 
 But ask not me to tell them, while the 
 
 villain, 
 Who wrought them, stands and listens 
 
 with a smile. 
 NiN. It is said — 
 Since you refer us thus to general faaae— 
 
572 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 That Berkeley slew thy brother, the Lord 
 
 Louis, 
 In his own halls at Edzell — 
 
 Lin. Ay, in his halls — 
 In his own halls, good father, that's the 
 
 word, 
 in his own house he slew him, while the 
 
 wine 
 I'ass'd on the board between ! The gal- 
 lant Thane 
 Who wreak'd Macbeth's inhospitable 
 
 murder, 
 Rear'd not yon Cross to sanction tieeds 
 
 like these. 
 Ber. Thou say'st I came a guest ! — I 
 
 came a victim — 
 A destined victim, train'don to the doom 
 His frantic jealousy prepared for me. 
 He fix'd a quarrel on me, and we fought. 
 Can I forget the form that came lietween 
 
 us. 
 And perish'd by his sword ? "Twas then 
 
 I fought 
 For vengeance, — until then I guarded 
 
 life. 
 But then I sought to take it, and prevail'd. 
 Lin. Wretch! thou didst first dishonor 
 
 to thy victim, 
 And then didst slay him ! 
 
 Ber. There is a busy fiend tugs at my 
 
 heart. 
 But I will struggle with it ! — V'outhful 
 
 knight, 
 My heart is sick of war, my hand of 
 
 slaughter; 
 I come not to my lordships, or my land. 
 But just to seek a spot in some cold 
 
 cloister, 
 Which I may kneel on living, and, when 
 
 dead. 
 Which may suffice to cover me. 
 Forgive me that I caused your brother's 
 
 death ; 
 And I forgive thee the injurious terms 
 With which thou taxest me. 
 
 Lin. Take worse and blacker — Mur- 
 derer ! adulterer ! 
 Art thou not moved yet? 
 
 Ber. Do not press me further. 
 
 The hunted stag, even when he seeks the 
 
 thicket, 
 Compell'd to stand at bay, grows dan- 
 gerous ! 
 
 Most true thy brother perish'd by my 
 
 hand. 
 And if you term it murder — I must bear 
 
 it. 
 Thus far my patience can; but if thou 
 
 brand 
 The purity of yonder martyr'd saint. 
 Whom then my sword but poorly did 
 
 avenge, 
 With one injurious word, come to the 
 
 valley. 
 And I will show thee how it shall be 
 
 answer'd ! 
 NiN. This heat. Lord Berkeley, doth 
 
 but ill accord 
 With thy late pious patience. 
 
 Ber. Father, forgive, and let me stand 
 
 excused 
 To Heaven and thee, if patience brooks 
 
 no more. 
 I loved this lady — fondly, truly loved — 
 Lovctl her, and was beloved, ere yet her 
 
 father 
 Conferr'd her on another. While she 
 
 lived. 
 Each thought of her was to my soul as 
 
 hallow'd 
 As those I send to Heaven; and on her 
 
 grave. 
 Her bloody, early grave, while this poor 
 
 hand 
 Can Hold a sword, shall no one cast a 
 
 scorn. 
 LiN. P'ollowme. Thou shalt hear me 
 
 call the adulteress 
 By her right name. I'm glad there is yet 
 
 a spur 
 Can rouse thy sluggard mettle. 
 
 Ber. Make then obeisance to the 
 
 blessed Cross, 
 For it shall be on earth thy last devotion. 
 [ They are ij^oing off. 
 Wal. {^rushing forward). Madmen, 
 
 stand ! — 
 Stay but one second — answer but one 
 
 question. — 
 There, Maurice Berkeley, canst thou look 
 
 upon 
 That blessed sign, and swear thou'st 
 
 spoken truth? 
 Ber. I swear by Heaven, 
 And by the memory of that murder'd 
 
 innocent, 
 
THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 573 
 
 Each seeming charge against her was as 
 
 false 
 As our blest Lady 's spotless ! — Hear, 
 
 each saint ! 
 Hear me, thou holy rood! — hear me 
 
 from heaven, 
 Thou niarlyr'd excellence ! — hear me 
 
 from penal fire, 
 (For sure not yet thy guilt is expiated) ! 
 Stern ghost of her destroyer ! — 
 
 Wal. (llirtTMS hiick his ctnol). He 
 
 hears ! he hears ! thy spell hath raised 
 
 the dead. 
 Lin. My brother! and alive ! — 
 Wal. Alive, — but yet, my Richard, 
 
 dead to thee. 
 No tie of kindred binds me to the world; 
 All were renounced, when, with reviving 
 
 life. 
 Came the desire to seek the sacred 
 
 cloister. 
 Alas, in vain ! for to that last retreat, 
 Like to a pack of bloodhounds in full 
 
 chase, 
 My passion and my wrongs have follow'd 
 
 me. 
 
 Wrath and remorse — and, to fill up the 
 
 cry. 
 Thou hast brought vengeance hither. 
 
 Lin. I but sought 
 
 To do the act and duty of a brother. 
 Wal. I ceased to be so when I left the 
 
 world; 
 But if he can forgive as I forgive, 
 God sends me here a brother in my 
 
 enemy, 
 To pray for me and with me. If thou 
 
 canst, 
 De Berkeley, give thine hand, — 
 
 Ber. {gh'es his hamf). It is the will 
 Of Heaven, made manifest in thy pres- 
 ervation. 
 To inhibit farther bloodshed; for De 
 
 Berkeley, 
 The votary Maurice lays the title down. 
 Go to his halls. Lord Richard, where a 
 
 maiden. 
 Kin to his blood, and daughter in 
 
 affection, 
 Heirs his broad lands; — If thou canst 
 
 love her, Lindesay, 
 Woo her, and be successful. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The first of these dramatic pieces was long since written, for the purpose of obliging 
 the late Mr. Terry,* then manager of the Adelphi Theatre, for whom the Author had a 
 particular regard. The manner in which the mimic goblins of Hcvorgoil are intermixed 
 with the supernatural machinery, was found to be objectionable, and the production had 
 other faults, which rendered it unfit for representation. I have called the piece a Melo- 
 drama, for want of a better name ; but, as 1 learn from tiie unquestionable authority of 
 Mr. Colman's " Random Records," tliat one species of the drama is termed an extrava- 
 ganza, I am sorry I was not sooner aware of a more appropriate name than that which I 
 had selected for " Devorgoil." 
 
 The Author's Publishers thought it desirable, that the scenes, long condemned to 
 oblivion, should be united to similar attempts of the same kind ; and as he felt indifferent 
 on the subject, they are printed in the same volume with Halidon Hill and Macduff's Cross, 
 and thrown off in a separate form, for the convenience of those who possess former editions 
 of the Author's Poetical Works. 
 
 The general story of the Doom of Devorgoil is founded on an old Scottish tradition, 
 the scene of which lies in Galloway. The crime supposed to have occasioned the misfor 
 
 * Mr. Daniel Terry, the Comedian, died June 22, 1S29. 
 
574 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 tunes of this devoted house, is similar to that of a Lord Herries of Hoddam Castle, who 
 is the principal personage of Mr. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe's interesting ballad in the 
 " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," vol. iv. p. 307. In remorse for his crime, he built the 
 singular monument called the Tower of Repentance. In many cases the Scottish supersti- 
 tions allude to the fairies, or those who, for sins of a milder description, are permitted to 
 wander with the "rout that never rest," as they were termed by Dr. Leyden. They imitate 
 human labor and human amusements, but their toil is useless, and without any advantage- 
 ous result ; and their gayety is unsubstantial and hollow. The phantom of Lord Erick is 
 supposed to be a spectre of this character. 
 
 The story of the Ghostly Barber is told in many countries ; but the best narrative 
 founded on the passage, is the tale called Stiunmc Liebe, among the legends of Musasus. 
 I think it has been introduced upon the English stage in some pantomime, which was one 
 objection to bringing it upon the scene a second time. 
 
 Abbotsford, April, 1830. ' 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON/E. 
 
 Oswald of Devorgoil, a decayed Scottish Baron. 
 
 Leonard, a Ranger. 
 
 DURWARD, a Painter. 
 
 Lancelot Blackthorn, a Companion of Leonard, in loi>e with Katleen. 
 
 GuLLCRAMMER, a conceited Student. 
 
 CocKi FnFMOv' ( Maskers, represented by Blackthorn and Flora. 
 Spirit of Lord Erick of Dkvorgoil. 
 Peasants, Shepherds, and Vassals of inferior rank. 
 Eleanor, Wife of Oswald, descended of obscure Parentage. 
 Flora, Daughter of Osivald. 
 Katleen, Niece of Eleanor. 
 
 ACT I. — Scene L 
 
 The Scene represents a wild and hilly, 
 but not a inountainous Country in a 
 frontier district of Scotland. The flat 
 scene exhibits the Castle of Devorgoil, 
 decayed, and partly ruinous, situated 
 upon a Lake, and connected with the 
 land by a Draivbridge, which is lowered. 
 'Time — Sunset. 
 
 Flora enters from the Castle, looks 
 timidly around, then comes forward 
 and speaks. 
 
 He is not here — -those pleasures are not 
 ours 
 
 Which placid evening brings to all things 
 else. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The sun upon the lake is low. 
 
 The wild birds hush their song. 
 The hills have evening's deepest glow, 
 
 Yet Leonard tarries long. 
 Now all whom varied toil and care 
 
 From home and love divide, 
 In the calm sunset may repair 
 
 Each to the loved one's side. 
 
 The noble dame, on turret high, 
 
 Who waits her gallant knight, 
 Looks to the western beam to s]iy 
 
 The flash of armor bright. 
 The village maid, with hand on brow. 
 
 The level ray to shade, 
 Upon the footpath watches now 
 
 For Colin's darkening plaid. 
 
 Now to their mates the wild swans row, 
 
 ]5y day they swam apart : — 
 And to the thicket wanders slow 
 
 The hind beside the hart. 
 The woodlark at his partner's side, 
 
 Twitters his closing song — 
 All meet whom day and care divido. 
 Hut Leonard tarries long. 
 [Katleen has come out of the Castle 
 while I'^LORA was singing, and 
 speaks 7C'hen the song is ended. 
 Kat. Ah, my dear coz ! — if that your 
 mother's niece 
 May so presume to call your father's 
 
 daughter — - 
 All these fond things have got some home 
 of comfoit 
 
Scene I. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 575 
 
 To tempt the rovers back — the lady's 
 
 lx>wer. 
 The shepherdess's hut, the wild swan's 
 
 couch 
 Among the rushes, even the lark's low 
 
 nest, 
 Has that of promise which lures home a 
 
 lover, — 
 But we have naught of this. 
 
 Flo. I low call you, then, this castle of 
 
 my sire, 
 The towers of Devorgoil ? 
 
 Kat. Dungeons for men, and palaces 
 
 for owls; 
 Yet no wise owl would change a farmer's 
 
 barn 
 For yonder hungry hall — our latest 
 
 mouse. 
 Our last of mice, I tell you, has been found 
 Starved in the pantry; and the reverend 
 
 spider, 
 Sole living tenant of the Haron's halls. 
 Who, train'd to abstinence, lived a whole 
 
 summer 
 Upon a single fly, he's famish'd, too; 
 The cat is in the kitchen-chimney, seated 
 Upon our last of fagots, destined soon 
 To dress our last of suppers, and, poor 
 
 soul. 
 Is starved with cold, and mewling mad 
 
 with hunger. 
 Flo. D'ye mock our misery, Katleen? 
 Kat. No, but I am hysteric on the 
 
 subject. 
 So I must laugh or cry, and laughing's 
 
 lightest. 
 F"lo. Why stay you with us, then, my 
 
 merry cousin? 
 From you my sire can ask no filial duty. 
 
 Kat. No, thanks to Heaven ! 
 No noble in wide Scotland, rich or poor, 
 Can claim an interest in the vulgar blood 
 That dances in my veins; and I might wed 
 A forester to-morrow, nothing fearing 
 The wrath of high-born kindred, and far 
 
 less 
 That the dry bones of lead-lapp'd an- 
 cestors 
 Would clatter in their cerements at the 
 
 tidings. 
 Flo. My mother, too, would gladly 
 
 see you placed 
 Beyond the verge of our unhappiness. 
 
 Which, like a witch's circle, blights and 
 
 taints 
 Whatever comes within it. 
 
 Kat. • Ah ! my good aunt ! 
 
 She is a careful kinswoman, and prudent, 
 In all but marrying a ruin'd baron, 
 When she could take her choice of honest 
 
 yeomen; 
 And now, to balance this ambitious error, 
 She presses on her daughter's love the suit 
 Of one who hath no touch of nobleness 
 In manners, birth, or mind, to recommend 
 
 him, — 
 Sage Master GuUcrammer, the new- 
 
 dubb'd preacher. 
 Flo. Do not name him, Katleen ! 
 Kat. Ay, but I must, and with some 
 
 gratitude. 
 I said but now, I saw our last of fagots 
 Destined to dress our last of meals, but 
 
 said not 
 That the repast consisted of choice 
 
 dainties. 
 Sent to our larder by that liberal suitor, 
 The kind Melchisedek. 
 
 Flo. Were famishing the word 
 
 I'd famish ere I tasted them — the fop, 
 The fool, the low-born, low-bred, pedant 
 
 coxcomb ! 
 Kat. There spoke the blood of long- 
 descended sires ! 
 My cottage wisdom ought to echo back, — 
 O the snug parsonage ! the well-paid 
 
 stipend ! 
 The yew-hedged garden ! bee-hive, pigs, 
 
 and poultry ! 
 But, to speak honestly, the peasant Kat- 
 leen, 
 Valuing these good things justly, still 
 
 would scorn 
 To wed, for such, the paltry GuUcrammer, 
 As much as Lady Flora. 
 
 Flo. Mock me not with a title, gentle 
 
 cousin. 
 Which poverty has made ridiculous. — 
 
 [ Trumpets far off. 
 Hark ! they have broken up the weapon- 
 
 shawing; 
 The vassals are dismiss'd, and marching 
 
 homeward. 
 Kat. Comes your sire back to-night? 
 Flo. He did propose 
 
 To tarry for the banquet. This da^only, 
 
576 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Siimmon'd as a king's tenant, he resumes 
 
 The right of rank his birth assigns to him, 
 
 And mingles with the proudest. 
 
 Kat. To return 
 
 To his domestic wretchedness to-mor- 
 row — 
 
 1 envy not the privilege. Let us go 
 
 lb yonder height, and see the marksmen 
 practise; 
 
 They shoot their match down in the dale 
 beyond, 
 
 Betwixt the Lowland and the Forest dis- 
 trict, 
 
 By ancient custom, ror a tun of wine. 
 
 Let us go and see which wins. 
 
 Flo. That were too forward. 
 
 Kat. Why, you may drop the screen 
 before your face, 
 
 Which some chance breeze may happily 
 blow aside 
 
 Just when a youth of special note takes 
 aim. 
 
 It chanced even so that memorable morn- 
 ing, 
 
 When, nutting in the woods, we met 
 young Leonard; — 
 
 And in good time here comes his sturdy 
 comrade. 
 
 The rough Lance Blackthorn. 
 
 Enter Lancelot Blackthorn, a 
 Forester, with the Carcass of a Deer 
 on his back, and a Gun in his hand. 
 
 Bla. Save you, damsels ! 
 
 Kat. Godden, good yeoman. — Come 
 
 you from the Weaponshaw? 
 Bla. Not I, indeed; there lies the 
 mark I shot at. 
 
 [Lays doiun the Deer. 
 The time has been I had not miss'd the 
 
 sport, 
 Altho' Lord Nithsdale's self had wanted 
 
 venison ; 
 But this same mate of mine, young 
 
 Leonard Dacre, 
 Makes me do what he lists; — he'll win 
 
 the prize, tho' : 
 The Forest district will not lose its honor. 
 And that is all I care for — {some shots 
 
 are heard^. Hark ! they're at it. 
 I'll go see the issue. 
 
 Flo. Leave not here 
 
 The produce of your hunting. 
 
 Bla. But I must tho'. 
 
 This is his lair to-night, for Leonard 
 
 Dacre 
 Charged me to leave the stag at Devor- 
 
 goil; 
 Then show mc quickly where to stow the 
 
 quarry, 
 And let me to the sports — (^more shots). 
 
 Come, hasten damsels ! 
 Flo. It is impossible — we dare not 
 
 take it. ^ 
 
 Bla. There let it lie, then, and I'll 
 
 wind my bugle. 
 That all within these tottering walls may 
 
 know 
 That here lies venison, whoso likes to 
 
 lift it. [About to blo7v. 
 
 Kat. (^to Flo.) He will alarm your 
 
 mother; and, l>esides. 
 Our Forest proverb teaches, that no 
 
 question 
 Should ask where venison comes from. 
 Your careful mother, with her wonted 
 
 prudence, 
 Will hold its presence plead its own 
 
 apology. — 
 Come, Blackthorn, I will show you where 
 
 to stow it. 
 
 [Exeunt Katlken and Black- 
 thorn into the Castle — more 
 shooting — then a distant shout 
 — StraL^glers, armed in different 
 ■ways, pass oz'er the stage, as if 
 from the Weaponshaw. 
 
 Flo. The prize is won; that general 
 
 shout proclaim'd it. 
 The marksmen and the vassals are dis- 
 persing. [She draws back. 
 First Vassal (« peasant). Ay, ay, 
 
 — 'tis lost and won, — the Forest 
 
 have it. 
 'Tis they have all the luck on't. 
 Second Vas. (« shepherd). Luck 
 
 say'st thou, man? 'Tis patience, 
 
 skill, and cunning. 
 Third Vas. 'Tis no such thing. — I 
 
 had hit the mark precisely. 
 But for this cursed flint; and as I fired, 
 A swallow cross'd mine eye too. — Will 
 
 you tell me 
 That that was but a chance, mine honest 
 
 shepherd? 
 
SCENK 1. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 577 
 
 First Vas. Ay, and last year, when 
 
 Lancelot Blackthorn won it, 
 
 Because my powder happen'd tol)e damp, 
 
 Was there no luck in that ? — The worse 
 
 luck mine. 
 
 Sec. Vas. Still I say, 'twas not chance; 
 
 it might be witchcraft. 
 First Vas. Faith, not unlikely, neigh- 
 bors; for these foresters 
 Do not often haunt about this ruin'd 
 
 castle. 
 I've seen myself this spark, — young 
 
 Leonard Dacre, — 
 Come stealing like a ghost ere break of 
 
 day, 
 And after sunset, too, along this path; 
 And well you know the haunted towers 
 
 of Devorgoil 
 Have no good reputation in the land. 
 Shep. That have tliey not. I've heard 
 my father say, 
 Ghosts dance as lightly in its moonlight 
 
 halls. 
 As ever maiden did at Midsummer 
 Upon the village-green. 
 
 First Vas. Those that frequent such 
 spirit-haunted ruins 
 Must needs know more than simple 
 
 Christians do. — 
 See, Lance this blessed moment leaves 
 
 the castle. 
 And comes to triumph o'er us. 
 
 [Blackthorn euters from the 
 Castle, and comes forward-while 
 they speak. 
 Third Vas. A mighty triumph ! What 
 is't after all, 
 Except the driving of a piece of lead. 
 As learned Master Gullcrammer defined it. 
 Just thro' the middle of a painted board? 
 Black. And if he so define it, by your 
 leave, 
 Your learned Master Gullcrammer' s an 
 ass. 
 Third Vas. {ang7-ily'). He is a 
 
 preacher, huntsman, under favor. 
 Sec. Vas. No quarrelling, neighbors, 
 you may both be right. 
 Enter a Fourth Vassal, 7oith a gallon 
 stoup of wine. 
 Fourth Vas. Why stand you brawl- 
 ing here? Young Leonard Dacre 
 
 Has set abroach the tun of wine he gain'd 
 That all may drink who list. Blackthorn, 
 
 I sought you; 
 Your comrade prays you will bestow this 
 
 flagon 
 Where you have left the deer you kill'd 
 
 this morning. 
 Black. And that I will; but first we 
 
 will take toll 
 To see if it's worth carriage. Shepherd, 
 
 thy horn. 
 There must be due allowance made for 
 
 leakage, 
 And that will come about a draught 
 
 apiece. 
 Skink it about, and, when our throats are 
 
 liquor 'd. 
 We'll merrily trowl our song of Weapon- 
 
 shaw. 
 
 \^They drink about out of the 
 Shepherd's horn, and then 
 sing. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 We love the shrill trumpet, we love the 
 drum's rattle, 
 
 They call us to sport, and they call us to 
 battle; 
 
 And old Scotland shall laugh at the 
 threats ,of a stranger. 
 
 While our comrades in pastime are com- 
 rades in danger. 
 
 If there's mirth in our house, 'tis our 
 
 neighbor that shares it — 
 If peril approach, 'tis our neighbor that 
 
 dares it; 
 And when we lead off to the pipe and the 
 
 tabor. 
 The fair hand we press is the hand of a 
 
 neighbor. 
 
 Then close your ranks, comrades — the 
 bands that combine them. 
 
 Faith, friendship, and brotherhood, join'd 
 to entwine them; 
 
 And we'll laugh at the threats of each in- 
 solent stranger, 
 
 While our comrades in sport are our 
 comrades in danger. 
 
 Black. Well, I must do mine errand. 
 Master flagon [ Shaking it. 
 
578 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Is too consumptive for another bleeding. 
 
 Shep. I must to my fold. 
 
 Third Vas. I'll to the butt of wine, 
 And see if that has given up the ghost 
 yet. 
 
 First Vas. Have with you, neighbor, 
 
 [Blackthorn enters the Cas- 
 tle, the rest exeunt sei'ernlly. 
 Melchisedek Gullcrammkr 
 watihes them off the stage, and 
 then enters from the side-scene. 
 His costume is a Geneva cloak 
 and band, with a hi^h-cro7tined 
 hat ; the rest of his dress in the 
 fashion of yaines the Firsfs 
 time. He looks to the windoios 
 of the Castle, then draws back 
 as if to escape observation, 
 while he brushes his cloak, 
 drives the white threads from 
 hts waistcoat with his welted 
 thumb, and dusts his shoes, all 
 with the air of one 7oho would 
 not 'ioillingly he observed en- 
 gaged in these offices. He then 
 adjusts his collar and band, 
 comes fortuard, and speaks. 
 
 Gui.L. Right comely is thy garb, Mel- 
 chisedek; 
 As well beseemeth one, whom good Saint 
 
 Mungo, 
 The patron of our land and university, 
 Hath graced with license both to teach 
 
 and preach — - 
 Who dare opine thou hither plod'st on 
 
 foot? 
 Trim sits thy cloak, unruffled is thy band, 
 And not a speck upon thine outward man 
 Bewrays the labors of thy weary sole. 
 
 [ I'ouches his shoe, and smiles 
 complacently. 
 Quaint was that jest and pleasant ! — 
 
 Now will I 
 Approach and hail the dwellers of this 
 
 fort; 
 But specially sweet Flora Devorgoil, 
 Ere her proud sire return. He loves me 
 
 not, 
 Mocketh my lineage, flouts at mine ad- 
 vancement — 
 Sour as the fruit the crab-tree furnishes. 
 And hard as is the cudgel it supplies; 
 
 But Flora — she's a lily on the lake, 
 And I must reach her, tho' I risk a duck- 
 ing. 
 
 [./j Gullcrammer moves to- 
 wards the drawbridge, Baul- 
 DIE Durward enters, and in- 
 terposes himself betivixt him 
 and the Castle. GuLLCRAM- 
 MER stops and speaks. 
 
 Whom have we here ! — that ancient for- 
 tune-teller. 
 Papist and sorcerer, and sturdy beggar. 
 Old Bauldie Durward ! Would I were 
 well past him ! 
 
 [Durward advances, partly in 
 the dress of a palmer, partly 
 in that of an old Scottish men- 
 dicant, having coarse blue cloak 
 and badge, white beard, etc. 
 
 Dur. The blessing of the evening on 
 
 your worship. 
 And on your taff'ty doublet. Much I 
 
 marvel 
 Your wisdom chooseth such grim garb, 
 
 when tempests 
 Are gathering to the bursting. 
 
 [Gulixrammer (looks to his dress, 
 and then to the sky, with some ap- 
 prehension). Surely, Bauldie, 
 
 Thou dost belie the evening; — in the west 
 
 The light sinks down as lovely as this band 
 
 Drops o'er this mantle. — Tush, man! 
 'twill be fair. 
 Dur. Ay, but the storm I bode is big 
 with blows. 
 
 Horsewhips for hailstones, clubs for 
 thunderbolts; 
 
 And for the wailing of the midnight wind. 
 
 The unpitied howling of a cudgell'd cox- 
 comb. 
 
 Come, come, I know thou seek'st fair 
 Flora Devorgoil. 
 GuL. And if I did, I do the damsel 
 grace. 
 
 Her mother thinks so, and she has ac- 
 cepted 
 
 At these poor hands gifts of some conse- 
 quence. 
 
 And curious dainties for the evening 
 cheer. 
 
 To which I am invited — she respects me. 
 
Scene I. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 579 
 
 DUR. But not so doth her father, 
 
 haughty Oswald. 
 
 Bethink thee, he's a baron 
 
 GuL. And a hare one; 
 
 Construe me that, old man ! — The crofts 
 
 of Mucklewhame — 
 Destined for mine so soon as heaven and 
 
 earth 
 Have shared my uncle's soul and bones 
 
 between them — 
 The crofts of Mucklewhame, old man, 
 
 which nourish 
 Three scores of sheep, three rows, with 
 
 each her follower, 
 A female palfrey eke — I will be candid. 
 She is of that meek tribe whom, in deri- 
 sion, 
 Our wealthy southern neighbors nickname 
 
 donkeys 
 
 DuR. She hath her follower too, — 
 
 when thou art there. 
 GuL. I say to thee, these crofts of 
 
 Mucklewhame, 
 In the mere tything of their stock and 
 
 produce, 
 Outvie whatever patch of land remains 
 To this old rugged castle and its owner. 
 Well, therefore, may Melchisedek Gull- 
 crammer, 
 Younger of Mucklewhame, for such I 
 
 write me. 
 Master of Arts, by grace of good Saint 
 
 Andrew, 
 Preacher, in brief expectance of a kirk, 
 Endow'd with ten score Scottish pounds 
 
 per annum. 
 Being eight pounds, seventeen eight in 
 
 sterling coin — 
 Well then, I say, may this Melchisedek, 
 Thus highly graced by fortune — and by 
 
 nature 
 E"en gifted as thou scest — aspire to woo 
 The daughter of the beggar'd Devorgoil. 
 DuR. Credit an old man's word, kind 
 
 Master Gullcrammer, 
 You will not find it so. — Come, Sir, I've 
 
 known 
 The hospitality of Mucklewhame; 
 It reach'd not to profuseness — yet, in 
 
 gratitude 
 For the pure water of its living well, 
 And for the Barley loaves of its fair 
 
 fields. 
 
 Wherein chopp'd straw contended with 
 
 the grain 
 Which best should satisfy the appetite, 
 I would not see the hopeful heir of 
 
 Mucklewhame 
 Thus fling himself in danger. 
 
 GuL, Danger ! what danger ! — Know'st 
 
 thou not old Oswald 
 This day attends the muster of the shire. 
 Where the crown-vassals meet to show 
 
 their arras. 
 And their best horse of service ? — Twas 
 
 good sport 
 (And if a man had dared but laugh at it) 
 To see old Oswald with his rusty morion. 
 And huge two-handed sword, that might 
 
 have seen 
 The field of Bannockburn or Chevy- 
 Chase, 
 Without a squire or vassal, page or groom. 
 Or e'en a single pikeman at his heels. 
 Mix with the proudest nobles of the 
 
 county. 
 And claim precedence for his tatter'd 
 
 person 
 O'er armors double gilt and ostrich-plu- 
 mage. 
 DuR. Ay ! 'twas the jest at which fools 
 
 laugh the loudest. 
 The downfall of our old nobility — 
 Which may forerun the ruin of a king- 
 dom. 
 I've seen an idiot clap his hands, and 
 
 shout 
 To see a tower like yon (points to a part 
 
 of the Castle) stoop to its base 
 In headlong ruin; while the wise look'd 
 
 round. 
 And fearful sought a distant stance to 
 
 watch 
 What fragment of the fabric next should 
 
 follow; 
 For when the turrets fall, the walls are 
 
 tottering. 
 GuL. {after pondering). If that means 
 
 aught, it means that thou saw'st old 
 
 Oswald 
 Expeli'd from the assembly. 
 
 DUR. Thy sharp wit 
 
 Hath glanced unwittingly right nigh the 
 
 truth. 
 Expeli'd he was not, but, his claim 
 
 denied 
 
sSo 
 
 DRAAfATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 At some contested point of ceremony, 
 
 He left the Weaponshaw in high dis- 
 pleasure, 
 
 And hither comes- — his wonted bitter 
 temper 
 
 Scarce sweeten'd by the chances of the 
 day, 
 
 'Twere much like rashness should you 
 wait his coming. 
 
 And thither tends my counsel. 
 
 GuL. And I'll take it; 
 
 Good Bauldie Durward, I will take thy 
 counsel, 
 
 And will requite it with this minted 
 farthing. 
 
 That bears our sovereign's head in purest 
 copper. 
 DUR. Thanks to thy bounty ! Haste 
 thee, good young master; 
 
 Oswald, besides the old two-handed 
 sword. 
 
 Bears in his hand a staff of potency, 
 
 To charm intruders from his castle pur- 
 lieus. 
 GuL. I do abhor all charms, nor will 
 abide 
 
 To hear or see, far less to feel their use. 
 
 Behold, I have departed. \E.xil hastily. 
 
 Manet DuRWARD. 
 
 DuR. Thus do I play the idle part of 
 one 
 Who seeks to save the moth from scorch- 
 ing him 
 In the bright taper's flame — and Flora's 
 
 beauty 
 Must, not unlike that taper, waste 
 
 away, 
 Gilding the rugged walls that saw it 
 
 kindled. 
 This was a shard-born beetle, heavy, 
 
 drossy. 
 Though boasting his dull drone and 
 
 gilded wing. 
 Here comes a flutterer of another stamp, 
 Whom the same ray is charming to his 
 
 ruin. 
 Enter Leonard, dressed as a huntsman; 
 he pauses before the Toiver, and tohis- 
 tles a note or two at intervals — draw- 
 ing back, as if fearful of observation — 
 yet waiting as if expecting sotne reply 
 — Durward, whom he had not ob- 
 
 served, moves around, so as to front 
 Leonard unexpectedly, 
 
 Leon. I am too late — it was no easy 
 task 
 
 To rid myself from yonder noisy revel- 
 lers. 
 
 Flora! — I fear she's angry — Flora — 
 Flora ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Admire not that I gain'd the prize 
 From all the village crew; 
 
 How could I fail with hand or eyes. 
 When heart and faith were true ! 
 
 And when in floods of rosy wine 
 My comrades drown'd their cares, 
 
 I thought but that thy heart was mine, 
 My own leapt light as theirs. 
 
 My brief delay then do not blame, 
 Nor deem your swain untrue; 
 
 My form but linger "d at the game, 
 My soul was still with you. 
 
 She hears not ! 
 
 DuR. But a friend hath heard — Leon- 
 ard, I pity thee. 
 Leon. ( starts, but recoz'ers himself). 
 
 Pity, good father, is for those in 
 
 want, 
 In age, in sorrow, in distress of mind. 
 Or agony of liody. I'm in health — 
 Can match my limbs against the stag in 
 
 chase. 
 Have means enough to meet my simple 
 
 wants. 
 And am so free of soul that I can carol 
 To woodland and to wild in notes as 
 
 lively 
 As are my jolly bugle's. 
 
 DlJR. Even therefore dost thou need 
 
 my pity, Leonard, 
 And therefore I bestow it, praying thee, 
 Before thou feel'st the need, my mite of 
 
 Leonard, thou lovest; and in that little 
 
 word 
 There lies enough to claim the sympathy 
 Of men who wear such hoary locks as 
 
 mine. 
 And know what misplaced love is sure to 
 
 end in. 
 
Scene I. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 581 
 
 Leon. Good father, thou art old, and 
 
 even thy youth. 
 As thou hast told me, spent in cloister'd 
 
 cells, 
 Fits thee but ill to judge the passions 
 Which are the joy and charm of social 
 
 life. 
 Press me no farther, then, nor waste those 
 
 moments 
 Whose worth thou canst not estimate. 
 
 \^As turning from him. 
 DUR. {detains him). Stay, young 
 
 man ! 
 Tis seldom that a beggar claims a debt ; 
 Yet I bethink me of a gay young stripling. 
 That owes to these white locks and hoary 
 
 l)eard 
 Something of reverence and of gratitude 
 More than he wills to pay. 
 
 Leon. Forgive me, father. Often hast 
 
 thou told me. 
 That in the ruin of my father's house 
 You saved the orphan Leonard in his 
 
 cradle: 
 And well I know, that to thy care alone — 
 Care seconded by means beyond thy 
 
 seeming — 
 I owe whatever of nurture I can boast. 
 
 DuR. Then for thy life preserved. 
 And for the means of knowledge I have 
 
 furnish'd 
 (Which lacking, man is levell'd with the 
 
 brutes), 
 Grant me this boon: — Avoid these fated 
 
 walls ! 
 A curse is on them, bitter, deep, and 
 
 heavy. 
 Of power to split the massiest tower they 
 
 boast 
 From pinnacle to dungeon vault. It rose 
 Upon the gay horizon of proud Devorgoil 
 As unregarded as the fleecy cloud. 
 The first forerunner of the hurricane. 
 Scarce seen amid the welkin's shadeless 
 
 blue; 
 Dark grew it, and more dark, and still 
 
 the fortunes 
 Of this doom'd family have darken'd 
 
 with it. 
 It hid their sovereign's favor, and ob- 
 scured 
 The lustre of their service, gender'd hate 
 Betwixt them and the mighty of the land; 
 
 Till by degrees the waxing tempest rose. 
 
 And stripp'd the goodly tree of fruit and 
 flowers, 
 
 And buds, and boughs, and branches. 
 There remains 
 
 A rugged trunk, dismember'd and un- 
 sightly, 
 
 Waiting the bursting of the final bolt 
 
 To splinter it to shivers. Now, go pluck 
 
 Its single tendril to enwreath thy brow. 
 
 And rest lieneath its shade — to share the 
 ruin ! 
 Leon. This anathema. 
 
 Whence should it come ? — How merited ? 
 and when? 
 DuR. 'Twas in the days 
 
 Of Oswald's grandsire, — mid Galwegian 
 chiefs 
 
 The fellest foe, the fiercest champion. 
 
 His blood -red pennons scared the Cum- 
 brian coasts. 
 
 And wasted towns and manors mark'd 
 his progress. 
 
 His galleys stored with treasure, and their 
 decks 
 
 Crowded with English captives, who be- 
 held. 
 
 With weeping eyes, their native shores 
 retire. 
 
 He bore him homeward; but a tempest 
 
 rose 
 
 Leon. So far I've heard the tale. 
 
 And spare thee the recital : — The grim 
 chief. 
 
 Marking his vessels labor on the sea. 
 
 And loth to lose his treasure, gave com- 
 mand 
 
 To plunge his captives in the raging deep. 
 DuR. There sunk the lineage of a noble 
 name. 
 
 And the wild waves boom'd over sire and 
 son. 
 
 Mother and nursling, of the House of 
 Aglionby, 
 
 Leaving but one frail tendril. — Hence 
 the fate 
 
 That hovers o'er these turrets, — hence 
 the peasant. 
 
 Belated, hieing homewards, dreads to 
 cast 
 
 A glance upon that portal, lest he see 
 
 The unshrouded spectres of the murder'd 
 dead; 
 
;82 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Or the avenging Angel, with his sword, 
 Waving destruction; or the grisly phan- 
 tom 
 Of that fell Chief, the doer of the deed. 
 Which still, they say, roams thro' his 
 
 empty halls, 
 And mourns their wasteness and their 
 
 lonelihood. 
 Leon. Such is the dotage 
 Of superstition, father; — ay, and the 
 
 cant 
 Of hoodwink'd prejudice. — Not for 
 
 atonement 
 Of some foul deed done in the ancient 
 
 warfare, 
 When war was butchery, and men were 
 
 wolves, 
 Doth Heaven consign the innocent to 
 
 suffering. 
 I tell thee. Flora's virtues might atone 
 For all the massacres her sires have done 
 Since first the Pictish race their stained 
 
 limbs 
 Array'd in wolf's skin. 
 
 DuR. Leonard, ere yet this beggar's 
 
 scrip and cloak 
 Supplied the place of mitre and of crosier, 
 Which in these alter'd lands must not be 
 
 worn, 
 I was superior of a brotherhood 
 • Of holy men, — the Prior of Lanercost. 
 Nobles then sought my footstool many a 
 
 league, 
 There to unload their sins - — questions of 
 
 conscience 
 Of deepest import were not deem'd too 
 
 nice 
 For my decision, youth. — But not even 
 
 then, 
 With mitre on my brow, and all the voice 
 Which Rome gives to a father of her 
 
 church, 
 Dared I pronounce so boldly on the ways 
 Of hidden Providence, as thou, young 
 
 man, 
 Whose chiefest knowledge is to track a 
 
 stag. 
 Or wind a bugle, hast presumed to do. 
 
 Leon. Nay, I pray forgive me. 
 Father; thou know'st I meant not to 
 
 presume 
 
 DuR. Can I refuse thee pardon? — 
 
 Thou art all 
 
 That war and change have left to the 
 
 poor Durward. 
 Thy father, too, who lost his life and 
 
 fortune 
 Defending Lanercost, when its fair aisles 
 Were spoil'd by sacrilege — I blest his 
 
 banner. 
 And yet it prosper'd not. But- — all I 
 
 could — 
 Thee from the wreck I saved, and for 
 
 thy sake 
 Have still dragg'd on my life of pilgrimage 
 And penitence upon the hated shores 
 I else had left forever. Come with me. 
 And I will teach thee there is healing in 
 The wounds which friendship gives. 
 
 \_Excunt. 
 Scene II. 
 The Scene changes to the Interior of the 
 Castle. ^In apartment is discovered, 
 in which there is much appearance of 
 present poverty, mixed with some relics 
 of former grandeur. On the wall 
 hangs, amongst other things, a suit of 
 ancient armor : by the table is a cov- 
 ered basket : behind, and concealed by 
 it, the carcass of a roe-deer. There is 
 a small latticed windo'w, which, ap- 
 pearing to perforate a wall of great 
 thickness, is supposed to look out toioards 
 the dra-iobridge. It is in the shape of 
 a loop-hole for musketry ; and, as is not 
 unusual in old buildings, is placed so 
 high up in the wall, that it is only ap- 
 proached by five or six narrow stone 
 steps. 
 
 Eleanor, the wife of Oswald </ 1 )kvor- 
 GOiL, Fi.oKA and Katlken, her 
 Daui^hter and Aiece, are discovered at 
 work. The former spins, the latter are 
 enibroiderni}^. Ei.KANOR ijuits her own 
 labor to examine the manner in which 
 Flora is cxecu/ing her task, and shakes 
 her head as if dissatisfied. 
 
 Ele. Fy on it, Flora! — this botch'd 
 
 work of thine 
 Shows that thy mind is distant from thy 
 
 t.ask. 
 The finest tracery of our old cathedral 
 Had not a richer, freer, bolder pattern. 
 Than Flora once could trace. Thy 
 
 thoughts are wandering. 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 583 
 
 Flo. They're with my father. Broad 
 upon the lake 
 
 The evening sun sunk down; huge piles 
 of clouds, 
 
 Crimson and sable, rose upon his disk. 
 
 And quendi'd him ere his setting, like 
 some chamjiion 
 
 In his last conflict, losing all his glory. 
 
 Sure signals those of storm. And if my 
 father 
 
 Be on his homeward road — 
 
 Ele. But that he will not. 
 
 Baron of Devorgoil, this day at least 
 
 He banquets witii the nobles — who, the 
 next. 
 
 Would scarce vouchsafe an alms to save 
 his household 
 
 From want or famine. Thanks to a kind 
 friend, 
 
 For one brief space we shall not need 
 their aid. 
 F1.0. (joyfully^. What ! knew you 
 then his gift? 
 
 How silly I that would, yet durst not 
 tell it? 
 
 I fear my father will condemn us both. 
 
 That easily accepted such a present. 
 Kat. Now, here's the game a by- 
 stander sees better 
 
 Than those who play it. — My good aunt 
 is pondering 
 
 On the good cheer which Gullcrammer 
 has sent us. 
 
 And Flora thinks upon the forest venison. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Ele. (/.' Flo.). Thy father need not 
 know on't — 'tis a lx)on 
 
 Comes timely, when frugality, nay, absti- 
 nence. 
 
 Might scarce avail us longer. I had 
 hoped 
 
 Ere now a visit from the youthful donor. 
 
 That we might thank his bounty; and 
 perhaps 
 
 My Flora thought the same, when Sun- 
 day's kerchief 
 
 And the best kirtle were sought out, and 
 donn'd 
 
 To grace a work-day evening. 
 
 Flo. Nay, mother, that is judging all 
 too close ! 
 
 My work-day gown was torn — my ker- 
 chief sullied; 
 
 And thus — But, think you, will the gal- 
 lant come? 
 Ele. He will, for with these dainties 
 came a message 
 
 From gentle Master Gullcrammer, to in- 
 timate — 
 Flo. (^greatly disappointed^. Gull- 
 crammer? 
 Kat. There burst the bubble — down 
 fell house of cards, 
 
 And cousin's like to cry for 't ! \^Aside. 
 Ele. Gullcrammer! ay, Gullcram- 
 mer; thou scorn'st not at him? 
 
 'Twere something short of wisdom in a 
 maiden, 
 
 Who, like the poor bat in the Grecian 
 fable. 
 
 Hovers betwixt two classes in the world. 
 
 And is disclaim'd by both the mouse and 
 bird. 
 Kat. I am the poor mouse, 
 
 And may go creep into what hole I list. 
 
 And no one heed me — Yet I'll waste a 
 word 
 
 Of counsel on my betters. — Kind my aunt. 
 
 And you, my gentle cousin, were't not 
 better 
 
 We thought of dressing this same gear 
 for supper. 
 
 Than quarrelling about the worthless 
 donor? 
 Ele. Peace, minx ! 
 Flo. Thou hast no feeling, cousin 
 
 Katleen. 
 Kat. So ! I have brought them both 
 on my poor shoulders : 
 
 So meddling peace-makers are still re- 
 warded : 
 
 E'en let them to 't again, and fight it out. 
 Flo. Mother, were I disclaim'd of 
 every class, 
 
 I would not therefore so disclaim myself. 
 
 As even a passing thought of scorn to 
 waste 
 
 On cloddish Gullcrammer. 
 
 Ele. List to me, love, and let adversity 
 
 Incline thine ear to wisdom. Look 
 around thee — 
 
 Of the g.ay youths who boast a noble name. 
 
 Which will incline to wed a dowerless 
 damsel? 
 
 And of the yeomanry, who, think'st thou. 
 Flora, 
 
5^4 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Would ask to share the labors of his farm 
 An high-born beggar? — This young man 
 
 is modest 
 
 Flo. Silly, good mother; sheepish, if 
 
 you will it. 
 Ele. E'en call it what you list — the 
 
 softer temper, 
 The fitter to endure the bitter sallies 
 Of one whose wit is all too sharp for mine. 
 Flo. Mother, you cannot mean it as 
 
 you say; 
 You cannot bid me prize conceited folly? 
 Ele. Content thee, child ! — Each lot 
 
 has its own blessings. 
 This youth, with his plain-dealing honest 
 
 suit. 
 Proffers thee quiet, peace, and compe- 
 tence, 
 Redemption from a home, o'er which fell 
 
 Fate 
 Stoops like a falcon. — Oh ! if thou 
 
 couldst choose 
 (As no such choice is given) 'twixt such 
 
 a male 
 And some proud noble ! — Who, in sober 
 
 judgment. 
 Would like to navigate the heady river. 
 Dashing in fury from its parent mountain. 
 More than the waters of the quiet lake? 
 Kat. Now can I hold no longer — 
 
 Lake, good aunt? 
 Nay, in the name of truth, say mill-pond, 
 
 horse-pond; 
 Or if there be a pond more miry, 
 More sluggish, mean-derived, and base 
 
 than either. 
 Be such Gullcrammer's emblem — and his 
 
 portion ! 
 Flo. I would that he or I were in our 
 
 grave. 
 Rather than thus his suit should goad me ! 
 
 — Mother, 
 Flora of Devorgoil, tho' low in fortunes, 
 Is still too high in mind to join her name 
 With such a base-born churl as Gullcram- 
 
 mer. 
 Ele. You are trim maidens both ! 
 
 ( To F"lora. ) Have you forgotten. 
 Or did you mean to call to tity remem- 
 brance 
 Thy father chose a wife of peasant blood? 
 Flo. Will you speak thus to me, or 
 
 think the stream 
 
 Can mock the fountain it derives its 
 
 source from? 
 My venerated mother ! — in that name 
 Lies all on earth a child should chiefest 
 
 honor; 
 And with that name to mix reproach or 
 
 taunt, 
 Were only short of blasphemy to Heaven. 
 Ele. Then listen. Flora, to that 
 
 mother's counsel, 
 Or rather profit by that mother's fate. 
 Your father's fortunes were but bent, not 
 
 broken, 
 Until he listen'd to his rash affection. 
 Means were afforded to redeem his house, 
 Ample and large — the hand of a rich 
 
 heiress 
 Awaited, almost courted, his acceptance; 
 He saw my beauty — such it then was 
 
 call'd, 
 Or such at least he thought it — the 
 
 wither'd bush, 
 Whate'er it now may seem, had blossoms 
 
 then, — 
 And he forsook the proud and wealthy 
 
 heiress. 
 To wed with me and ruin — 
 
 Kat. (^asii/e). The more fool. 
 
 Say I, apart, the peasant maiden then. 
 Who might have chose a mate from her 
 
 own hamlet. 
 Ele. Friends fell off. 
 And to his own resources, his own coun- 
 sels, 
 Abandon'd, as they said, the thoughtless 
 
 prodigal, 
 Who had exchanged rank, riches, pomp, 
 
 and honor. 
 For the mean beauties of a cottage maid. 
 
 Flo. It was done like my father, 
 Who scorn'd to sell what wealth can 
 
 never buy — 
 True love and free affections. And he 
 
 loves you ! 
 If you have suffer'd in a weary world. 
 Your sorrows have been jointly borne, 
 
 and love 
 Has made the load sit lighter. 
 
 Ele. Ay, but a misplaced match hath 
 
 that deep curse in't. 
 That can embitter e'en the purest streams 
 Of true affection. Thou hast seen me 
 
 seek, 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 585 
 
 With the strict caution early habits taught 
 
 me, 
 To match our wants and means — hast 
 
 seen thy father, 
 With aristocracy's high brow of scorn, 
 Spurn at economy, the cottage virtue, 
 As best befitting her whose sires were 
 
 peasants : 
 
 Nor can I, when I see my lineage scorn'd, 
 
 Always conceal in what contempt I hold 
 
 The fancied claims of rank he clings to 
 
 fondly. 
 
 Flo. Why will you do so — well you 
 
 know it chafes him. 
 Ele. Flora, thy mother is but mortal 
 woman. 
 Nor can at all times check an eager tongue. 
 Kat. (^asitfe). That's no new tidings 
 
 to her niece and daughter. 
 Ele. O may'st thou never know the 
 spited feelings 
 That gender discord in adversity 
 Betwixt the dearest friends and truest 
 
 lovers ! 
 In the chill damping gale of poverty, 
 If Love's lamp go not out, it gleams but 
 
 palely. 
 And twinkles in the socket. 
 
 Flo. But tenderness can screen it with 
 her veil. 
 Till it revive again. By gentleness, good 
 
 mother. 
 How oft I've seen you soothe my father's 
 mood ! 
 Kat. Now there speak youthful hope 
 and fantasy ! \^AsiJe. 
 
 Ele. That is an easier task in youth 
 than age; 
 Our temper hardens, and our charmsdecay , 
 And both arc needed in that art of 
 soothing. 
 Kat. And there speaks sad experience. 
 [Aside. 
 Ele. Besides, since that our state was 
 utter desperate, 
 Darker his brow, more dangerous grow 
 
 his words: 
 Fain would I snatch thee from the woe 
 
 and wrath 
 Which darken'd long my life, and soon 
 must end it. 
 
 [A knocking without', ELEANOR 
 shows alarm. 
 
 It was thy father's knock, — haste to the 
 gate. 
 
 [ Exeunt FLORA and Katleen. 
 What can have happen'd? — he thought 
 
 to stay the night. 
 This gear must not be seen. 
 
 \As she is about to remove the bast 
 ket, she sees the body of the roe- 
 deer. 
 What have we here? a roe-deer ! — as I 
 
 fear it. 
 This was the gift of which poor Flora 
 thought. 
 
 The young and handsome hunter But 
 
 time presses. 
 
 \She removes the basket and the roe 
 into a closet. As she has done — 
 
 Enter Oswald 0/ Devorgoil, Flora, 
 and Katleen. 
 
 [He is dressed in a scarlet cloak, 
 ■which should seem worn and old 
 — a headpiece, and old-fashioned 
 sword — the rest of his dress that 
 of a peasant. His countenance 
 and manner should express the 
 moody and irritable haughtiness 
 of a proud man involved in 
 calamity, and who has been ex- 
 posed to recent insult. 
 
 Osw. (^addressing his wife). — 
 The sun hath set — why is the drawbridge 
 lower'd? 
 Ele. The counterpoise has fail'd, and 
 Flora's strength, 
 Katleen's, and mine united, could not 
 raise it. 
 Osw. Flora and thou ! a goodly gar- 
 rison 
 To hold a castle, which, if fame says true, 
 Once foiled the King of Norse and all his 
 rovers. 
 Ele. It might be so in ancient times, 
 
 but now 
 
 Osw. A herd of deer might storm proud 
 
 Devorgoil. 
 Kat. {aside to Flo.) You, Flora, 
 know full well, one deer already 
 Has enter'd at the breach; and, what is 
 
 worse, 
 The escort is not yet march'd off, for 
 
 Blackthorn 
 Is still within the castle. 
 
586 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act 1. 
 
 Flo. In heaven's name, rid him out 
 on't ere my father 
 Discovers he is here ! Why went he not 
 before? 
 Kat. Because I staid him on some 
 little business; 
 I had a plan to scare poor paltry Gull- 
 crammer 
 Out of his paltry wits. 
 
 Flo. Well, haste ye now. 
 
 And try to get him off. 
 
 Kat. I will not promise that. 
 
 I would not turn an honest hunter's dog, 
 So well I love the woodcraft, out of shelter 
 In such a night as this, far less his master : 
 But I'll do this, — I'll try to hide him 
 for you. 
 
 Osw. {rvhom his %vife has assisted to 
 take off his cloak and feathered 
 cap) — 
 
 Ay, take them off, and bring my peas- 
 ant's bonnet 
 And peasant's plaid — I'll noble it no 
 
 further. 
 Let them erase my name from honor's 
 
 lists. 
 And drag my scutcheon at their horses' 
 
 heels; 
 I have deserved it all, for I am poor. 
 And poverty hath neither right of birth. 
 Nor rank, relation, claim, nor privilege. 
 To match a new-coin'd viscount, whose 
 
 good-grandsire, 
 The lord be with him, was a careful 
 
 skipper, 
 And steer'd his paltry skiff 'twixt Leith 
 
 and Campvere — 
 Marry, sir, he could buy Geneva cheap, 
 And knew the coast by moonlight. 
 
 Flo. Mean you the Viscount Ellon- 
 
 dale, my father? 
 What strife has been between you? 
 
 Oswr. O, a trifle ! 
 
 Not worth a wise man's thinking twice 
 
 about; — 
 Precedence is a toy — a superstition 
 About a table's end, joint-stool, and 
 
 trencher. 
 Something was once thought due to long 
 
 descent, 
 And something to Galwegia's oldest 
 
 baron, — 
 
 But let that pass — a dream of the old 
 time. 
 Ele. It is indeed a dream. 
 
 Osw. (^turning 
 quickly') — 
 
 upon her rather 
 
 Ha ! said ye ? — let me hear these words 
 more plain. 
 Ele. Alas ! they are but echoes of 
 your own. 
 
 Match 'd with the real woes that hover 
 o'er us. 
 
 What are the idle visions of precedence, 
 
 But, as you term them, dreams, and toys, 
 and trifles. 
 
 Not worth a wise man's thinking twice 
 upon? 
 Osw. Ay, 'twas for you I framed that 
 consolation, 
 
 The true philosophy of clouted shoe 
 
 And linsey-woolsey kirtle. I know, that 
 minds 
 
 Of nobler stamp receive no dearer motive 
 
 Than what is linked with honor. Rib- 
 bons, tassels. 
 
 Which are but shreds of silk and spangled 
 tinsel- — - 
 
 The right of place, which in itself is mo- 
 mentary — 
 
 A word, which is but air — may in them- 
 selves. 
 
 And to the nobler file, be steep'd so 
 richly 
 
 In that elixir, honor, that the lack 
 
 Of things so very trivia! in themselves 
 
 Shall be misfortune. One shall seek for 
 them 
 
 O'er the wild waves — one in the deadly 
 breach 
 
 And battle's headlong front— one in 
 the paths 
 
 Of midnight study, — and, in gaining these 
 
 Emblems of honor, each will hold him- 
 self 
 
 Repaid for all his labors, deeds, and 
 dangers. 
 
 What then should he think, knowing 
 them his own, 
 
 Who sees what warriors and what sages 
 toil for. 
 
 The formal and establish'd marks of 
 honor, 
 
 Usurp'd from him by upstart insolence? 
 
-SCENK 11. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGO/L. 
 
 5^7 
 
 Ele. (la/io has listened to the last speech 
 with some impatience) — 
 This is but empty declamation, Oswald. 
 The fragments left at yonder full-spread 
 
 banquet, 
 Nay, even the poorest crust swept from 
 
 the table. 
 Ought to be far more precious to a father. 
 Whose family lacks food, than the vain 
 
 boast. 
 He sate at the Ixjard-head. 
 
 Osw. Thou'lt drive me frantic ! — I 
 will tell thee, woman — 
 Yet why to thee? There is another ear 
 Which that tale better suits, and he shall 
 hear it. 
 
 [ Looks at his sword, which he has 
 unbuckled, and addresses the 
 rest of the speech to it. 
 Yes, trusty friend, my father knew thy 
 
 worth. 
 And often proved it — often told me of it. 
 Tho' thou and I be now held lightly of, 
 And want the gilded hatchments of the 
 
 time, 
 I think we both may prove true metal still. 
 'Tis thou shall tell this story, right this 
 
 wrong: 
 Rest thou till time is fitting. 
 
 [Hangs up the sword. 
 [ The Wotnen look at each other 
 with anxiety during this speech, 
 which they partly overhear. 
 They both approach Oswald. 
 Ele. Oswald, my dearest husband ! 
 Flo. My dear father ! 
 
 Osw. Peace, both ! — we speak no 
 more of this. I go 
 To heave the drawbridge up. [Exit. 
 
 Katleen mounts the steps tdvards the 
 
 loop-hole, looks out, and speaks. 
 Kat. The storm is gathering fast; 
 l)road, heavy drops 
 Fall plashing on the Ixisom of the lake. 
 And dash its inky surface into circles; 
 The distant hills are hid in wreaths of 
 
 darkness. 
 'Twill be a fearful night. 
 Oswald re-enters, and throras himself 
 into a seat. 
 Ele. More dark and dreadful 
 
 Than is our destiny, it cannot be. 
 
 Osw. {toYto.) Such is Heaven's will 
 — it is our part to bear it. 
 
 We're warranted, my child, from ancient 
 story 
 
 And blessed writ, to say, that song 
 assuages 
 
 'Hie gloomy cares that prey upon our 
 reason. 
 
 And wake a strife betwixt our better feel- 
 ings 
 
 And the fierce dictates of the headlong 
 passions. 
 
 Sing, then, my love; for if a voice have 
 influence 
 
 To mediate peace betwixt me and my 
 destiny, 
 
 Flora, it must be thine. 
 
 Flo. My best to please you ! 
 
 When the tempest's at the loudest, 
 
 On its gale the eagle rides; 
 When the ocean rolls the proudest. 
 
 Thro' the foam the sea-bird glides — 
 All the range of wind and sea 
 Is subdued by constancy. 
 
 Gnawing want and sickness pining. 
 All the ills that men endure; 
 
 Each their various pangs combining, 
 Constancy can find a cure — 
 
 Pain, and Fear, and Poverty, 
 
 Are subdued by constancy. 
 
 Bar me from each wonted pleasure. 
 Make me abject, mean, and poor; 
 
 Heap on insults without measure, 
 Chain me to a dungeon floor — 
 
 I'll be happy, rich, and free. 
 
 If endow'd with constancy. 
 
 ACT II. —Scene I. 
 A Chamber in a distant part of the Castle. 
 A large (Findo7a in the flat scene, sup- 
 posed to look on the Lake, which is oc- 
 casionally illuminated b)' lightning. 
 There is a couch-bed iti the room, and 
 an antique cabinet. 
 Enter Katleen, introducing Black- 
 thorn. 
 Kat. This was the destined scene of 
 action. Blackthorn, 
 
DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 And here our properties. But all in vain, 
 
 For of GuUcrammer we'll see naught to- 
 night, 
 
 Except the dainties that I told you of. 
 Bla. O, if he's left that same hog's 
 face and sausages, 
 
 He will try back upon them, never fear it. 
 
 The cur will open on the trail of bacon. 
 
 Like my old brach-hound. 
 
 Kat. And should that hap, we'll play 
 our comedy. 
 
 Shall we not. Blackthorn? Thou shalt 
 
 be Owlspiegle 
 
 Bla. And who may that hard-named 
 
 person be? 
 Kat. I've told you nine times over. 
 Bla. Yes, pretty Katleen, but my eyes 
 were busy 
 
 In looking at you all the time you were 
 talking; 
 
 And so I lost the tale. 
 
 Kat. Then shut your eyes, and let 
 your goodly ears 
 
 Do their good office. 
 
 Bla. That were too hard penance. 
 
 Tell but thy tale once more, and I will 
 hearken 
 
 As if I were thrown out, and listening 
 for 
 
 My blood-hound's distant bay. 
 
 Kat. a civil simile ! 
 
 Then, for the tenth time, and the last, — 
 be told, 
 
 Owlspiegle was of old the wicked barber 
 
 To Erick, wicked Lord of Devorgoil. 
 Bla. The chief who drown'd his cap- 
 tives in the Solway? 
 
 We all have heard of him. 
 
 Kat. a hermit hoar, a venerable 
 man — 
 
 So goes the legend — came to wake re- 
 pentance 
 
 In the fierce lord, and tax'd him with his 
 guilt; 
 
 But he, heart-harden'd, turn'd into deris- 
 ion 
 
 The man of heaven, and, as his dignity 
 
 Consisted much in a long reverend beard, 
 
 Which reach'd his girdle, Erick caused 
 his barber. 
 
 This same Owlspiegle, violate its honors 
 
 With sacrilegious razor, ami clip his hair 
 
 After the fashion of a roguish fool. 
 
 Bla. This was reversing of our ancient 
 proverb. 
 And shaving for the devil's, not for 
 God's sake. 
 Kat. True, most grave Blackthorn; 
 and in punishment 
 Of this foul act of scorn, the barber's 
 
 ghost 
 Is said to have no resting after death. 
 But haunts these halls, and chiefly this 
 
 same chamber. 
 Where the profanity was acted, trimming 
 And clipping all such guests as sleep 
 
 within it. 
 Such is at least the tale our elders tell, 
 With many others, of this haunted castle. 
 Bla. And you would have me take 
 this shape of Owlspiegle, 
 And trim the wise Melchisedek ! — I 
 wonnot. 
 Kat. You will not ! 
 Bla. No — unless you bear 
 
 a part. 
 Kat. What ! can you not alone play 
 
 such a farce? 
 Bla. Not I — I'm dull. Besides, we 
 foresters 
 Still hunt our game in couples. Look 
 
 you, Katleen, 
 We danced at Shrovetide — then you 
 
 were my partner; 
 We sung at Christmas — you kept time 
 
 with me; 
 And if we go a mumming in this business, 
 By heaven, you must be one, or Master 
 GuUcrammer 
 
 Is like to rest unshaven 
 
 Kat. Why, you fool. 
 
 What end can this serve? 
 
 Bla. Nay, I know not, I. 
 
 But if we keep this wont of being part- 
 ners, 
 Why, use makes perfect — who knows 
 what may happen? 
 Kat. Thou art a foolish patch — But 
 sing our carol. 
 As I have alter'd it, with some few words 
 To suit the characters, and I will bear — 
 [ Gives a paper. 
 Bla. Part in the gambol. I'll go 
 study quickly. 
 Is there no other ghost, then, haunts the 
 castle. 
 
Scene I. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 589 
 
 But this same barber shave-a-penny gob- 
 lin? 
 
 I thought they glanced in every beam of 
 moonshine, 
 
 As frequent as a bat. 
 
 Kat. I've heard my aunt's high hus- 
 band tell of prophecies, 
 
 And fates impending o'er the house of 
 Devorgoil ; 
 
 Legends first coin'd by ancient supersti- 
 tion, 
 
 And render'd current by credulity 
 
 And pride of lineage. Five years have 
 I dwelt, 
 
 And ne'er saw anything more mischievous 
 
 Than what I am myself. 
 
 Bla. And that is quite enough, I war- 
 rant you. 
 
 But, stay, where shall I find a dress 
 
 To play this — what d'ye call him — 
 Owlspiegle ? 
 Kat. (flakes dresses out of the cabinet.^ 
 Why, there are his own clothes. 
 
 Preserved with other trumpery of the sort, 
 
 For we've kept naught but what is good 
 for naught. 
 
 \She drops a cap as she draws out 
 the clothes. Blackthorn lifts it, 
 and gives it to her. 
 
 Nay, keep it for thy pains — it is a cox- 
 comb, — 
 
 .So call'd in ancient times, in ours a fool's 
 cap, — • » 
 
 For you must know they kept a Fool at 
 Devorgoil 
 
 In former days; but now are well' con- 
 tented 
 
 To play the fool themselves, to save ex- 
 penses. 
 
 Yet give it me, I'll find a worthy use 
 for 't. 
 
 I'll take this page's dress, to play the 
 page 
 
 Cockledemoy, who waits on ghostly Owl- 
 spiegle ; 
 
 And yet 'tis needless, too, for GuUcram- 
 mer 
 
 Will scarce be here to-night. 
 
 Bi.A. I tell you that he will — I will 
 uphold 
 
 His plighted faith and true allegiance 
 
 Unto a sows'd sow's face and sausages, 
 
 And such the dainties that you say he 
 
 sent you. 
 Against all other likings whatsoever. 
 Except a certain sneaking of affection. 
 Which makes some folks I know of play 
 
 the fool, 
 To please some other folks. 
 
 Kat. Well, I do hope he'll come. 
 
 There's first a chance 
 He will be cudgell'd by my noble uncle — 
 I cry his mercy — by my good aunt's 
 
 husband. 
 Who did vow vengeance, knowing naught 
 
 of him 
 But by report, and by a limping sonnet 
 f Which he had fashion'd to my cousin's 
 
 glory, 
 And forwarded by blind Tom Long the 
 
 carrier; 
 So there's the chance, first of a hearty 
 
 beating. 
 Which failing, we've this after-plot of 
 
 vengeance. 
 Bla. Kind damsel, how considerate 
 
 and merciful ! 
 But how shall we get off, our parts being 
 
 play'd? 
 Kat. For that we are well fitted : — 
 
 here's a trap-door 
 Sinks with a counterpoise; — you shall 
 
 go that way. 
 I'll make my exit yonder — 'neath the 
 
 window, 
 A balcony communicates with the tower 
 That, overhangs the lake. 
 
 Bla. 'Twere a rare place, this house 
 
 of Devorgoil, 
 To play at hide-and-seek in — shall we 
 One day, my pretty Katleen? 
 
 Kat. Hands off, rude ranger! I'm 
 
 no managed hawk 
 To stoop to lure of yours. — But bear 
 
 you gallantly; 
 This Gullcrammer hath vex'd my cousin 
 
 much, — 
 I fain would have some vengeance. 
 Bla. I'll bear my part with glee; — 
 
 he spoke irreverently 
 Of practice at a mark ! 
 
 Kat. That cries for vengeance. 
 
 But I must go — I hear my aunt's shrill 
 
 voice \ 
 My cousin and her father will scream next. 
 
590 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Ele. (a/ a distance'). Katleen ! Kat- 
 
 leen ! 
 Bla. Hark to old Swectlips. 
 Away with you before the full cry 
 
 open — 
 But stay, what have you there? 
 
 Kat. {;iuith a bundle she has taken 
 from the wardrobe') — 
 My dress, my page's dress — let it alone. 
 Bla. Your tiring-room is not, I hope, 
 far distant; 
 You're inexperienced in these new habili- 
 ments — 
 I am most ready to assist j-our toilet. 
 Kat. Out, you great ass ! was ever 
 such a fool ! \^Runs off. 
 
 Bla. (sings'). 
 
 O, Robin Hood was a bowman good. 
 And a bowman good was he. 
 
 And he met with a maiden in merry Sher- 
 wood, 
 All under the greenwood tree. 
 
 Now give me a kiss, quoth bold Robin 
 Hood, 
 Now give me a kiss, said he. 
 For there never came maid into merry 
 Sherwood, 
 But she paid the forester's fee. 
 
 I've coursed this twelvemonth this sly 
 
 ^uss, young Katleen, 
 And she has dodged me, turn'd beneath 
 
 my nose, 
 And flung me out a score of yards at 
 
 once: 
 If this same gear fadge right, Til cote 
 
 and mouth her. 
 And then ! whoop ! dead ! dead ! dead ! 
 
 She is the metal 
 To make a woodman's wife of ! — 
 
 \^Pauses a mofnent. 
 Well — I can find a hare upon her form 
 \Vith any man in Nithsdalc — stalk a deer, 
 Run Reynard to the earlh for all his 
 
 doubles. 
 Reclaim a haggard hawk that's wild and 
 
 wayward, 
 Can bait a wild rat, — sure the devil's in't 
 But I can match a woman — I'll to study. 
 \Sits do7vn ott the coitch to exam- 
 ine the paper. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Scene changes to the inhabited apartment 
 of the Castle, as in the last Scene of the 
 preceding Act. A f7e is kindled, by 
 which Oswald sits in an attitude of 
 deep and melancholv thought, without 
 faying attention to what passes around 
 him. Illkanor is busy in cohering a 
 table ; Vlora goes out and re-enters, as 
 if busied in the kitchen. There should 
 be some by-play — the IVomen whisper- 
 ing together, and watching the state of 
 Oswald; then separating and seeking 
 to avoid his obsen'alion, when he casu- 
 ally raises his head and drops it again. 
 This must be left to taste and tnauage- 
 ment. The H't>men,in the first part of 
 the scene, talk apart, and as if fearful 
 of being oiier heard ; the by-play of stop- 
 ping occasionally, and attending to Os- 
 wald's movements, will gi^ie liveliness 
 to the Scene. 
 
 Ele. Is all prepared? 
 Flo. Ay : but I doubt the issue 
 
 Will give my sire less pleasure than you 
 
 hope for. 
 Ele. Tush, maid — I know thy father's 
 
 humor better. 
 He was high-bred in gentle luxuries; 
 And when our griefs began, I've wept 
 
 apart, 
 While lordly cheer and high-fill'd cups 
 
 of wine 
 Were blinding him against the woe to 
 
 come. 
 He has turn'd his back u|)on a jirincely 
 
 banquet ; 
 We will not spread his board — this night 
 
 at least. 
 Since chance hath better furnish'd — with 
 
 dry bread, 
 And water from the well. 
 
 Enter Katlekn, and hears the last speech. 
 
 Kat. {aside'). Considerate aunt ! she 
 
 deems that a good supper 
 Were not a thing indifferent evt^n to him 
 Who is to hang to-morrow. Since she 
 
 thinks so. 
 We must take care the venison has due 
 
 honor — 
 So much I owe the sturdy knave, Lance 
 
 Blackthorn. 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL, 
 
 591 
 
 Flo. Mother, alas ! when Grief turns 
 
 reveller, 
 Despair is cup-bearer. What shall hap 
 
 to-morrow ? 
 Ele. I have learn'd carelessness from 
 
 fruitless care. 
 Too long I've watch'd to-morrow; let it 
 
 come 
 And cater for itself— Thou hear'st the 
 
 thunder. \^Lcnv and distant thunder. 
 This is a gloomy night — within, alas ! 
 
 [Locyking at her htuhand. 
 Still gloomier and more threatening. — 
 
 Let us use 
 Whatever means we have to drive it o'er. 
 And leave to Heaven to-morrow. Trust 
 
 me, Flora, 
 'Tis the philosophy of desperate want 
 To match itself but with the present evil, 
 And face one grief at once. 
 Away ! I wish thine aid, and not thy 
 
 counsel. 
 
 [As F"lora is about to go off, 
 Gullckammer's voice is heard 
 behind the fiat scene, as if from 
 the drawbridge. 
 
 GUL. {behimf). Hillo — hillo — hilloa 
 — hoa — hoa ! 
 
 [Oswald raises himself and lis- 
 tens ; Eleanor goes up the steps 
 and opens the window at the 
 loop-hole: Gullcrammer's voice 
 is then heard more distitutly. 
 
 "OuL. Kind Lady Devorgoil — sweet 
 
 Mistress Flora ! — 
 The night grows fearful, I have lost my 
 
 way. 
 And wander'd till the road turn'd round 
 
 with me, 
 And brought me back. For Heaven's 
 
 sake, give me shelter ! 
 Kat. {aside). Now, as I live, the voice 
 
 of Gullcrammer ! 
 Now shall our gambol be played off with 
 
 spirit; 
 I'll swear I am the only one to whom 
 That screech-owl whoop was e'er accept- 
 able. 
 Osw. What bawling knave is this, that 
 
 takes our dwelling 
 For some hedge-inn, the haunt of lated 
 
 drunkards? 
 
 Ele. What shall I say?— Go, Kat- 
 
 leen, speak to him. 
 Kat. {aside). The game is in my 
 hands — I will say something 
 Will fret the Baron's pride • — and then 
 
 he enters. 
 {She speaks from the window) — Good 
 
 sir, be patient ! 
 We are poor folks — it is but six Scotch 
 
 miles 
 To the next borough town, where your 
 
 Reverence 
 May be accommodated to your wants; 
 We are poor folks, an't please your Rev- 
 erence, 
 And keep a narrow household — there's 
 
 no track 
 To lead your steps astray ■ — 
 
 GuL. Nor none to lead them right. — 
 You kill me, lady, 
 If you deny me harbor. To budge from 
 
 hence. 
 And in my weary plight, were sudden 
 
 death, 
 Interment, funeral-sermon, tombstone, 
 epitaph. 
 Osw. Who's he that is thus clamorous 
 without ? 
 ( 'Jo Ele.) Thou know'st him? 
 
 Ele. {confused). I know him? — No 
 — yes — 'tis a worthy clergyman. 
 Benighted on his way; — but think not 
 of him. 
 Kat. The morn will rise when that 
 the tempest's past. 
 And if he miss the marsh, and can 
 
 avoid 
 The crags upon the left, the road is plain. 
 Osw. Then this is all your piety! — 
 to leave 
 One whom the holy duties of his office 
 Have summon 'd over moor and wilder- 
 ness. 
 To pray lx;side some dying wretch's bed. 
 Who (erring mortal) still would cleave 
 
 to life, — 
 Or wake some stubborn sinner to repent- 
 ance, — 
 To leave him, after offices like these. 
 To choose his way in darkness 'twixt the 
 
 marsh 
 And dizzy precipice? 
 
 Ele. What can I do? 
 
592 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Osw. Do what thou canst — the wealth- 
 iest do no more; 
 
 And if so much, 'tis well. These crum- 
 bling walls, 
 
 While yet they bear a roof, shall now, as 
 ever. 
 
 Give shelter to the wanderer. — Have 
 we food? 
 
 He shall partake it. — Have we none? 
 the fast 
 
 Shall be accounted with the good man's 
 merits 
 
 And our misfortunes 
 
 [He goes to the loop-hole while he 
 speaks, and places himself there 
 in room of his Wife, who com.es 
 down with reluctance. 
 
 GuL. {without^ . Hillo — hoa — hoa ! 
 
 By my good faith, I cannot plod it 
 farther; 
 
 The attempt were death. 
 
 Osw. (^speaks from the -cuindoio) — Pa- 
 tience, my friend, I come to lower 
 the drawbridge. (^Descends, anil exit. 
 Ele. O that the screaming bittern had 
 his couch 
 
 Where he deserves it, in the deepest 
 marsh ! 
 Kat. I would not give this sport for 
 all the rent 
 
 Of Devorgoil, when Devorgoil was rich- 
 est ! 
 
 ( To Ele.) But now you chided me, my 
 dearest aunt. 
 
 For wishing him a horse-pond for his 
 portion? 
 Ele. Yes, saucy girl ; but, an it please 
 you, then 
 
 He was not fretting me. If he had sense 
 enough. 
 
 And skill to bear him as some casual 
 stranger, — • 
 
 But he is dull as earth, and every hint 
 
 Is lost on him, as hail-shot on the cormo- 
 rant. 
 
 Whose hide is proof except to musket- 
 bulets ! 
 Flo. (apart^. And yet to such a one 
 would my kind mother. 
 
 Whose chiefest fault is loving me too 
 fondly. 
 
 Wed her poor daughter? 
 
 Enter GULLCRAMMER, his dress damaged 
 by the storm ; ELEANOR runs to meet 
 him, in order to explain to him that she 
 wished him to behave as a stranger. 
 GULLCRAMMER, mistaking her ap- 
 proach for an invitation to familiarity, 
 advances with the air of pedantic 
 conceit belonging to his character, when 
 Oswald enters, — Eleanor recovers 
 herself, and assumes an air of distance 
 — GULLCRAMMER IS confounded, and 
 does not kno7u what to make of it. 
 
 Osw. The counterpoise has clean given 
 way; the bridge 
 
 Must e'en remain unraised, and leave us 
 open, 
 
 For this night's course at least, to pass- 
 ing visitants. — 
 
 What have we here? — is this the rever- 
 end man? 
 
 [He takes up the candle, and sur- 
 veys GULLCRAMMER, whostrivcs 
 to sustain the inspection with 
 confidence, -while fear oln'iously ^ 
 contends with conceit and de- 
 sire to show himself to the best 
 advantage. 
 GuL. Kind sir — or, good my lord, — 
 my band is ruffled, 
 But yet 'twas fresh this morning. This 
 
 fell shower 
 Hath somewhat smirch'd my cloak, but 
 
 you may note 
 It rates five marks per yard; my doul>let 
 Hath fairly 'scaped — 'tis three-piled taf- 
 feta. 
 
 \Opens his cloak, and displays his 
 doublet. 
 Osw. A goodly inventory — Art thou 
 
 a preacher? 
 GuL. Yea — I laud Heaven and good 
 
 Saint Mungo for it. 
 Osw. 'Tis the time's plague, when 
 those that should weed follies 
 Out of the common field, have their own 
 
 minds 
 O'errun with foppery. — Envoys 'twixt 
 
 heaven and earth. 
 Example should witli precept join, to 
 
 show us 
 How we may scorn the world with all its 
 vanities. 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 5^3 
 
 Gui.. Nay, the high heavens forefend 
 that I were vain ! 
 
 When our learn'd Principal such sound- 
 ing hiud 
 
 Gave to mine Essay on the hidden quali- 
 ties 
 
 Of the sulphuric mineral, I disclaim'd 
 
 All self-exaltment. And (^turning to the 
 worn til) when at the dance. 
 
 The lovely Saccharissa Kirkencroft, 
 
 Daughter to Kirkencroft of Kirkencroft, 
 
 Graced me with her soft hand, credit me, 
 ladies, 
 
 That still I felt myself a moital man, 
 
 Though l)eauly smiled on me. 
 
 Osw. Come, sir, enough of this. 
 
 That you're our guest to-night, thank the 
 rough heavens, 
 
 And all our worser fortunes; be conform- 
 able 
 
 Unto my rules; these are no Saccharissas 
 
 To gild with compliments. There's in 
 your profession. 
 
 As the best grain will have its piles of 
 chaff, 
 
 A certain whiffler, who hath dared to bait 
 
 A nobljc maiden with love tales and son- 
 nets; 
 
 And if I meet him, his Geneva cap 
 
 May scarce be proof to save his ass's ears. 
 Kat. («5;V/f). Umph — -I am strongly 
 tempted ; 
 
 And yet I think I will be generous. 
 
 And give his brains a chance to save his 
 bones. 
 
 Then there's more humor in our goblin 
 plot, 
 
 Than in a simple drubbing. 
 
 Ei.E. {iif>ari io Flo. ). What shall we 
 do? If he discover him. 
 
 He'll fling him out at window. 
 
 Fl.O. My father's hint to keep himself 
 unknown 
 
 Is all too broad, I think, to be neglected. 
 Elk. But yet the fool, if we produce 
 his bounty, 
 
 May claim the merit of presenting it; 
 
 And then we're but lost women for ac- 
 cepting 
 
 A pft our needs made timely. 
 
 Kat. Do not produce them. 
 
 E'en let the fop go supperless to bed. 
 
 And keep his bones whole. 
 
 Osw. {to his Wife) — Hast thou aught 
 To place before him ere he seek repose? 
 Ele. Alas ! too well you know our 
 needful fare 
 Is of the narrowest now, and knows no 
 surplus. 
 Osw. Shame us not with thy niggard 
 housekeeping : 
 He is a stranger — were it our last crust. 
 And he the veriest coxcomb e'er wore 
 
 taffeta, 
 A pilch he's little short of — he must 
 
 share it. 
 The' all should want to-morrow. 
 
 GUL. (^fiartly m-erheariug what passes 
 bet~tvecn them ) — 
 
 Nay, I am no lover of your sauced 
 
 dainties — 
 Plain food and plenty is my motto still. 
 Your mountain air is bleak, and brings 
 
 an appetite : 
 A soused sow's face, now, to my modest 
 
 thinking. 
 Has ne'er a fellow. What think these 
 
 fair ladies 
 Of a sow's face and sausages? 
 
 \^Makes signs to ELEANOR. 
 Flo. Plague on the vulgar hind, and 
 on his courtesies ! 
 The whole truth will come out ! 
 
 Osw. What should they think, but 
 that you're like to lack 
 Your favorite dishes, sir, unless perchance 
 You bring such dainties with you. 
 
 GuL. No, not with me; not, indeed, 
 Directly with me; but — Aha ! fair ladies ! 
 {Makes sigtis again. 
 Kat. He'll draw the beating down — 
 Were that the worst. 
 Heaven's will be done ! [Aside. 
 
 Osw. {apart). What can he mean? — 
 this is the veriest dog-whelp — 
 Still he's a stranger, and the latest act 
 Of hospitality in this old mansion 
 Shall not be sullied. 
 
 GuL. Troth, sir, I think, under the 
 ladies' favor. 
 Without pretending skill in second-sight. 
 Those of my cloth being seldom con- 
 jurers 
 
 Osw. I'll take my Bible-oath that thou 
 art none. [Aside. 
 
594 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 GUL. I do opine, still with the ladies' 
 favor, 
 That I could guess the nature of our 
 
 supper : 
 I do not say in such and such precedence 
 The dishes will be placed — housewives, 
 
 as you know, 
 On such forms have their fancies; but, I 
 say still, 
 
 That a sow's face and sausages 
 
 Osw. Peace, sir ! 
 
 O'er-driven jests (if this be one) are in- 
 solent. 
 Flo. {apart, seeing her mother uneasy.) 
 The old saw still holds true — a churl's 
 
 benefits, 
 Sauced with his lack of feeling, sense, 
 
 and courtesy. 
 Savor like injuries. 
 
 \A horn is winded without ; then 
 a loud knocking at the gate. 
 Leo. (^without'). Ope, for the sake of 
 love and charity ! 
 
 [Oswald goes to the loop-hole. 
 GuL. Heaven's mercy! should there 
 come another stranger. 
 And he half-starved with wandering on 
 
 the wolds, 
 The sow's face boasts no substance, nor 
 
 the sausages, 
 To stand our reinforced attack ! I judge, 
 
 too. 
 By this starved Baron's language, there's 
 
 no hope 
 Of a reserve of victu.als. 
 
 Flo. Go to the casement, cousin. 
 Kat. Go yourself. 
 
 And bid the gallant, who that bugle 
 
 winded, 
 Sleep in the storm-swept waste; as meet 
 
 for him 
 As for Lance Blackthorn. — Come, I'll 
 
 not distress you; 
 I'll get admittance for this second suitor, 
 And we'll jilay out this gambol at cross 
 
 purposes. 
 But see, your father has prevented me. 
 
 Osw. {seems to have spoken with those 
 without, and ansT.vers) — 
 Well, I will ope the door; one guest 
 already, 
 
 Driven by the storm, has claim'd my 
 
 hospitality. 
 And )ou, if you were fiends, were scarce 
 
 less welcome 
 To this my mouldering roof, than empty 
 
 ignorance 
 And rank conceit. I hasten to admit 
 
 you, \_Exit. 
 
 Eli-:, (/c Flo.). The tempest thickens. 
 
 By that winded bugle, 
 I guess the guest that next will honor us. 
 Little deceiver, that didst mock my 
 
 troubles, 
 'Tis now thy turn to fear ! 
 
 Flo. Mother, if I knew less or more 
 
 of this 
 Unthought-of and most perilous visita- 
 tion, 
 I would your wishes were fulfiU'd on me, 
 And I were wedded to a thing like yon. 
 GuL. {approaehing). Come, ladies, 
 
 now you see the jest is threadbare. 
 And you must own that same sow's face 
 . and sausages 
 
 Re-enter Oswald 7vith Leonard, sup- 
 porting Bauldie Durward, Oswald 
 takes a 7>ie7i) of them, as formerly of 
 GULLCKAMMER, then Speaks — 
 
 Osw. (/('Leo.;. By thy green cassock, 
 hunting-spear, and bugle, 
 I guess thou art a huntsman? 
 
 Leo. (^bowing with respect') — 
 A ranger of the neighboring royal forest. 
 Under the good Lord Nithsdale; hunts- 
 man, therefore. 
 In time of peace; and when the land has 
 
 war. 
 To my best powers a soldier. 
 
 Osw. Welcome, as either, I have 
 loved the chase, 
 And was a soldier once. — This aged 
 
 man. 
 What may he be? 
 
 DuR, (^reco7>erittg his breath") — 
 Is but a beggar, sir, a humble mendicant, 
 Who feels it passing strange, that from 
 
 this roof. 
 Above all others, he should now crave 
 shelter, 
 Osw. Why so? You're welcome both 
 — only the word 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 m 
 
 Warrants more courtesy than our present 
 
 means 
 rcrmit us to bestow. A huntsman and 
 
 a soldier 
 May be a prince's comrade, much more 
 
 mine; 
 And for a beggar — friend, there little 
 
 lacks, 
 Save that blue gown and badge, and 
 
 clouted pouches. 
 To make us comrades too; then welcome 
 
 both. 
 And to a beggar's feast. I fear, brown 
 
 broad. 
 And water from the spring, will be the 
 
 best on't; 
 For we had cast to wend abroad this 
 
 evening, 
 And left our larder empty. 
 
 GuL. Yet, if some kindly fairy. 
 
 In our behalf, would search its hid 
 
 recesses. — 
 (^Apart.^ We'll not go supperless now — 
 
 we're three to one. — 
 Still do I say, that a soused face and 
 
 sausages 
 
 Osw. (Jooks sternly at him, then at his 
 wife) — 
 
 There's something under this, but that 
 
 the present 
 Is not a time to question. — ( 7^o Ele.) 
 
 Wife, my mood 
 Is at such height of tide, that a turn'd 
 
 feather 
 Would make me frantic now, with mirth 
 
 or fury ! 
 Tempt me no more — but if thou hast 
 
 the things 
 This carrion crow so croaks for, bring 
 
 them forth; 
 For, by my father's beard, if I stand 
 
 caterer, 
 'Twill be a fearful banquet! 
 
 Ele. Your jileasure be obey'd — Come 
 
 aid me. Flora. [Exeunt. 
 
 [/)itr/;/Q the folhnviui; speeches, the 
 Women place tlishes on the table. 
 
 Osw. {to DlTR.). How did you lose 
 
 your path? 
 DUR. E'en when we thought to find 
 
 it a wild meteor 
 
 Danced in the moss, and led our feet 
 
 astray. — 
 I give small credence to the tales of 
 
 old, 
 Of Friar's-lantern told, and Will-o'-Wisp, 
 Else would I say, that some malicious 
 
 demon 
 Guided us in a round; for to the moat, 
 Which we had pass'd two hours since 
 
 were we led. 
 And there the gleam flicker'd and disap- 
 pear 'd. 
 Even on your drawbridge. I was so worn 
 
 down. 
 So broke with laboring thro' marsh and 
 
 moor. 
 That, wold I nold I, here my young con- 
 ductor 
 Would needs implore for entrance; else, 
 
 believe me, 
 I had not troubled you. 
 
 Osw. And why not, father? — have 
 
 you e'er heard aught. 
 Or of my house or me, that wanderers, 
 Whom or their roving trade or sudden 
 
 circumstance 
 Oblige to seek a shelter, should avoid 
 The House of Devorgoil? 
 
 DuR. Sir, I am English born — 
 
 Native of Cumberland. Enough is said 
 Why I should shun those towers, whose 
 
 lords were hostile 
 To English blood, and unto Cumberland 
 Most hostile and most fatal. 
 
 Osw. Ay, father. Once my grandsire 
 
 plough'd and harrow'd, 
 And sow'd with salt, the streets of your 
 
 fair towns: 
 But what of that? — you have the 'vant- 
 age now. 
 DuR. True, Lord of Devorgoil, and 
 
 well believe I, 
 That not in vain we sought these towers 
 
 to-night. 
 So strangely guided, to behold their 
 
 state, 
 Osw. Ay, thou wouldst say, 'twas fit 
 
 a Cumbrian beggar 
 Should sit an equal guest in his proud 
 
 halls, 
 Whose fathers beggar'd Cumberland — 
 
 Grayljeard, let it be so, 
 I'll not dispute it with thee. 
 
596 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 ( To Leonard, who was spcakitig 
 to¥^.ol\^., but, on being surprised, 
 occupied himself with the suit of 
 armor) — 
 
 What makest thou 
 there, young man? 
 Leo. I marvell'd at this harness; it is 
 larger 
 Than arms of modern days. How richly 
 
 carved 
 With gold inlaid on steel — how close 
 
 the rivets — 
 How justly fit the joints ! I think the 
 
 gauntlet 
 Would swallow twice my hand. 
 
 [He is about to take down some 
 part of the armor ; Oswald 
 interferes. 
 Osw. Do not displace it. 
 
 My grandsire, Erick, doubled human 
 strength. 
 
 And almost human size — and human 
 knowledge, 
 
 And human vice, and human virtue also, 
 
 As storm or sunshine chanced to occupy 
 
 His mental hemisphere. After a fatal 
 deed, 
 
 He hung his armor on the wall, forbid- 
 ding 
 
 It e'er should be ta'en down. There is 
 a prophecy, 
 
 That of itself 'twill fall, upon the night 
 
 When, in the fiftieth year from his decease, 
 
 Devorgoil's feast is full. This is the era; 
 
 But, as too well you see, no meet occa- 
 sion 
 
 Will do the downfall of the armor justice. 
 
 Or grace it with a feast. There let it 
 bide. 
 
 Trying its strength with the old walls it 
 hangs on. 
 
 Which shall fall soonest. 
 
 DuR. (^looking at the trophy ivith a 
 mixture of feeling) — 
 
 Then there stern Erick's harness hangs 
 untouch'd. 
 
 Since his last fatal raid on Cumberland ! 
 Osw. Ay, waste and want, and reck- 
 lessness — a comrade 
 
 Still yoked with waste and want — have 
 stripp'd these walls 
 
 Of every other trophy. Antler'd skulls, 
 
 Whose branches vouch 'd the talcs old 
 
 vassals told 
 Of desperate chases — partisans and 
 
 spears — 
 Knights' barred helms and shields — the 
 
 shafts and bows, 
 Axes and breastplates, of the hardy yeo- 
 manry — 
 The banners of the vanquish'd — signs 
 
 these arms 
 Were not assumed in vain, have disap- 
 
 pear'd; 
 Yes, one by one they all have disap- 
 
 pear'd; — 
 And now Lord Erick's harness hangs 
 
 alone. 
 Midst implements of vulgar husbandry 
 And mean economy; as some old war- 
 rior, 
 Whom want hath made an inmate of 
 
 an almshouse, 
 Shows, mid the beggar'd spendthrifts, 
 
 base mechanics. 
 And bankrupt pedlers, with whom fate 
 
 has mix'd him. 
 DuR. Or rather like a pirate, whom 
 
 the prison-house, 
 Prime leveller next the grave, hath for 
 
 the first time 
 Mingled with peaceful captives, low in 
 
 fortunes. 
 But fair in innocence. 
 
 Osw. {looking at Durward ivith stir- 
 prise') — Friend, thou art bitter! 
 DuR. Plain truth, sir, like the vulgar 
 
 copper coinage, 
 Despised amongst the gentry, still finds 
 
 value 
 And currency with beggars. 
 
 Osw. Be it so. 
 
 I will not trench on the immunities 
 I soon may claim to share. Thy features, 
 
 too, 
 Tho' weather-beaten, and thy strain of 
 
 language. 
 Relish of better days. Come hither, 
 
 friend, 
 
 [ They speak apart. 
 And let me ask thee of thine occupation. 
 [Leonard looks round, and, see- 
 ing Os'WK'LD eni^aged with Dur- 
 ward, (///(/Gui.ixrammer with 
 Eleanor, approaches towards 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 597 
 
 Flora, 'mHo must give him an 
 opportunity of doing so, with ob- 
 vious attention on her part to give 
 it the air of chance. The by-plav 
 here •will rest with the Lady, who 
 must engage the attention of the 
 audience by playing off a little 
 female hypocrisy atid simple co- 
 quetry. 
 
 Leo. Flora 
 
 Flo. Ay, gallant huntsman, may she 
 deign to question 
 
 Why Leonard came not at the appointed 
 hour; 
 
 Or why he came at midnight? 
 
 Leo. Love has no certain lodestar, gen- 
 tle Flora, 
 
 And oft gives up the helm to wayward 
 pilotage. 
 
 To say the sooth — A beggar forced me 
 hence, 
 
 And\Vill-o'-Wispdid guide us back again. 
 Flo. Ay, ay, your beggar was the faded 
 spectre 
 
 Of Poverty, that sits upon the threshold 
 
 Of these our ruin'd walls. I've been un- 
 wise, 
 
 Leonard, to let you speak so oft with me; 
 
 And you a fool to say what you have said. 
 
 E'en let us here break short; and, wise 
 at length. 
 
 Hold each our separate way thro' life's 
 wide ocean. 
 Leo. Nay, let us rather join our course 
 together, 
 
 And share the breeze or tempest, doub- 
 ling joys. 
 
 Relieving sorrows, warding evils off 
 
 With mutual effort, or enduring them 
 
 With mutual patience. 
 
 Flo. This is but flattering counsel — 
 sweet and baneful; 
 
 But mine had wholesome bitter in't. 
 Kat. Ay, ay; but like the sly apothe- 
 cary, 
 
 You'll be the last to take the bitter drug 
 
 That you prescribe to others. 
 
 \They whisper. Eleanor ad- 
 vances to interrupt them, fol- 
 hrwed by GULLCRAMMER. 
 
 Ele. What, maid, no household cares? 
 Leave to your elders 
 
 The task of filling passing strangers' ears 
 
 With the due notes of welcome. 
 
 Gul. Be it thine, 
 
 O, Mistress Flora, the more useful talent 
 
 Of filling strangers' stomachs with sub- 
 stantials; 
 
 That is to say, — for learned commen- 
 tators 
 
 Do so expound substantial in some 
 places, — 
 
 With a soused bacon-face and sausages. 
 Flo. {apart). Would thou wert soused, 
 intolerable pedant, 
 
 Base, greedy, perverse, interrupting cox- 
 comb ! 
 Kat. Hush, coz, for we'll be well 
 avenged on him. 
 
 And ere this night goes o'er, else woman's 
 wit 
 
 Cannot o'ertake her wishes. 
 
 [She proceeds to arrange seats. 
 Oswald and Durward come 
 forward in conversation. 
 
 Osw. I like thine humor well. — So 
 
 all men beg 
 
 DUR. Yes — I can make it good by 
 proof. Your soldier 
 Begs for a leaf of laurel, and a line 
 In the Gazette; — he brandishes his sword 
 To back his suit, and is a sturdy beggar. — 
 The courtier begs a ribbon or a star, 
 And, like our gentler mumpers, is pro- 
 vided 
 With false certificates of health and for- 
 tune 
 Lost in the public service. — For your 
 
 lover 
 Who begs a sigh, a smile, a lock of hair, 
 A buskin-point, he maundsupon the pad, 
 With the true cant of pure mendicity. 
 " The smallest trifle to relieve a Christian, 
 And if it like your ladyship ! " 
 
 [/« a begging tone 
 Kat, {apart). This is a cunning knave, 
 and feeds the humor 
 Of my aunt's husband, for I must not say 
 Mine honor'd uncle. I will try a ques- 
 tion. — 
 Your man of merit tho', who serves the 
 commonwealth, 
 
 Nor asks for a requital ? 
 
 [ To Durward. 
 
59S 
 
 DRA^^ATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 DuR. Is a dumb beggar, 
 
 And lets his actions speak like signs for 
 
 him, 
 Chal lenging double guerdon. — Now, I'll 
 
 show 
 How your true beggar has the fair advan- 
 tage * 
 O'er all the tribes of cloak'd mendicity 
 I have told over to you. — The soldier's 
 
 laurel. 
 The statesman's ribbon, and the lady's 
 
 favor, 
 Once won and gain'd, are not held worth 
 
 a farthing 
 By such as longest, loudest, canted for 
 
 them; 
 Whereas your charitable halfpenny. 
 Which is the scope of a true beggar's suit. 
 Is worth tTvo farthings, and, in times of 
 
 plenty, 
 Will buy a crust of bread. 
 
 Flo. [interrupting him, and address- 
 ing her father) — 
 
 Sir, let me be a beggar with the time. 
 
 And pray you come to supper. 
 
 Ele. (^to Oswald, apart). Must /le 
 sit with us? [Looking afDvKW AKD. 
 Osw. Ay, ay, what else — since we 
 are beggars all? 
 
 When cloaks are ragged, sure their worth 
 is equal. 
 
 Whether at first they were of silk or 
 woollen. 
 Ele. Thou art scarce consistent. 
 
 This day thou didst refuse a princely ban- 
 quet, 
 
 Because a new-made lord was placed 
 above thee; 
 
 And now 
 
 Osw. Wife, I have seen, at public exe- 
 cutions, 
 
 A wretch that could not brook the hand 
 of violence 
 
 Should push him from the scaffold, pluck 
 up courage. 
 
 And, with a desperate sort of cheerfulness, 
 
 Take the fell plunge himself — 
 
 Welcome then, beggars, to a beggar's 
 feast ! 
 
 GuL. (who has in the meanwhile seated 
 himself) — 
 
 But this is more. — A better countenance. 
 
 Fair fall the hands that soused it ! — than 
 
 this hog's. 
 Or prettier provender than these same 
 
 sausages, 
 (By what good friend sent hither, shall 
 
 be nameless — 
 Doubtless some youth whom love hath 
 
 made profuse,) 
 
 [Smiling significantly at Eleanor 
 attd Flora.] 
 
 No prince need wish to peck at. Long, 
 
 I ween. 
 Since that the nostrils of this house (by 
 
 metaphor, 
 I mean the chimneys) smell'd a steam so 
 
 grateful. — 
 By your good leave I cannot dally longer. 
 [Helps himself. 
 Osw. (places Durward above GuLL- 
 
 crammer). Meanwhile, sir. 
 Please it your youthful learning to give 
 
 place 
 To gray hairs and to wisdom; and, more- 
 over. 
 
 If you had tarried for the benediction 
 
 GUL. {some7uhat abashed). I said grace 
 
 to myself. 
 Osw. (jiot minding him) — And waited 
 
 for the company of others. 
 It had been better fashion. Time has 
 
 been, 
 I should have told a guest at Devorgoil, 
 Bearing himself thus forward, he was 
 
 saucy. 
 
 [l/e seats himself, and helps the com- 
 pany and himself in dumb-sho7U. 
 There should be a contrast be- 
 tzoixt the precision of his aris- 
 tocratic cizdlity and the rude 
 under breeding of GULLCRAM- 
 
 MER. 
 
 Osw. {having tasted the dish next him) 
 
 — Why, this is venison, Eleanor! 
 
 GuL. Eh! What! Let's see — (/'w^/^t-i 
 
 across Oswald and helps himself.) 
 
 It may be venison — 
 
 I'm sure 'tis not beef, veal, mutton, lamb, 
 
 or pork; 
 Eke am I sure, that be it what it will, 
 It is not half so good as sausages. 
 Or as a sow's face soused. 
 
 Osw. Eleanor, whence all this? 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 599 
 
 Ei.E. Wait till to-morrow, 
 
 You shall know all. It was a happy 
 
 chance 
 That f urnish'd us to meet so many guests 
 
 — (y Fills ■wine'). 
 Try if your cup be not as richly garnish'd 
 As is your trencher.* 
 
 Kat. {apart). Aly aunt adheres to the 
 
 good cautious maxim 
 Of " Eat your pudding, friend, and hold 
 
 your tongue." 
 Osw. (flash's tlu wim). It is the grape 
 
 of Bordeaux. 
 Such dainties, once familiar to my board, 
 Have been estranged from 't long. 
 
 [f/e again Jills his glass, and con- 
 tinues to speak as he holds it up. 
 
 Fill round, my friends — here is a 
 
 treacherous friend, now. 
 Smiles in your face, yet seeks to steal the 
 
 jewel, 
 Which is distinction lietween man and 
 
 brute — 
 I mean our reason; this he does, and 
 
 ■I • 
 
 smiles. 
 
 But are not all friends treacherous? One 
 
 shall cross you 
 Even in your dearest interests — one shall 
 
 slander you — 
 This steal your daughter, that defraud 
 
 your purse; 
 But this gay flask of Bordeaux will but 
 
 borrow 
 Your sense of mortal sorrows for a season, 
 And leave, instead, a gay delirium. 
 Methinks my brain, unused to such gay 
 
 visitants. 
 The influence feels already '. ■ — we will 
 
 revel ! — 
 Our banquet shall lie loud ! — it is our 
 
 last. 
 Kalleen, thy song. 
 
 Kat. Not now, my lord — I mean to 
 
 sing to-night 
 For this same moderate, grave, and rev- 
 erend clergyman; 
 I'll keep my voice till then. 
 
 Ele. Your round refusal shows but 
 
 cottage breeding. 
 
 * Wooden trenchers should be used, and the 
 quaigh, a Scottish drinking cup : whence our 
 word quaff. 
 
 Kat. Ay, my good aunt, for I was 
 cottage-nurtured. 
 
 And taught, I think, to prize my own 
 wild will 
 
 Above all sacrifice to compliment. 
 
 Here is a huntsman — in his eyes I read 
 it, 
 
 He sings the martial song my uncle 
 loves. 
 
 What time fierce Claver'se with his Cava- 
 liers, 
 
 Abjuring the new change of government, 
 
 Forcing his fearless way thro' timorous 
 friends. 
 
 And enemies as timorous, left the capi- 
 tal 
 
 To rouse in James's cause the distant 
 Highlands. 
 
 Have you ne'er heard the song, my noble 
 uncle? 
 Osw. Have I not heard, wench? — It 
 was I rode next him — 
 
 'Tis thirty summers since — rode by his 
 rein ; 
 
 We marched on thro' the alarmed city. 
 
 As sweeps the osprey thro' a flock of 
 gulls. 
 
 Who scream and flutter, but dare no re- 
 sistance 
 
 Against the bold sea-empress. They did 
 murmur, 
 
 The crowds before us, in their sullen 
 wrath. 
 
 And those whom we had pass'd, gather- 
 ing fresh courage. 
 
 Cried havoc in the rear — we minded 
 them 
 
 E'en as the brave bark minds the burst- 
 ing billows. 
 
 Which, yielding to her bows, burst on 
 her sides. 
 
 And ripple in her wake. — Sing me that 
 strain, ( To Leo.) 
 
 And thou shall have a meed I seldom 
 tender. 
 
 Because they're all I have to give — my 
 thanks. 
 Leo. Nay, if you'll bear with what I 
 cannot help, 
 
 A voice that's rough with hollowing to 
 the hounds, 
 
 I'll sing the song even as old Rowland 
 taught me. 
 
6oo 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Air, — " The Bonnets of Bonny Dundee." 
 
 To the Lords of Convention 'twas Clav- 
 er'se who spoke, 
 
 " Ere the King's crown shall fall, there 
 are crowns to be broke : 
 
 So let each Cavalier who loves honor and 
 me. 
 
 Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
 dee. 
 
 Come fill up my cup, come fill up 
 
 my can, 
 Come saddle your horses, and call 
 
 up your men; 
 Come open the West Port, and let 
 
 me gang free. 
 And it's room for the bonnets of 
 
 bonny Dundee ! " 
 
 Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the 
 
 street. 
 The bells are rung backward, the drums 
 
 they are beat : 
 But the Provost, douce man, said, " Just 
 
 e'en let him be, 
 The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil 
 
 of Dundee." 
 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 As he rode down the sanctified bends of 
 
 the Bow, 
 Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her 
 
 pow; 
 But the young plants of grace they look'd 
 
 couthie and slec, 
 Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny 
 
 Dundee ! 
 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 With sour-featured Whigs the Grass- 
 market was cramm'd,* 
 
 As if half the West had set tryst to be 
 hang'd; 
 
 There was spite in each look, there was 
 fear in each e'e. 
 
 As they watch'd for the bonnets of Bonny 
 Dundee. 
 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 * Previous to 1784 the Grassmarket was the 
 common place of execution at Kdinburgh. 
 
 These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and 
 had spears, 
 
 And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers; 
 
 But they shrunk to close-heads, and the 
 causeway was free. 
 
 At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
 dee. 
 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 He spurr'd to the foot of the proud Cas- 
 tle rock, 
 
 And with the gay Gordon he gallantly 
 spoke : — 
 
 " Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak 
 twa words or three. 
 
 For the love of the bonnet of Bonny 
 Dundee." 
 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 The Gordon demands of him which way 
 
 he goes ; — 
 " Where'er shall direct me the shade of 
 
 Montrose ! 
 Your Grace in short space shall hear tid- 
 
 ' ings of me. 
 Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny 
 Dundee. 
 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 "There are hills beyond Pentland, and 
 lands beyond Forth, 
 
 If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's 
 chiefs in the North; 
 
 There are wild Duniewassals three thou- 
 sand times three, 
 
 Will cry /loix^h ! for the bonnet of Bonny 
 Dundee. 
 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 "There's brass on the target of barken'd 
 
 bull-hide; 
 There's steel in the scabbard that dangles 
 
 beside ; 
 The brass shall be burnish'd, the steel 
 
 shall flash free. 
 At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 " Away to the hills, to the caves, to the 
 
 rocks ! — 
 Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with 
 
 the fox ! — 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 6on 
 
 And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst 
 
 of your glee, 
 Vou have not seen the last of my bonnet 
 
 and me ! " 
 
 Come-fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 He waved his proud hand, and the trum- 
 pets were blown. 
 
 The kettle-drums clashed, and the horse- 
 men rode on. 
 
 Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermis- 
 ton's lee. 
 
 Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny 
 Dundee. 
 
 Come fill up my cup, come fill up 
 
 my can, 
 Come saddle the horses, and call 
 
 up the men. 
 Come open your gates, and let me 
 
 gae free. 
 For it's up with the bonnets of 
 
 Bonny Dundee ! 
 
 Ele. Katleen, do thou sing now. Thy 
 
 uncle's cheerful; 
 We must not let his humor ebb again. 
 Kat. But I'll do better, aunt, than if 
 
 I sung, 
 For Flora can sing blithe; so can this 
 
 huntsman. 
 As he has shown e'en now; let them duet 
 
 it. 
 Osw. Well, huntsman, we must give 
 
 to freakish maiden 
 The freedom of her fancy. — Raise the 
 
 carol, 
 And Flora, if she can, will join the 
 
 measure. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When friends are met o'er merry cheer, 
 And lovely eyes are laughing near. 
 And in the goblet's bosom clear 
 The cares of day arc drown'd; 
 
 When puns are made, and bumpers 
 
 quaff'd, 
 And wild Wit shoots his roving shaft, 
 And Mirth his jovial laugh has laugh 'd, 
 Then is our banquet crown 'd, 
 
 Ah gay. 
 Then is our banquet crown'd. 
 
 When glees are sung, and catches troll'd. 
 And bashfulness grows bright and bold. 
 And beauty is no longer cold, 
 
 And age no longer dull; 
 When chimes are brief, and cocks do crow, 
 To tell us it is time to go. 
 Yet how to part we do not know. 
 
 Then is our feast at full. 
 Ah gay. 
 
 Then is our feast at full. 
 
 Osw. (rises with his cup in his hand) — 
 Devorgoil's feast is full — Drink to the 
 pledge ! 
 
 \A tremendotts burst of thunder fol- 
 lows these words of the Song ; 
 and the Lightning should seem 
 to strike the suit of black Armor, 
 which falls with a crash. All 
 rise in surprise and fear except 
 GULLCRAMMER, who tumbles 
 over backwards and lies still. 
 
 Osw. That sounded like the judgment 
 peal — the roof 
 Still trembles with the volley, 
 
 DUR. Happy those, 
 
 Who are prepared to meet such fearful 
 
 summons. 
 Leonard, what dost thou there? 
 
 Leo. {supporting ¥1.0.) The duty of 
 a man — 
 Supporting innocence. Were it the final 
 
 call, 
 I were not misemploy'd. 
 
 Osw. The armor of my grandsire hath 
 fall'n down, 
 And old saws have spoke truth. — {Mus- 
 
 ing.) The fiftieth year — 
 Devorgoil's feast at fullest ! What to 
 think of it — 
 Leo. (lifting a scroll which had fallen 
 with the armor") — 
 This may inform us. — (Attempts to read 
 the manuscript, shakes his head and 
 gives it to Oswald) — 
 But not to eyes unlearn'd it tells its tidings. 
 Osw. Hawks, hounds, and revelling 
 consumed the hours 
 I should have given to study. {Looks at 
 
 the manuscript.") 
 These characters I spell not more than 
 thou. 
 
6o2 
 
 DRAAFATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 They are not of our clay, and, as I think. 
 
 Not of our language. — Where's our 
 scholar now. 
 
 So forward at the banquet ? Is he laggard 
 
 Upon a point of learning? 
 
 Leo. Here is the man of letter'd dig- 
 nity, 
 
 E'en in a piteous case. (^Drags Gull- 
 CRAMMER forward. ) 
 Osw. Art waking, craven? Canst thou 
 read this scroll? 
 
 Or art thou only learn'd in sousing swine's 
 flesh, 
 
 And prompt in eating it? 
 
 Gull. Eh — ah! — oh — ho! — Have 
 you no better time 
 
 To tax a man with riddles, than the 
 moment 
 
 When he scarce knows whether he's 
 dead or living? 
 Osw. Confound the pedant ? — Can you 
 read the scroll, 
 
 Or can you not, sir? If youfrtw, pronounce 
 
 Its meaning speedily. 
 
 GuL. ian I read it, quotha? 
 
 When at our learned University, 
 
 I gain'd first premium for Heljrew learn- 
 ing, — - 
 
 Which was a pound of high-dried Scot- 
 tish snuff. 
 
 And half a peck of onions, with a bushel 
 
 Of curious oatmeal, — our learned Prin- 
 cipal 
 
 Did say, " Melchisedek, thou canst tlo 
 anything ! " 
 
 Now comes he with his paltry scroll of 
 parchment, 
 
 And, " Ca7i you read it?" — After such 
 affront. 
 
 The point is, if I will. 
 
 Osw. A point soon solved. 
 
 Unless you choose to sleep among the 
 frogs; 
 
 For look you, sir, there is the chamber 
 window, — 
 
 Beneath it lies the lake. 
 
 Ele. Kind master Gullcrammer, be- 
 ware my husband. 
 
 He brooks no contradiction — 'tis his fault , 
 
 And in his wrath he's dangerous. 
 
 Gull, {looks at the scroll, and mutters 
 as if reading) — 
 
 Hashgaboth hotch-potch — 
 
 A simple matter this to make a rout of — 
 
 Ten rashersen bacon, mish-mash venison. 
 
 Sausagian souscd-fice — 'Tis a simple 
 catalogue 
 
 Of our snijU supper — made by the grave 
 sage 
 
 Whose prescience knew this night that 
 we should feast 
 
 On venison, hash'd sow's face, and sau- 
 sages. 
 
 And hung his steel coat for a supper bell. 
 
 E'en let us to our provender again, 
 
 l'"or it is written we shall finish it, 
 
 And bless our stars the lightning left it us. 
 Osw. This must be impuilence or ig- 
 norance ! 
 
 The spirit of rough Erick stirs within me, 
 
 And I will knock thy brains out if thou 
 falterest ! 
 
 Expound the scroll to me ! 
 
 GuL. You're over-hasty; 
 
 And yet you may be right too — -'Tis 
 Samaritan, 
 
 Now I look closer on't, and I did take it 
 
 For simple Hebrew. 
 
 DuR. 'Tis Hebrew to a simpleton. 
 
 That we see plainly, friend — Give me 
 the scroll. 
 GuL. Alas, good friend ! what would 
 
 you do with it? 
 DuR. {takes it from him.) 
 
 My best to read it, sir — The character 
 is Saxon, 
 
 Used at no distant date within this dis- 
 trict; 
 
 And thus the tenor runs — not in Samari- 
 tan, 
 
 Nor simple Hebrew, but in wholesome 
 English : — 
 
 " Devorgoil, thy bright moon waneth. 
 And the rust thy harness staineth; 
 Servile guests the banquet soil 
 Of the once proud Devorgoil. 
 But should Black Erick's armor fall. 
 Look for guests shall scare you all ! 
 They shall come ere peep of day, — 
 Wake and watch, and hope and pray." 
 
 Kat. (/c Flo.) Here is fine foolery? 
 
 An old wall shakes 
 At a loud thunder-clap — down comes a 
 
 suit 
 Of ancient armor, when its wasted braces 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 603 
 
 Were all too rotten to sustain its weight — 
 A beggar cries out, Miracle ! — and your 
 
 father, 
 Weighing the importance of his name 
 
 and lineage, 
 Must needs believe the dotard ! 
 
 F"lo. Mock not, I pray you; this may 
 
 be too serious. 
 Kat. And if I live till morning, I will 
 
 have 
 The power to tell a better tale of wonder 
 Wrought on wise Gullcrammer. I'll go 
 
 prepare me. [A'jr//. 
 
 Flo. I have not Katlcen's spirit, yet 
 
 I hate 
 This Gullcrammer too heartily to stop 
 Any disgrace that's hasting towards him. 
 
 Osw. (/(? ichom the Beggar has been 
 again reading the scroll ). 
 
 'Tis a strange prophecy ! — The silver 
 
 moon. 
 Now waning sorely, is our ancient bear- 
 ing — 
 Strange and unfitting guests — 
 
 GUL. (^interrupting him). Ay, ay, 
 the matter 
 Is, as you say, all moonshine in the water. 
 Osw. How mean you, sir? (Jhreaten- 
 
 GuL. To show that I can rhyme 
 
 With yonder bluegown. Give me breath 
 
 and time, 
 I will maintain, in spite of his pretense, 
 Mine exposition had the better sense — 
 It spoke good victuals and increase of 
 
 cheer; 
 And his, more guests to eat what we have 
 
 here — 
 An increment right needless. 
 
 Osw. Get thee gone ! 
 
 To kennel, hound ! 
 
 GUL. The hound will have his bone. 
 
 » [ Takes up the platter of meat and a 
 
 flask. 
 
 Osw. Flora, show him his chamber — 
 take him hence, 
 Or, by the name I bear, I'll see his brains '. 
 GUL. Ladies, good-night ! — I spare 
 you, sir, the pains. 
 
 \Exit, lighted by Flora with a 
 lamp. 
 
 Osw. The owl is fled. — I'll not to 
 bed to-night : 
 
 There is some change impending o'er 
 this house. 
 
 For good or ill. I would some holy man 
 
 Were here, to counsel us what we should 
 do. 
 
 Yon witless thin-faced gull is but a cas- 
 sock 
 
 Stuff'd out with chaff and straw. 
 
 DuR. (^assuming an air 0/ dignity). 
 I have been wont, 
 
 In other days, to point to erring mortals 
 
 The rock which they should anchor on. 
 
 [//(f holds up a Cross — the rest take 
 a posture of devotion, and the 
 Scene closes. 
 
 ACT III. — Scene I. 
 
 A ruinous Anteroom in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Katleen, fantastically dressed to 
 play the character of Cockledemoy, luitk 
 the visor in her hand. 
 
 Kat. I've scarce had time to glance at 
 
 my sweet person. 
 Yet this much could I see, with half a 
 
 glance. 
 My elfish dress becomes me — I'll not 
 
 mask me 
 Till I have seen Lance Blackthorn. 
 
 Lance, I say! \_Calls. 
 
 Blackthorn, make haste ! 
 
 Enter Blackthorn, ha^^ressed as 
 Ozt'lspiegle. ' 
 
 Bla. Here am I — Blackthorn in the 
 
 upper half, 
 Much at your service; but my nether 
 
 parts 
 Are goblinized and Owlspiegled. I had 
 
 much ado 
 To get these trankums on. I judge Eord 
 
 Erick 
 Kept no good house, and starved his 
 
 quondam barber. 
 Kat. Peace, ass, and hide you — Gull- 
 crammer is coming; 
 He left the hall before, but then took 
 
 fright. 
 And e'en sneak'd back. The Lady Flora 
 
 lights him — 
 Trim occupation for her ladyship ! 
 
0o4 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Had you seen Leonard, when she left 
 
 the hall 
 On such fine errand ! 
 
 Bla. This Gullcranimer shall have a 
 bob extraordinary 
 For my good comrade's sake. — But tell 
 
 me, Katleen, 
 What dress is this of yours? 
 
 Kat. a page's, fool ! 
 
 Bla. I am accounted no great scholar, 
 But 'tis a page that I would fain peruse 
 A little closer. {^Approaches her. 
 
 Kat. Put on your spectacles. 
 
 And try if you can read it at this distance, 
 For you shall come no nearer. 
 
 Bla. But is there nothing, then, save 
 rank imposture, 
 In all these tales of goblinry at Devor- 
 goil? 
 Kat. My aunt's grave lord thinks other- 
 wise, supposing 
 That his great name so interests the 
 
 Heavens, 
 That miracles must needs bespeak its fall. 
 I would that I were in a lowly cottage. 
 Beneath the greenwood, on its walls no 
 armor 
 
 To court the levin-lx)U 
 
 Bla. And a kind husband, Katleen, 
 To ward such dangers as must needs come 
 
 nigh, — 
 My father's cottage stands so low and 
 
 lone, 
 That you would think it solitude itself; 
 The greenwood shields it from the north- 
 ern blast, 
 And, in the woodliine round its latticed 
 
 casement, 
 The linnet's sure to build the earliest nest 
 In all the forest. 
 
 Kat. Peace, you fool, — they come. 
 [Flora lights Gullcrammer 
 across the Stage. 
 Kat. {jivhen they have passed) — Away 
 with you ! 
 On with your cloak — be ready at the 
 signal. 
 Bla. And shall we talk of that same 
 cottage, Katleen, 
 At better leisure? I have much to say 
 In favor of my cottage. 
 
 Kat. If you will be talking. 
 
 You know I can't prevent you. 
 
 Bla. That's enough. 
 
 (^Aside.) I shall have leave, I see, to 
 
 spell the page 
 A little closer, when the due time comes. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Scene changes to Gollcrammer's sleep- 
 ing Apartment. He enters, ushered in 
 by Flora, 7vho sets on the table a flask, 
 ■with the lamp. 
 
 Flo. a flask, in case your Reverence 
 be athirsty; 
 A light, in case your Reverence be 
 
 afear'd; — - 
 And so, sweet slumVier to your Rever- 
 ence. 
 GuL. Kind Mistress Flora, will you ? — 
 
 ch ! eh ! eh ! 
 Flo. Will I what? 
 GuL. Tarry a little ? 
 Flo. (^smiling). Kind Master Gull- 
 crammer, 
 How can you ask me aught so unlx;com- 
 ing? 
 GuL. Oh, fie, fie, fie ! — Believe me. 
 Mistress Flora, 
 'Tis not for that — but being guided 
 
 through 
 Such dreary galleries, stairs, and suites 
 
 of rooms. 
 To this same cubicle, I'm somewhat loth 
 To bid adieu to pleasant company. 
 
 Flo. a flattering compliment ! — In 
 
 plain truth, you are frighten'd. 
 GuL. What ! frighten'd ? — I — I — 
 
 am not timorous. 
 Flo. Perhaps you've heard this is our 
 haunted chamber? 
 But then it is our best. — Your Rever- 
 ence knows. 
 That in all tales which turn upon a ghost, 
 Your traveller belated has the luck 
 To enjoy the haunted room — it is a 
 rule: — * 
 
 To some it were a hardship, but to you. 
 
 Who are a scholar, and not timorous 
 
 GuL. I did not say I was not timorous, 
 I said I was not temerarious. — 
 I'll to the hall again. 
 
 Flo. You'll do your pleasure, 
 
 But you have somehow moved my father's 
 anger. 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 605 
 
 And you had better meet our playful 
 Owlspiegle — 
 
 So is our goblin call'd — than face Lord 
 Oswald. 
 GuL. Owlspiegle? — 
 
 It is an uncouth and outlandish name, 
 
 And in mine ears sounds fiendish. 
 Flo. Hush, hush, hush! 
 
 Perhaps he hears us now — (/« an under- 
 tone) — A merry spirit; 
 
 None of your elves that pinch folks black 
 and blue. 
 
 For lack of cleanliness. 
 
 GuL. As for that. Mistress Flora, 
 
 My taffeta doublet hath l)een duly brush'd. 
 
 My shirt hebdomadal put on this morn- 
 ing. 
 Flo. Why, you need fear no goblins. 
 
 But this Owlspiegle 
 
 Is of another class; — yet has his frolics; 
 
 Cuts hair, trims beards, and plays amid 
 his antics 
 
 The office of a sinful mortal barber. 
 
 Such is at least the rumor. 
 
 GuL. He will not cut my clothes, or 
 scar my face. 
 
 Or draw my blood? 
 
 Flo. Enormities like these 
 
 Were never charged against him. 
 
 GuL. And, Mistress Flora, would you 
 smile on me. 
 
 If, prick 'd by the fond hope of your ap- 
 proval , 
 
 I should endure this venture? 
 
 Flo. I do hope 
 
 I shall have cause to smile. 
 
 Gt^L. Well ! in that hope 
 
 I will embrace the achievement for thy 
 sake. \_She is going. 
 
 Yet, stay, stay, stay ! — on second 
 thoughts I will not — 
 
 I've thought on it, and will the mortal 
 cudgel 
 
 Rather endure than face the ghostly 
 razor ! 
 
 Your crab-tree's tough, but blunt, — your 
 razor's polish 'd. 
 
 But, as the proverb goes, 'lis cruel sharp. 
 
 I'll to thy father, and unto his pleasure 
 
 Submit these destined shoulders. 
 
 Flo. But you shall not — 
 
 Believe me, sir, you shall not; he is 
 desperate. 
 
 And better far be trimm'd by ghost or 
 
 goblin, 
 Than by my sire in anger; — there are 
 
 stores 
 Of hidden treasure, too, and Heaven 
 
 knows what. 
 Buried among these ruins — you shall 
 
 stay. 
 (^Apart.) And if indeed there be such 
 
 sprite as Owlspiegle, 
 And, lacking him, that thy fear plague 
 
 thee not 
 Worse than a goblin, I have miss'd my 
 
 purpose. 
 Which else stands good in either case. — 
 
 Gootl-night, sir. 
 
 [Exit, and douhle lock% the door. 
 GuL. Nay, hold ye, hold ! Nay, gentle 
 
 Mistress Flora, 
 Wherefore this ceremony? — She has 
 
 lock'd me in. 
 And left me to the goblin ! — (^Listening. ) 
 
 So, so, so ! 
 I hear her light foot trip to such a dis- 
 tance. 
 That I believe the castle's breadth divides 
 
 me 
 From human company. — I'm ill at 
 
 ease — 
 But if this citadel {laying his hand on 
 
 his stomach) were better victual'd, 
 It would be better mann'd. 
 
 [ Sits down and drinks. 
 
 She has a footstep light, and taper ankle. 
 
 [ Chuckles.- 
 
 Aha ! that ankle ! yet, confound it too. 
 
 But for those charms Melchisedek had 
 
 been 
 Snug in his bed at Mucklewhame — I say. 
 Confound her footstep, and her instep 
 
 too. 
 To use a cobbler's phrase. — There I was 
 
 quaint. 
 Now, what to do in this vile circumstance. 
 To watch or go to bed, I can't deter- 
 mine ; 
 Were I a-bed, the ghost might catch me 
 
 napping. 
 And if I watch, my terrors will increase 
 As ghostly hours approach. I'll to my 
 
 bed 
 E'en in my taffeta doublet, shrink my 
 
 head 
 
5o6 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Beneath the clothes — leave the lamp 
 burning there, 
 
 \Sets it on the table. 
 And trust to fate the issue. 
 
 l^He lays aside his cloak, and 
 brushes it, as from habit, start- 
 ing at every moment ; ties a 
 napkin over his head; then 
 shrinks beneath the bed-clothes. 
 He starts once or twice, and at 
 length seems to go to sleep. A 
 bell tolls ONE. He leaps up in 
 his bed. 
 GuL. I had just coax'd myself to sweet 
 forgetfulness, 
 And that confounded bell, I hate all bells, 
 Except a dinner-bell — and yet I lie, too, — 
 I love the bell that soonshall tell the parish 
 Of Gabblegoose, Melchisedek's incum- 
 bent — 
 And shall the future minister of Gabble- 
 goose, 
 Whom his parishioners will soon require 
 To exorcise their ghosts, detect their 
 
 witches. 
 Lie shivering in his bed for a pert goblin. 
 Whom, be he switch'd or cocktail'd, 
 
 horn'd or poll'd, 
 A few tight Hebrew words will soon send 
 
 packing? 
 Tush ! I will rouse theparson up within me, 
 
 And bid defiance (.-/ distant noise.} 
 
 In the name of Heaven, 
 What sounds are these? — O Lord ! this 
 comes of rashness ! 
 
 [Dramas his head down under the 
 bed-clothes. 
 
 Duet ivithout, betioeen OWLSPIEGLE and 
 
 COCKLEDEMOY. 
 
 Owi^. Cockledemoy, 
 
 My boy, my boy, 
 CocKL. Here, father, here. 
 
 Owls. Now thepole-star'sredandburning. 
 And the witch's spindle turning. 
 Appear, appear I 
 GuL. (^7iiho has again raised himself, 
 and listened with great terror to 
 the Duet) — 
 I have heard of the devil's dam before. 
 But never of his child. Now Heaven 
 deliver me. 
 
 The Papists have the belter of us there, -- 
 They have their Latin prayers, cut and 
 
 dried. 
 And pat for such occasion. — - 1 can think 
 On naught but the vernacular. 
 Owls. Cockledemoy ! 
 
 My boy, my boy. 
 
 We'll sport us here — 
 CocKL. Our gambols play, 
 
 Like elve and fay; 
 Owls. And domineer, 
 
 Both. Laugh, frolic, and frisk, till the 
 
 morning appear. 
 CoCKL. Lift latch — ^open clasp ^ — 
 
 Shoot bolt — -and burst hasp ! 
 [ The door opens with violence. 
 Enter BLACKTHORN as OwL- 
 SPIEGLE, fantastically dressed 
 as a Spanish Barber, tall, thin, 
 emaciated, and ghostly : Kat- 
 LEEN, as Cockledemoy, at- 
 tends as his page. .ill their 
 mantiers, tones, and motions 
 are fantastic, as those of Gob- 
 lins. They make two or three 
 times the circuit of the Room, 
 without seeming to see GULL- 
 CRAMMER. 7 hey then resume 
 their Chant, or Recitative. 
 Owls. Cockledemoy ! 
 
 My boy, my boy, 
 What wilt thou do that will give 
 
 thee joy? 
 Wilt thou ride on the midnight 
 owl? 
 CocKL. No; for the weather is stormy 
 
 and foul. 
 Owls. Cockledemoy ! 
 
 My boy, my boy, 
 What wilt thou do that can give 
 
 thee joy? 
 With a needle for a sword, and 
 
 a thimble for a hat. 
 Wilt thou fight a traverse with 
 the castle cat? 
 CoCKL. Oh no ! she has claws, and I 
 like not that. 
 Gi;l. I see the devil is a doting father. 
 And spoils his children — 'tis the surest 
 
 way 
 To make curst imps of them. They see 
 me not — 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 607 
 
 What will they think on next? It must 
 
 be own'd, 
 They have a dainty choice of occupations. 
 Owls. Cockledemoy ! 
 
 My boy, my hoy. 
 What shall we do that can give 
 
 thee joy? 
 Shall we go seek for a cuckoo's 
 nest? 
 CocKL. That's best, that's best ! 
 Both. About, about. 
 
 Like an elvish scout, 
 The cuckoo's a gull, and we'll 
 soon find him out. 
 
 \Tliey search the room with mops 
 and mows. At length Q.OCYX.Y.- 
 D^UOY jumps on the bed. GuLL- 
 CRAMMER raises himself half up, 
 supporting himself by his hands. 
 Cockledemoy does the same, 
 and grins at him, then skips 
 from tht bed, and runs to OwL- 
 
 SPIEGLE. 
 
 CocKL. I've found the nest. 
 
 And in it a guest, 
 With a sable cloak and a taffeta 
 
 vest; 
 He must be wash'd,and trimm'd, 
 
 and drest, 
 To please the eyes he loves the 
 best. 
 Owls. That's best, that's best. 
 Both. He must be shaved, and trimm'd 
 and drest. 
 To please the eyes he loves the 
 best. 
 [They arrange shaving things on 
 the table, and sing as they pre- 
 pare them. 
 Both. Know that all of the humbug, the 
 bite, and the buz, 
 Of the make-believe world, be- 
 comes forfeit to us. 
 Owls, {sharpening his razor) — 
 
 The sword this is made of was 
 
 lost in a fray 
 By a fop, who first bullied and 
 
 then ran away; 
 And the strap, from the hide of 
 
 a lame racer, sold 
 By Lord Match, to his friend, 
 for some hundreds in gold. 
 
 Both. For all of the humbug, the bite, 
 and the buz. 
 
 Of the make-ljelieve world, be- 
 comes forfeit to us. 
 CoCKL. {placing the napkin) — 
 
 And this cambric napkin, so 
 white and so fair. 
 
 At an usurer's funeral I stole 
 from the heir. 
 
 [Drops something from a vial, 
 as going to make suds. 
 
 This dewdrop I caught from one 
 eye of his mother. 
 
 Which wept, while she ogled the 
 parson with t'other. 
 Both. For all of the humbug, the bite, 
 and the buz. 
 
 Of the make-believe world, be- 
 comes forfeit to us 
 Owls, {arranging the lather and the 
 basin") — 
 
 My soap-ball is of the mild al- 
 kali made. 
 
 Which the soft dedicator em- 
 ploys in his trade; 
 
 And it froths with the pith of a 
 promise, that's sworn 
 
 By a lover at night, and forgot 
 on the morn. 
 Both. For all of the humbug, the bite, 
 and the buz. 
 
 Of the make-believe world, be- 
 comes forfeit to us. 
 Halloo, halloo, 
 The blackcock crew. 
 
 Thrice shriek'd hath the owl, 
 thrice croak 'd hath the 
 raven. 
 
 Here ho ! Master Gulicrammer, 
 rise and be shaven? 
 
 Da capo. 
 GuL. (7vho has been observing them). 
 I'll pluck a spirit up, they're merry gob- 
 lins. 
 And will deal mildly. I will soothe their 
 
 humor ; 
 Besides, my beard lacks trimming. 
 
 [He rises from his bed, and ad- 
 vances with great symptoms of 
 trepidation, but affecting an air 
 
6o8 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 of composure. The Goblins re- 
 ceive him with fantastic cere- 
 mony. 
 
 Gentlemen, 'tis your will I should be 
 
 trimm'd — 
 E'en do your pleasure. 
 
 [ They point to a seat — he sits. 
 
 Think, howsoe'er. 
 
 Of me as one who hates to see his blood; 
 
 Therefore I do beseech you, signior, 
 
 Be gentle in your craft. I know those 
 
 barbers, 
 One would have harrows driven across 
 
 his visnomy. 
 Rather than they should touch it with a 
 
 razor. 
 OWLSPIEGLE shaves GULLCRAMMER xuhile 
 
 COCKLEDEMOY singS. 
 
 Father never started hair. 
 Shaved too close, or left too bare — 
 Father's razor slips as glib 
 As from courtly tongue a fib. 
 Whiskers, mustache, he can trim in 
 Fashion meet to please the women; 
 Sharp's his blade, perfumed his lather ! 
 Happy those are trimm'd by father ! 
 
 GuL. That's a good boy. I love to 
 
 hear a child 
 
 Stand for his father, if he were the devil. 
 
 [ He motions to rise. 
 
 Craving your pardon, sir. — What ! sit 
 
 again? 
 My hair lacks not your scissors. 
 
 [OwLSPlEGLE insists ON his sitting. 
 Nay, if you're peremptory, I'll ne'er dis- 
 pute it. 
 Nor eat the cow and choke upon the tail — 
 E'en trim me to your fashion. 
 
 [Owi^PiEGLE cuts his hair, and 
 shaves his head ridiculously. 
 COCKLEUEMOY {sings as before). 
 Hair-breadth 'scapes, and hair-breadth 
 
 snares, 
 Hair-brain'd follies, ventures, cares, 
 Part when father clips your hairs. 
 If there is a hero frantic, 
 Or a lover too romantic; — 
 If threescore seeks second spouse. 
 Or fourteen lists lover's vows. 
 Bring them here — for a Scotch boddle, 
 Owlspiegle shall trim their noddle. 
 
 [ They take the napkin from about 
 GuLLCRAMMER's neck. I/e 
 makes bo-ws of ackno7vledgment, 
 which they return fantastically, 
 and sing — 
 
 Thrice crow'd hath the blackcock, thrice 
 
 croak'd hath the raven. 
 And Master Melchisedek Gullcrammer's 
 
 shaven ! 
 GUL. My friends, you are loo musical 
 
 for me. 
 But though I cannot cope with you in 
 
 song, 
 I would, in humble prose, inquire of you, 
 If that you will permit me to acquit 
 Even with the barber's pence the barberV 
 
 service ? 
 
 [ They shake their heads. 
 Or if there is aught else that I can do for 
 
 you. 
 Sweet Master Owlspiegle, or your loving 
 
 child, 
 The hopeful Cockle 'moy? 
 CocKL. Sir, you have been trimm'd of 
 
 late; 
 Smooth's your chin, and bald your pate; 
 Lest cold rheums should work you barm. 
 Here's a cap to keep you warm. 
 
 GuL. Welcome, as Fortunatus' wish- 
 ing cap. 
 For 'twas a cap that I was wishing for. 
 (There I was quaint in spite of mortal 
 
 terror.) 
 
 \^As he puts on the cap, a pair of 
 ass's ears disengage themselves. 
 
 Upon my faith, it is a dainty head-dress. 
 And might become an alderman ! — 
 
 Thanks, sweet Monsieur, 
 Thou'rt a considerate youth. 
 
 [Both Goblins bow with ceremony 
 to GuLLCRAMMER, 'who returns 
 their salutation. OWLSPEIGLE 
 descends by the trap-door. 
 COCKLEDEMOY Springs out at 
 window. 
 
 SONG {without). 
 Owl. Cockledemoy, my hope, my care. 
 Where art thou;now,0 tell me where? 
 CocKL. Up in the sky, 
 
 On the bonny dragonfly. 
 
Scene III. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVOkGOlL. 
 
 Oo0 
 
 Come, father, come you too — 
 She has four wings and strength enow, 
 And her long body has room for two. 
 
 GUL. Cockledenioy now is a naughty 
 brat — 
 Would have the poor old stiff-rump'd 
 
 devil, his father, 
 Peril his fiendish neck. All boys are 
 thoughtless. 
 
 SONG. 
 Owl. Which way didst thou take? 
 COCKL. I have fallen in the lake — 
 
 Help, father, for Beelzebub's sake. 
 
 GuL. The imp is drown'd — a strange 
 death for a devil ! 
 
 O, may all boys take warning, and be 
 civil; 
 
 Respect their loving sires, endure a chid- 
 ing. 
 
 Norroam by night on dragonflies a-riding ! 
 
 CoCKL. {sitiffs). Now merrily, merrily, 
 row I to shore. 
 My bark is a bean-shell, a straw for 
 an oar. 
 Owl. (^sifigs). My life, my joy, 
 
 My Cockledenioy ! 
 
 GuL. I can bear this no longer — thus 
 
 children are spoil'd. 
 (^Strikes into the tune.') — Master Owl- 
 
 spiegle, hoy ! 
 He deserves to be whipp'd, little Cockle- 
 
 demoy ! 
 [ Their voices are heard as if dying a^vay. 
 GUL. They're gone ! — Now, am I 
 
 scared, or am I not? 
 I think the very desperate ecstasy 
 Of fear has given me courage. This is 
 
 strange, now ! 
 When they were here I was not half so 
 
 frighten'd 
 As now they are gone — they were a sort 
 
 of company. 
 What a strange thing is use ! — A horn, 
 
 a claw, 
 The tip of a fiend's tail, was wont to 
 
 scare mc; — 
 Now am I with the devil hand and glove; 
 His soap has lather'd, and his razor shaved 
 
 me; 
 I've joined him in a catch, kept time and 
 
 tune. 
 
 Could dine with him, nor ask for a long 
 
 spoon; 
 And if I keep not better company. 
 What will become of me when I shall die ? 
 
 \_Exit. 
 Scene HI. 
 
 A Gothic Hall, loaste and ruinous. The 
 mnofilighi is at times seen through the 
 shafted zoindorus. Enter Katleen 
 a«^/ Blackthorn — 1 hey have thrown 
 off the more ludicrous parts of their dis- 
 guise. 
 
 Kat. This way — this way. Was ever 
 
 fool so gull'd ! 
 Bla. I play'd the barber better than I 
 thought for. 
 Well, Fve an occupation in reserve, 
 When the long bow and merry musket 
 
 fail me. — 
 But hark ye, pretty Katleen. 
 
 Kat. What should I hearken to? 
 
 Bla. Art thou not afraid. 
 In these wild halls while playing feigned 
 
 goblins. 
 That we may meet with real ones? 
 
 Kat. Not a jot. 
 
 My spirit is too light, my heart too bold- 
 To fear a visit from the other world. 
 Bla. But is not this the place, the very 
 hall 
 In which men say that Oswald's grand- 
 father. 
 The black Lord Erick, walks his penance 
 
 round? 
 Credit me, Katleen, these half-moulder'd 
 
 columns 
 Have in their ruin somethingveryfiendish, 
 And, if you'll take an honest friend's 
 
 advice, 
 The sooner that you change their shat- 
 
 ter'd splendor 
 For the snug cottage that I told you of, 
 Believe me, it will prove the blither 
 dwelling. 
 Kat. If I e'er see that cottage, honest 
 Blackthorn, 
 Believe me, it shall Ije from other motive 
 Than fear of Erick's spectre. 
 
 [./ rustling sound is heard. 
 Bla. I heard a rustling sound — 
 
 Upon my life, there's something in the 
 hall. 
 
6io 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act hi. 
 
 Katleen, besides us two ! 
 
 Kat. a yeoman thou, 
 
 A forester, and frighten'd ! I am sorry 
 I gave the fool's-cap to poorGuUcrammer, 
 And let thy head go bare. 
 
 [ The same 7-ushing sound is repeated. 
 liLA. Why, are you mad, or hear you 
 
 not the sound? 
 Kat. And if I do, I take small heed 
 of it. 
 Will you allow a maiden to be bolder 
 'I'linn you, with b^ard on chin and sword 
 at girdle? 
 Bla. Nay, if I had my sword, I would 
 not care; 
 Tho' I ne'er heard of master of defence. 
 So active at his weapon as lO brave 
 The devil, or a ghost — See ! see ! see 
 yonder ! 
 
 \_A Figure is imperfectly seen be- 
 tween tzuo of the pillars. 
 
 Kat. There's something moves, that's 
 certain, and the moonlight. 
 Chased by the flitting gale, is too imperfect 
 To show its form; but, in the name of 
 
 God, 
 I'll venture on it boldly. 
 
 Bla. Wilt thou so? 
 
 Were I alone, now, I were strongly 
 
 tempted 
 To trust my heels for safety; but with 
 
 thee. 
 Be it fiend or fairy. 111 take risk to meet it. 
 Kat. It stands full in our path, and 
 we must pass it, 
 Or tarry here all night. 
 
 Bla. In its vile company? 
 
 \^As they adikince towards the 
 Figure, it is more plainly distin- 
 guished, which might, / think, 
 be contrived by raisins; successive 
 screens of crape. The Figure is 
 wrapped in a long robe, like the 
 mantle of a Hermit, or Palmer. 
 
 Palmkk. IIo! ye who thread by night 
 tlijse wildering scenes. 
 In garb of those who long have slept in 
 
 death, 
 Fear yc the company of those you imitate? 
 . Bla. This is the devil, Katleen, let us 
 fly ! [ Runs off. 
 
 Kat. I will not fly — why should I ? 
 
 My nerves shake 
 To look on this strange vision, but my 
 
 heart 
 Partakes not the alarm. — If thou dost 
 
 come in Heaven's name. 
 In Heaven's name art thou welcome ! 
 Pal. I come, by Heaven permitted. 
 
 Quit this castle: 
 There is a fate on't — if for good or evil, 
 Brief space shall soon determine. In 
 
 that fate, 
 If good, by lineage thou canst nothrtig 
 
 claim. 
 If evil, much may'st suffer. — Leave these 
 
 precincts. 
 Kat. Whate'er thou art, be answer'd 
 
 — Know, I will not 
 Desert the kinswoman who train'd my 
 
 youth ; 
 Know, that I will not quit my friend, my 
 
 Flora; 
 Know, that I will not leave the aged man 
 Whose roof has shelter'd me. This is 
 
 my resolve — 
 If evil come, I aid my friends to bear it; 
 If good, my part shall be to see them 
 
 prosper, 
 A portion in their happiness from which 
 No fiend can bar me. 
 
 Pal. Maid, before thy courage. 
 
 Firm built on innocence, even beings of 
 
 nature. 
 More powerful far than thine, give place 
 
 and way; 
 Take then this key, and wait the event 
 
 with courage. 
 
 \He drops the key. — He disappears 
 gradually — the moonlight fail- 
 ing at the same time. 
 
 Kat. (^after a pause'). Whate'er it was, 
 'tis gone ! My head turns round — 
 The blood that lately fortified my heart 
 Now eddies in full torrent to my brain. 
 And makes wild work with reason. I 
 
 will haste. 
 If that my steps can boar me so far safe, 
 To living company. What if I meet it 
 Again in the long aisle, or vaulted pas- 
 sage ? 
 And if I do, the strong support that bore 
 me 
 
Scene IV. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 6ii 
 
 Thro' this appalling interview, again 
 Shall strengthen and uphold me. 
 
 \As she steps forward, she stumbles 
 over the key. 
 
 What's this? The key? — there may be 
 
 mystery in't. 
 I'll to my kinswoman, when this dizzy fit 
 Will give me leave to choose my way 
 
 aright. 
 
 [She sits doiuH exhausted. 
 
 Re-enter Blackthorn, 7vith a drawn 
 stvord and torch. 
 
 Bla. Katleen ! — what, Katleen ! — 
 What a wretch was I 
 
 To leave her ! — Katleen ! — I am 
 weapon'd now, 
 
 And fear nor dog nor devil, — She re- 
 plies not ! 
 
 Beast that I was ! — nay, worse than 
 beast ! The stag, 
 
 As timorous as he is, fights for his hind. 
 
 What's to be done? — I'll search this 
 cursed castle 
 
 From dungeon to the battlements; if I 
 find her not, 
 
 I'll fling me from the highest pinnacle — 
 
 Katleen {7vho has somewhat gathered 
 her spirits in consequence of his en- 
 trance, comes behind and touches him : 
 he starts). Brave sir ! 
 
 I'll spare you that rash leap — You're a 
 bold woodsman ! 
 
 Surely I hope that from this night hence- 
 forward 
 
 You'll never kill a hare, since you're akin 
 to them. 
 
 I could laugh — but that my head's so 
 
 dizzy. 
 Bla. Lean on me, Katleen — By my 
 honest word 
 
 1 thought you close behind — I was sur- 
 
 prised. 
 
 Not a jot frightened. 
 
 Kat. Thou art a fool to ask me to thy 
 cottage. 
 
 And then to show me at what slight ex- 
 pense 
 
 Of manhood I might master thee and it. 
 Bla. I'll take the risk of that— This 
 goblin business 
 
 Came rather unexpectedly; the best horse 
 
 Will start at sudden sights. Try me 
 
 again, 
 And if I prove not true to bonny Katleen, 
 Hang me in mine own bowstring. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 The Scene returns to the Apartment at the 
 beginning of Act Second. Oswald 
 and DURWARD are discovered with 
 Eleanor, Flora, and Leonard — 
 DuRWARD shuts a Prayer-book, which 
 he seems to have been reading. 
 
 DuR . 'Tis true — the difference betwixt 
 the churches. 
 Which zealots love to dwell on, to the 
 
 wise 
 Of either flock are of far less importance 
 Than those great truths to which all 
 
 Christian men 
 Subscribe with equal reverence. 
 
 Osw. We thank thee, father, for the 
 holy office. 
 Still best performed when the pastor's 
 
 tongue 
 Is echo to his breast : of jarring creeds 
 It ill beseems a layman's tongue to 
 
 speak — 
 Where have you stow'd yon prater? 
 
 [7i> Flora. 
 Flo. Safe in the goblin-chamber. 
 Ele. The goblin-chamber ! 
 
 Maiden, wert thou frantic? — if his Rev- 
 erence 
 Have suffer'd harm by waspish Owl- 
 
 spiegle, 
 Be sure thou shaft abye it. 
 
 Here he comes. 
 Can answer for himself ! 
 
 Enter Gullcrammer in the fashion in 
 which Owlspiegle had put him ; hav- 
 ing the fooP s-cap on his head, and to'iuel 
 about his neck, etc. His manner 
 through the scene is wild and extrava- 
 gant, as if the fright had a little af- 
 fected his brain. 
 
 Dur. A goodly spectacle ! — Is there 
 such a goblin ? 
 {To Osw.) Or has sheer terror made him 
 such a figure? 
 Osw. There is a sort of wavering tra- 
 dition 
 
6l2 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Of a malicious imp who teased all 
 
 strangers; 
 My father wont to call him Owlspiegle. 
 
 GuL. Who talks of Owlspiegle? 
 He is an honest fellow for a devil. 
 So is his son, the hopeful Cockle'moy. 
 
 (^Sings\) " My hope, my joy. 
 
 My Cockledemoy ! " 
 
 Leo. The fool's bewitch'd — the gob- 
 lin hath furnish'd him 
 A cap which well befits his reverend wis- 
 dom. 
 Flo. If I could think he had lost his 
 slender wits, 
 I should be sorry for the trick they play'd 
 him. 
 Leo. O fear him not; it were a foul 
 reflection 
 On any fiend of sense and reputation, 
 To filch such petty wares as his poor 
 brains. 
 DUR. What saw'st thou, sir? — what 
 
 heard'st thou? 
 GUL. What was't I saw and heard? 
 That which old graybeards. 
 Who conjure Hebrew into Anglo-Saxon, 
 To cheat starved barons with, can little 
 guess at. 
 Flo. If he begin so roundly with my 
 father. 
 His madness is not like to save his bones. 
 GuL. Sirs, midnight came, and with it 
 came the goblin. 
 I had reposed me after some brief study; 
 But as the soldier, sleeping in the trench. 
 Keeps sword and musket by him, so I 
 
 had 
 My little Hebrew manual prompt for ser- 
 vice. 
 Flo. Sausagian soused-face ; that much 
 of your Hebrew 
 Even I can bear in memory. 
 
 GuL. We counter'd, 
 
 The goblin and myself, even in mid- 
 chamber, 
 And each stept back a pace, as 'twere to 
 
 study 
 The foe he had to deal with ! — I be- 
 thought me. 
 Ghosts ne'er have the first word, and so 
 
 I took it. 
 And fired a volley of round Greek at him. 
 
 He stood his ground, and answer'd in 
 
 the Syriac; 
 I flank'd my Greek with Hebrew, and 
 
 compell'd him — [A noise heard. 
 Osvv. Peace, idle prater ! — Hark — 
 
 what sounds are these? 
 Amid the growling of the storm without, 
 I hear strange notes of music, and the 
 
 clash 
 Of coursers' trampling feet. 
 
 Voices {^ivilhonf). We con:e, dark 
 
 riders of the night. 
 And flit before the dawning light; 
 Hill and valley, far aloof. 
 Shake to hear our' chargers' hoof; 
 But not a foot-stamp on the green 
 At morn shall show where we have 
 
 been. 
 
 Osw. These must be revellers be- 
 lated — 
 
 Let them pass on; the ruin'd halls of 
 Devorgoil 
 
 Open to no such guests. — 
 
 [Flourish of trumpets at a distance, 
 then nearer. 
 
 They sound a summons; 
 What can they lack at this dead hour of 
 
 night? 
 Look out, and see their number, and 
 their bearing. 
 Leo. i^goes tip to the window') — 
 'Tis strange — one single shadowy form 
 
 alone 
 Is hovering on the drawbridge — far apart 
 P'lit thro' the tempest banners, horse, and 
 
 riders. 
 In darkness lost, or dimly seen by light- 
 ning. — 
 Hither the figure moves --the bolts re- 
 volve — 
 The gate uncloses to him. 
 
 Ele. Heaven protect us ! 
 
 The Palmer enters — Gullcrammer 
 
 runs off. 
 Osw. Whence, and what art thou? — 
 
 for what end come hither? 
 Pal. I come from a far land, where 
 the storm howls not. 
 And the sun sets not, to pronounce to 
 
 thee, 
 Oswald of Devorgoil, thy house's fate. 
 
Scene IV, 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 
 
 6f3 
 
 DuR. I charge thee, in the name we 
 
 late have kneel'il to 
 
 Pal. Abbot of Lanercost, I bid thee 
 peace ! 
 
 Uninterrupted let me do mine errand: 
 
 Baron of Devorgoil, son of the bold, the 
 proud, 
 
 The warlike and the mighty, wherefore 
 wear'st thou 
 
 The habit of a peasant ? Tell me, where- 
 fore 
 
 Are thy fair halls thus waste — thy cham- 
 bers bare ? — 
 
 Where are the tapestries, where the con- 
 quer'd banners, 
 
 Trophies, and gilded arms, that deck'd 
 the walls 
 
 Of once proud Devorgoil? 
 
 \_He advances, and places himself 
 where the Armor hung, so as to 
 be nearly in the centre of the 
 Scene. 
 
 DuR. Whoe'er thou art — if thou dost 
 know so much, 
 
 Needs must thou know 
 
 Osw. Peace! I will answer here; to 
 me he spoke — 
 
 Mysterious stranger, briefly I reply : 
 
 A peasant's dress befits a peasant's for- 
 tune; 
 
 And 'twere vain mockery to array these 
 walls 
 
 In trophies, of whose memory naught re- 
 mains. 
 
 Save that the cruelty outvied the valor 
 
 Of those who wore them. 
 
 Pal. Degenerate as thou art, 
 
 Know'st thou to whom thou say'st this? 
 
 \^He drops his mantle, and is dis- 
 covered armed as nearly as may 
 be to the suit which hung on the 
 wall ; all express terror. 
 
 Osw. It is himself — the spirit of mine 
 
 Ancestor ! 
 Erl Tremble not, son, but hear me ! 
 
 \^He strikes the wall ; it opens, and 
 discovers the Treasure- Cham- 
 ber. 
 
 There lies piled 
 The wealth I brought from wasted Cum- 
 berland, 
 
 Enough to reinstate thy ruin'd for- 
 tunes. — 
 
 Cast from thine high-born brows that 
 peasant bonnet. 
 
 Throw from thy noble grasp the peas- 
 ant's staff — 
 
 O'er all, withdraw thine hand from that 
 mean mate. 
 
 Whom in an hour of reckless despera- 
 tion 
 
 Thy fortunes cast thee on. This do, 
 
 And be as great as e'er was Devorgoil, 
 
 When Devorgoil was richest ! 
 
 Dur. Lord Oswald, thou art tempted 
 by a fiend, ' 
 
 Who doth assail thee on thy weakest 
 side, — 
 
 Thy pride of lineage, and thy love ol 
 grandeur. 
 
 Stand fast — resist — contemn his fatal 
 offers ! 
 Ele. Urge him not, father; if the 
 sacrifice 
 
 Of such a wasted woe-worm wretch as I 
 am 
 
 Can save him from the abyss of misery, 
 
 Upon whose verge he's tottering, let me 
 wander 
 
 An unacknowledged outcast from his 
 castle. 
 
 Even to the humble cottage I was born 
 in. 
 Osw. No, Ellen, no — it is not thus 
 they part, 
 
 Whose hearts and souls, disasters borne 
 in common 
 
 Have knit together, close as summer 
 saplings 
 
 Are twined in union by the eddying tem- 
 pest. — 
 
 Spirit of Erick, while thou bear'st his 
 shape, 
 
 I'll answer with no ruder conjuration 
 
 Thy impious counsel, other than with 
 these words. 
 
 Depart, and tempt me not ! 
 
 Eri. Then Fate will have her course. — 
 Fall, massive grate. 
 
 Yield them the tempting view of these 
 rich treasures. 
 
 But bar them from possession ! {A port- 
 cullis falls before the door of the Treas- 
 ure-Chamber.) Mortals, hear! 
 
6i4 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. Scene IV. 
 
 No hand may ope that gate, except the 
 
 heir 
 Of plunder'd Aglionby, whose mighty 
 
 wealth, 
 Ravish'd in evil hour, lies yonder piled; 
 And not his hand prevails without the 
 
 key 
 Of Black Lord Erick. Brief space is 
 
 given 
 To save proud Devorgoil — so wills high 
 
 Heaven. [ Thunder ; he disappears. 
 DUR. Gaze not so wildly; you have 
 
 stood the trial 
 That his commission bore, and Heaven 
 
 designs, 
 If I may spell his will, to rescue Devor- 
 goil 
 Even by the Heir of Aglionby — Behold 
 
 him 
 In that young forester, unto whose hand 
 Those bars shall yield the treasures of 
 
 his house. 
 Destined to ransom yours. — Advance, 
 
 young Leonard, 
 And prove the adventure. 
 
 Leo. {^advances, and attempts the 
 
 grate). It is fast 
 As is the tower, rock-seated. 
 
 Osw. We will fetch other means, and 
 
 prove its strength. 
 Nor starve in poverty, with wealth before 
 
 us. 
 DUR. Think what the vision spoke; 
 The key — the fated -key 
 
 Enter GULLCRAMMER 
 
 GUL. A key? — I say a quay is what 
 
 we want. 
 Thus by the learn'd orthographized — 
 
 Q, u, a, y. 
 The lake is overflow 'd ! — a quay, a boat, 
 Oars, punt, or sculler, is all one to me ! — 
 We shall be drown'd, good people ! ! ! 
 
 Enter Katleen and Blackthorn. 
 
 Kat. Deliver us ! 
 
 Haste, save yourselves — the lake is ris- 
 ing fast. 
 Bla. 'T has risen my bow's height in 
 the last five minutes, 
 And still is swelling strangely. 
 
 GuL. ( %vho has stood astonished upon 
 seeing t/iem) — 
 
 We shall be drown'd without your kind 
 
 assistance. 
 Sweet Master Owlspiegle, your dragon- 
 
 fly- 
 Your straw, your bean-stalk, gentle 
 
 Cockle'moy ! 
 Leo. {looking from the shot-hole). 
 'Tis true, by all that's fearful. The proud 
 
 lake 
 Peers, like ambitious tyrant, o'er his 
 
 bounds. 
 And soon will whelm the castle — even 
 
 the drawbridge 
 Is under water now. 
 
 Kat. Let us escape ! Why stand you 
 
 gazing there? 
 DuR. Upon the opening of that fatal 
 
 grate 
 Depends the fearful spell that now en- 
 traps us. 
 The key of Black Lord Erick — ere we 
 
 find it. 
 The castle will be whelm'd beneath the 
 
 waves. 
 And we shall perish in it ! 
 
 Kat. {giving the key). Here, prove 
 
 this: 
 A chance most strange and fearful gave 
 
 it me. 
 
 [OsvfAUD puts it into the lock, and 
 attempts to turn it — a loud clap 
 of thunder. 
 
 Flo. Thelake still risesfaster. — Leon, 
 ard, Leonard, 
 Canst thou not save us '. 
 
 [ Leonard tries the lock — it open 
 with a violent noise, and th. 
 Portcullis rises. A loud strain 
 of wild music. — There may bi 
 a Chorus here. 
 
 [Oswald enters the apartment, 
 and brings out a scroll. 
 
 Leo. The lake is ebbing with as won 
 
 drous haste 
 
 As late it rose — the drawbridge is lef^ 
 
 dry! 
 
 Osw. This may explain the cause — 
 
 (Gullcrammer offers to take it.) But 
 
 soft you, sir. 
 We'll not disturb your learning for the 
 matter; 
 
AUCHINDRANE. 
 
 6iS 
 
 Yet, since you've borne a part in this 
 
 strange drama, 
 You shall not go unguerdon'd. Wise or 
 
 learn'd, 
 Modest or gentle, Heaven alone can make 
 
 thee, 
 Being so much otherwise; but from this 
 
 abundance 
 Thou shalt have that shall gild thine 
 
 ignorance. 
 Exalt thy base descent, make thy pre- 
 sumption 
 Seem modest confidence, and find thee 
 
 hundreds 
 Ready to swear that same fool's cap of 
 
 thine 
 Is reverend as a mitre. 
 
 Gull. Thanks, mighty baron, now no 
 
 more a bare one ! 
 I will be quaint with him, for all his 
 
 quips. \^Aside. 
 
 Osvv. Nor shall kind Katleen lack 
 Her portion in our happiness. 
 
 Kat. Thanks, my good lord, but Kat- 
 leen's fate is fix'd — 
 There is a certain valiant forester, 
 Too much afear'd of ghosts to sleep 
 
 anights 
 In his lone cottage, without one to guard 
 him. — 
 Leo. If I forget my comrade's faithful 
 friendship, 
 May I be lost to fortune, hope, and love ! 
 DUR. Peace, all ! and hear the bless- 
 ing which this scroll 
 Speaks unto faith, and constancy, and 
 virtue : — 
 
 "No more this castle's troubled guest. 
 Dark Erick's spirit hath found rest. 
 The storms of angry Fate are past. 
 For Constancy defies their blast. 
 Of Devorgoil the daughter free 
 Shall wed the heir of Aglionby; 
 Nor ever more dishonor soil 
 The rescued house of Devorgoil ! ' ' 
 
 AUCHINDRANE; OR, THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY. 
 
 Cur aliquid vidi ? cur noxia lumina feci ! 
 Cur imprudenti cognita culpa mihi est ? 
 
 Ovidii Tristium, Liber Secundus. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 There is not perhaps, upyon record, a tale of horror which gives us a more perfect pic- 
 ture than is afforded by the present, of the violence of our ancestors, or the complicated 
 crimes into which they were hurried, by what their wise, but ill-enforced, laws termed the 
 heathenish and accursed practice of Deadly Feud. The author has tried to extract some 
 dramatic scenes out of it ; but he is conscious no exertions of his can increase the horror 
 of that which is in itself so iniquitous. Yet, if we look at modern events, we must not 
 too hastily venture to conclude that our own times have so much the suf)eriority over 
 former days as we might at first be tempted to infer. Our great object lias been obtained. 
 The power of the laws extends over the country universally, and if criminals at present 
 sometimes escape punishment, this can only be by eluding justice, — not, as of old, by 
 defying it. 
 
 But the motives which influence modern ruffians to commit actions at which we pause 
 with wonder and horror, arise, in a great measure, from the thirst of gain. For the hof)e 
 of lucre, we have seen a wretch seduced to his fate, under the pretext that he was to share 
 in amusement and convivialitv : and, for gold, we have seen the meanest of wretches 
 deprived of life, and their miserable remains cheated of the grave. 
 
6i6 PREFACE TO 
 
 The loftier, if equally cruel, feelings of pride, ambition, and love of vengeance, were 
 the idols of our forefathers, while tlie caitiffs of our city lx;nd to Mammon, the meanest of 
 the spirits who fell. The criminals, tlierefore, of former times, drew their hellish inspira- 
 tion from a loftier source than is known to modern villains. The fever of unsated ambi- 
 tion, the frenzy of imgratified revenge, the fc>fcn<idu)>i inQcnium Scotoritm, stigmatized 
 by our jurists and our legislators, held life but as passing breath ; and such enormities as 
 now sound like tiie acts of a madman, were tlien the familiar deeds of every offended 
 noble. With these observations we proceed to our story. 
 
 John Muir, or Mure, of Auciiiiidrane, the contriver and executor of the following 
 cruelties, was a gentleman of an ancient family and a good estate in the west of Scotland ; 
 bold, ambitious, treaciierous to tiie last degree, and utterly unconscientious, — a Richard 
 the Third in private life, inaccessible alike to pity and remorse. Mis view was to raise the 
 power and extend tlie grandeur of liis own family. This gentleman had married the daugh- 
 ter of Sir Thomas Kennedy of Barganie, wiio was, excepting the liarl of Cassilis, the most 
 important person in all Carrick, the district of Ayrshire which he inhabited, and where tlie 
 name of Kennedy held so great a sway as to give rise to the popular rhyme ; — 
 
 " 'Twixt Wigton niul the town of Air, 
 Portiiatrick and the Cruives of Cree, 
 No man need think for to bide there, 
 Unless he court .Saint Kennedie." 
 
 Now, Mure of Auchindrane, who had promised himself high advancement by means of 
 his father-in-law, Barganie, saw, with envy and resentment, tliat his intiuence remained 
 second and inferior to tlie House of Cassilis, chief of all the Kennedys. The Earl was 
 indeed a minor, but his authority was maintained, and his affairs well managed, by his 
 uncle, .Sir Thomas Kennedy of CuUayne, tlie brother of the deceased Earl, and tutor and 
 guardian to the present. This worthy gentleman supported his nephew's dignity and the 
 credit of the house so effectually, that IJarganie's consequence was much thrown into the 
 shade, and the ambitious Auchindrane, his son-in-law, saw no better remedy than to 
 remove so formidable a rival as CuUayne by violent means. 
 
 For this purpose, in the year of Clod 1597, he came with a party of followers to the 
 town of Maybole (where .Sir Tiiomas Kennedy of CuUayne then resided), and lay in am- 
 bush in an orchard, through which he knew his destined victim was to pass, in returning 
 homewards from a house where he was engaged to sup. Sir Thomas Kennedy came 
 alone, and unattended, when he was suddenly lired upon by .Auchindrane and his accom- 
 plices, who, having missed their aim, drew their swords, and rushed upon him to slay 
 him. But the party thus assailed at disadvantage, had the good fortune to hide himself 
 for that time in a ruinous house, where he lay concealed till the inhabitants of the place 
 came to his assistance. 
 
 Sir Thomas Kennedy prosecuted Mure for this assault, who, finding himself in danger 
 from the law, made a sort of apology and agreement with the Eord of CuUayne, to whose 
 daughter he united his eldest son, in testimony of the closest friendship in the futute. 
 This agreement was sincere on the part of Kennedy, who, after it had been entered into, 
 showed hiiTiself .Auchindrane's friend and assistant on all occasions. But it was most 
 false and treacherous on that of Mure, who continued to nourish the purpose of murdering 
 his new friend and ally on the first opportunity. 
 
 Auchindrane's first attempt to effect this was by means of the young Gilbert Kenneay 
 of Barganie (the old Barganie, .\iichindrane's father-in-law, was dead), vvhom he persuaded 
 to brave the Earl of Cassilis, as one who usurped an undue influence over the rest of the 
 name. Accordingly, the hot-headed youth, at the instigation of Auchindrane. rode past 
 the gate of the Earl of Cassilis, without waiting on his chief, or sending him any message 
 of civility. This led to mutual defiance, being regarded by the Earl, according to the 
 ideas of the time, as a personal insult. Both parties took the field with their followers, at 
 the head of about two hundred and fifty men on each side. Barganie, with the rashness of 
 headlong courage, and .\uchindrane, fired by deadly enmity to the House of Cassilis, 
 made a precipitate attack on the Earl, whose men were strongly posted, and under cover. 
 They were received by a heavy fire. Barganie was slain. Mure of Auchindrane, severely 
 wounded in the thigh, liecame unable to sit his horse, and, the leaders thus slain or 
 disabled, their party drew off without continuing the action. It must lie particularly 
 observed, that Sir Thomas Kennedy remained neuter in this quarrel, considering his con 
 
AUCHINDRANE. 6j7 
 
 nection with Auchindrane as too intimate to be broken even by his desire to assist his 
 nephew. 
 
 For this temperate and honorable conduct he met a vile reward ; for Auchindrane, in 
 resentment of tlie loss of his relative Barganie, and the downfall of his ambitious hopes, 
 continued his practices against the life of Sir Thomas of Cullayne, though totally innocent 
 of contributing to either. Chance favored his wicked purpose. 
 
 The Knight of Cullayne, (inding himself obliged to goto Edinburgh on a particular 
 day, sent a message by a servant to Mure, in which he told him, in the most unsuspecting 
 confidence, the purpose of his journey, and named the road which he proposed to take, 
 inviting Mure to meet him at Duppill, to the west of the town of Ayr, a place appointed, 
 for the purpose of giving him any commissions which he might have for Edinburgh, and 
 assuring his treacherous ally he would attend to any business which he might have in the 
 Scottish metropolis as anxiously as to his own. Sir Thomas Kennedy's message was 
 carried to the town of Maybole, where his messenger, for some trivial reason, had the 
 impost committed to writing by a schoolmaster in that town, and despatched it to its 
 destination by means of a poor student, named Dalrymple, instead of carrying it to the 
 house of Auchindrane in person. 
 
 This suggested to Mure a diabolical plot. Having thus received tidings of .Sir Thomas 
 Kennedy's motions, lie conceived the infernal purpose of having the conhding friend who 
 sent the information, waylaid and murdered at the place appointed to meet with him, not 
 only in friendship, but for the purpose of rendering him service. He dismissed the mes 
 senger Dalrymple, cautioning the lad to carry back the letter to Maybole, and to say thai 
 he had not found him, Auchindrane, in his house. Having taken this precaution, he 
 proceeded to instigate the brother of the slain Gilbert of Barganie, Thomas Kennedy of 
 Drumurghie by name, and Walter Mure of Cloncaird, a kinsman of his own, to take this 
 opportunity of revenging Barganie's death, 'i'he fiery young men were easily induced t'^ 
 undertake the crime. They waylaid the unsuspecting Sir Thomas of Cullayne at the 
 place appointed to meet the traitor Auchindrane, and the murderers having in company 
 five or six servants, well mounted and armed, assaulted and cruelly murdered him with 
 many wounds. They then plundered the dead corpse of his purse, containing a thousand 
 nierks in gold, cut off the gold buttons which he wore on his coat, and despoiled the body 
 of some valuable rings and jewels. 
 
 The revenge due for his uncle's murder was keenly pursued by the Earl of Cassilis. 
 As the murderers fled from trial, they were declared outlaws : which doom, being pro- 
 nounced by three blasts of a horn, was called " being put to the horn, and declared the 
 king's rebel." Mure of Auchindrane was strongly susix-ctcd of having been the instigator 
 of the crime. But he conceived there could be no evidence to prove his guilt if he could 
 keep the boy Dalrymple out of the way, who.delivered the letter which made him acquainted 
 .with Cullayne's journey, and the place at which he meant to halt. On the contrary, he 
 saw, that if the lad could be produced at the trial, it would afford ground of fatal presump- 
 tion, since it could be then proved that persons so nearly connected with him as Kennedy 
 and Cloncaird had left his house, and committed the murder at the very spot which 
 Cullayne had fixed for their meeting. . 
 
 To avoid this imminent danger. Mure brought Dalrymple to his house, and detained 
 him there for several weeks. But the youth tiring of this confinement. Mure sent him to 
 reside with a friend, Montgomery of Skellmorly, who maintained him under a borrowed 
 name, amid the desert regions of the then almost savage island of Arran. Being confi- 
 dent in the absence of this material witness, Auchindrane, instead of flymg, like his agents 
 Drumurghie and Cloncaird, presented himself boldly at the bar, demanded a fair trial, 
 and offered his person in combat to the death against any of I.ord Cassihs's friends \yho 
 might impugn his innocence. This audacity was successful, and he was dismissed with- 
 put trial. _, , , .... 
 
 Still, however. Mure did not consider himself safe, so long as Dalrymple was within 
 the realm of Scotland ; and the danger grew more pressing when he learned that the lad 
 had become impatient of the restraint which he sustained in the island of Arran, and 
 returned to some of his friends in Ayrshire. Mure no sooner heard of this than he again 
 obtained possession of the boy's person, and a second time concealed hini at .Auchindrane, 
 until he found an opportunity to transport him to the Low Countries, where he contrived 
 to have him enlisted in Buccleuch's regiment, trusting, doubtless, that some one of the 
 numerous chances of war might destroy the poor young man whose life was so dangerous 
 to him. 
 
6i8 PREFACE TO 
 
 \ 
 
 But after five or six years' uncertain safety, bought at the expense of so much violence 
 and cunning, Auchindrane's fears were exasperated into frenzy, when he found this dan- 
 gerous witness, having escaped from all the {Xjrils of climate and battle, had left, or been 
 discharged from, the Legion of Borderers, and had again accomplished his return to Ayr- 
 shire. There is ground to suspect that Dalrymple knew the nature of the hold which he 
 possessed over Auchindrane, and was desirous of extorting from his fears some better pro- 
 vision than he had found either in Arran or the Netiierlands. But if so, it was a fatal 
 experiment to tamper with tlie fears of such a man as Auchindrane, who determined to rid 
 himself effectually of this unhappy young man. 
 
 Mure now lodged him in a house of his own, called Chapeldonan, tenanted by a vassal 
 and connection of his, called James Bannatyne. This man he commissioned to meet him 
 at ten o'clock at night on the sea-sands near Girvan, and bring with him the unfortunate 
 Dalrymple, the object of his fear and dread. The victim seems to have come with Banna- 
 tyne without the least suspicion, though such might have been raised by the time and 
 place appointed for the meeting. When Bannatyne and Dalrymple came to the appointed 
 spot, Auchindrane met them, accompanied by his eldest son, James. Old Auchindrane, 
 having taken Bannatyne aside, imparted his bloody purpose of ridding himself of Dal- 
 rymple forever, by murdering him on the spot. His own life and honor were, he said, 
 endangered by the manner in which this inconvenient witness repeatedly thrust himself 
 back into Ayrshire, and nothing could secure his safety but taking the lad's life, in which 
 action he requested James Bannatyne's assistance. Bannatyne felt some compunction, 
 and remonstrated against the cruel expedient, saying, it would be better to transport 
 Dalrymple to Ireland, and take precautions against his return. While old Auchindrane 
 seemed disposed to listen to this proposal, his son concluded that the time was come for 
 accomplishing the purpose of their meeting, and without waiting the termination of his 
 father's conference with Bannatyne, he rushed suddenly on Dalrymple, beat him to the 
 ground, and, kneeling down on him, with his father's assistance accomplished the crime 
 by strangling the unhappy object of their fear and jealousy. Bannatyne, the witness, and 
 partly the accomplice, of the murder, assisted them in their attempt to make a hole in the 
 sand, with a spade which they had brought on purpose, in order to conceal the dead body. 
 But as the tide was coming in, the hole which they made filled with water before they 
 could get the body buried, and tlie ground seemed to their terrified consciences to refuse 
 to be accessory to concealing their crime. Despairing of hiding the corpse in the manner 
 they proposed, the nuii-derers carried it out into the sea as deep as they dared wade, and 
 there abandoned it to the billows, trusting that a wind, which was blowing off the shore, 
 would drive these remains of their crime out to sea, where they would never more be heard 
 of. But the sea, as well as the land, seemed unwilling to conceal their cruelty. After 
 floating for some hours, or days, the dead body was, by the wind and tide, again driven on 
 shore, near the very spot where the murder had been committed. 
 
 This attracted general attention, and when the corpse was known to be that of the 
 same William Dalrymple whom .\uchindrane had so often spirited out of the country, or 
 concealed when he was in it, a strong and general suspicion arose, that this young person 
 had met with foul play from the bold, bad man who had shown himself so much interested in 
 his absence. It was always said or supposed, that the dead body had bled at the approach 
 of a grandchild of Mure of .Auchindrane, a girl who, from curiosity, had come to look at 
 a sight which others crowded to see. The bleeding of the murdered corpse at the touch 
 of the murderer, was a thing at that time so much believed, that it was admitted as a proof 
 of guilt ; but I know no case, save that of Auchindrane, in which the phenomenon was 
 supposed to be e.xtended to the approach of the innocent kindred ; nor do I think that the 
 fact itself, though mentioned by ancient lawyers, was ever admitted to proof in the pro- 
 ceedings against Auchindrane. 
 
 It is certain, however, that Auchindrane found himself so much the object of suspicion 
 from this new crime, that he resolved to fly from justice, and suffer himself to be declared 
 a rebel and outlaw rather than face a trial. But his conduct in preparing to cover his 
 flight with another motive than the real one, is a curieus picture of the men and manners 
 of the times. He knew well that if he were to shun his trial for the murder of Dalrymple, 
 the whole country would consider him as a man guilty of a mean and disgraceful crime in 
 putting to death an obscure lad, against whom he had no personal quarrel. He knew, 
 besides, that his powerful friends, who would have interceded for him had his offence been 
 merely burning a house, or killing a neighbor, would not plead for or stand by him in so 
 pitiful a concern as the slaughter of this wretched wanderer 
 
AUCH/NDRA.YE. 
 
 619 
 
 Accordingly, Mure sought to provide himself with some ostensible cause for avoidine 
 law, with which the feelings of his kindred and friends might sympathize ; and none 
 occurred to hini so natural as an assault upon some friend and adherent of the Earl of 
 Cassihs. Should he kill such a one, it would be indeed an unlawful action, but so far from 
 being infamous, would be accounted the natural consequence of the avowed quarrel be- 
 tween the families. Witii this purpose, Mure, with the assistance of a relative, of whom 
 he seems always to have had some ready to e.\ecute his worst purposes, beset Hugh Ken- 
 nedy of Garriehorne, a follower of the Earls, against whom they had especial ill-will fired 
 their pistols at him, and usetl other means to put him to death. Dut Garriehorne, a stout- 
 hearted man, and well armed, defended himself in a very different manner from the unfor- 
 tunate Knight of Cullayne, and beat off the assailants, wounding young Auchindrane in 
 the right iiand, so that he well-nigh lost the use of it. 
 
 But though .\uchindrane"s purpose did not entirely succeed, he availed himself of it to 
 circulate a report, that if he could obtain a pardon for firing upon a feudal enemy with 
 pistols, weapons declared unlawful by Act of Parliament, he would willingly stand his 
 trial for the death of Dalrymple, respecting which he protested his total innocence. The 
 King, however, was decidedly of opinion that the Mures, both father and son, were alike 
 guilty of both crimes, and used intercession with the Earl of Abercorn, as a person of 
 power in those western counties, as well as in Ireland, to arrest and transmit them pris- 
 oners to Edinburgh. In consequence of the EarPs exertions, old Auchindrane was made 
 prisoner, and lodged in the tolbooth of Edinburgh. 
 
 Young .Auchindrane no sooner heard that liis father was in custody, than he became as 
 apprehensive of Bannatyne (the accomplice of Dalryniple's murder) telling tales, as ever 
 his father had been of Dalrymple. He therefore hastened to him, and prevailed on him to 
 pass over for a while to the neighboring coast of Ireland, finding him money and means 
 to accomplish the voyage, and engaging in the mean time to take care of his affairs in 
 Scotland. Secure, as tliey thought, in this precaution, old .Auchindrane persisted in his 
 innocence, and his son found security to stand his trial. Both apjjeared with the same 
 confidence at the day appointed, and braved the public justice, hoping to be put to a 
 formal trial, in which Auchindrane reckoned upon an acquittal for want of the evidence 
 which he had removed. The trial was, however, postponed, and Mure the elder was dis- 
 missed, under high security to return when called for. 
 
 But King James, being convinced of the guilt of the accused, ordered young Auchin- 
 drane, instead of being sent to trial, to be examined under the force of torture, in order to 
 compel him to tell whatever he knew of the things charged against hiin. He was accor- 
 dingly severely tortured ; but the result only served to show that such examinations are as 
 useless as they are cruel. .A man of weak resolution, or of a nervous habit, would prob- 
 ably have assented to any confession, however false, rather than have endured the extremity 
 of fear and pain to which Mure was subjected. But young Auchindrane, a strong and 
 determined ruffian, endured the torture with the utmost firmness, and by the constant 
 audacity with which, in spite of the intolerable pain, he continued to assert his innocence, 
 he spread so favorable an opinion of his case, that the detaining him in prison, instead 
 of bringing him to ojjen trial, was censured as severe and oppressive. James, however, 
 remained firmly persuaded of his guilt, and by an e.xertion of authority quite inconsis- 
 tent with our present laws, commanded young Auchindrane to be still detained in close 
 custody till further light could be thrown on these dark proceedings. He was detained 
 accordingly by the King's express personal command, and against the opinion even of his 
 privy councillors. This exertion of authority was much murmured against. 
 
 In the meanwhile, old Auchindrane, being, as we have seen, at liberty on pledges, 
 skulked about in the west feeling how little security he had gained by Dalrymple's murder, 
 and that he had placed himself by that crime in tiie power of Bannatyne, whose evidence 
 concerning the death of Dalrymple could not be less fatal than what Dalrymple might 
 have told concerning .Auchindrane'S accession to the conspiracy against Sir Thomas Ken- 
 nedy of Cullayne. But though the event had shown the error of his wicked policy, .Auch- 
 indrane could think of no better mode in this case than that which had failed in relation 
 to Dalrymple. When any man's life became inconsistent with his own safety, no idea 
 seems to have occurred to this inveterate ruffian, save to murder the person by whom he 
 might himself be in any way endangered. He therefore attempted the Ufe of James Ban- 
 natyne by more agents than one. Nay. he had nearly ripened a plan by which one Penny- 
 cuke was to be employed to slav Bannatyne, while, after the deed was done, it was devised 
 that Mure of Auchnull, a connection of Bannatyne, should be instigated to slay Penny- 
 
620 PREFACE TO 
 
 cuke ; and thus close up the train of murders by one, which, flowing in the ordinary 
 course of deadly feud, should have nothing in it so particular as to attract much 
 attention. 
 
 But the justice of Heaven would bear this complicated train of iniquity no longer. 
 Bannatyne, knowing with what sort of men he had to deal, kept on his guard, and by his 
 caution disconcerted more than one attempt to take his life, while anotlier miscarried by 
 the remorse of Pennycuke, the agent whom Mure employed. At lengtii Baimatyne, tiring 
 of this state of insecurity, and in despair of escaping such repeated plots, and also feeling 
 remorse for the crime to which he had been acccr^ory, resolved rather to submit himself 
 to the severity of the law, than remain the object of the principal criminal's practices. 
 He surrendered himself to tiie Earl of Atercorn, and was transported to Edinburgh, where 
 he confessed Ixjfore the King and council all the particulars of tlie murder of Dalrymple, 
 and the attempt to hide his lx)dy by committing it to the sea. 
 
 When Bannatyne was cifronted with the two Mures lx;fore the Privy Council, they 
 denied with vehemence every part of the evidence he had given, and affirmed that the wit- 
 ness had Ijeen bribed to destroy them by a false tale. Hannatyne's behavior seemed sincere 
 and simple, tliat of .Auchindrane more resolute and crafty. The wretched accomplice fell 
 upon his knees, invoking God to witness that all the land in .Scotland could not have bribed 
 him to bring a false accusation against a master whom he had served, loved, and followed 
 in so many dangers, and calling upon Auchindrane to honor Ciod by confessing the crime 
 he had committed. Mure the elder, on the other hand, boldly replied, tiiat he hoped God 
 would not so far forsake him as to permit him to confess a crime of which he was innocent, 
 and exhorted Bannatyne in his turn to confess the practices by which he had been induced 
 to devise such falsehood against him. 
 
 The two Mures, father and son, were therefore put upon their solemn trial along with 
 Bannatyne, in 1611, and, after a great deal of evidence had Ix-en brought in sup|K)rt of Ban 
 natyne's confession, all these were found guilty. The elder .Auciiindrane was convicted of 
 counselling and directing tiie murder of Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne, and also of the 
 actual murder of the lad Dalrymple. Bannatyne and the young Mure were found guilty 
 of the latter crime, and all three were sentenced to be beheaded. Bannatyne, however, the 
 accomplice, received the King's pardon, in consequence of his voluntary surrender and 
 confession. The two Mures were both executed. The younger was affected by the remon 
 strances of the clergy wlio attended him, and he confessed the guilt of which he was 
 accused. The father, also, was at length brought to avow the fact, but in otlier res- 
 piects died as impenitent as he had lived; — and so ended this dark and extraordinary 
 tragedy. 
 
 The Lord Advocate of the day, Sir Thomas Hamilton, afterwards successively Earl of 
 Melrose and of Haddington, seems to have busied himself much in drawing up a state- 
 ment of this foul transaction, for the purpose of vindicating to the people of Scotland the 
 severe course of justice observed by King James VI. He assumes the task in a high tone 
 of prerogative law, and on the whole, seems at a loss whether to attribute to Providence, 
 or to his most sacred Majesty, tlie greatest share in bringing to light these mysterious vil 
 lanies, but rather inclines to the latter opinion. There is. I believe, no printed copy of 
 the intended tract, which seems never to have been publislied ; but the curious will be 
 enabled to judge of it, as it appears in the next fasciculus of Mr. Robert Pitcairn's very 
 interesting publications from the Scottish Criminal Record. 
 
 The family of .Auchindrane did not become extinct on the death of the two homicides. 
 The last descendant existed in the eighteenth century, a poor and distressed man. The 
 following anecdote shows that he had a strong feeling of his situation ; — 
 
 Thjre was in front of the old castle a huge ash-tree, called the Dule-tree {mourning-tree) 
 of Auchindrana, probably because it was the place where the baron executed the criminals 
 who fell under his jurisdiction. It is descriljed as having been the finest tree in the neigh- 
 borhood. This last representative of the family of .\uchindrane had the misfortune to be 
 arrested for payment of a small debt ; and, unable to discharge it, was preparing to accom- 
 pany the messenger (bailiff) to the jail of Ayr. The servant of the law had compassion 
 for his prisoner, and offered to accept of this remarkable tree as of value adequate to the 
 discharge of the debt. " What," said the debtor, " sell the Dule-tree of Auchindrane. I 
 will sooner die in the worst dungeon of your prison." In this luckless character the line 
 of Auchindrane ended. The family, blackened with the crimes of its predecessors, became 
 extinct, and the estate passed into other hands. 
 
A UCHIXDRANE. 
 
 621 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONM. 
 
 John Mure of Auchindrane, an Ayrshire Baron. He has been a follower of the 
 Regent. Earl of Morton, during the Civil Wars, and hides an oppressive, ferocious, 
 and tiyiscr up ulcus disposition, under some pretences to strictness of life atid doctrine, 
 which, however, ttever influence his conduct. He is in danger from the law, awing to 
 his having been formerly active in the assassination of the Earl of Cassilis. 
 
 Philip Mure, his Son, a wild, debauched profligate, professing and practising a contempt 
 for his father's hypocrisy, while he is as fierce and licentious as Auchindrane himself. 
 
 GiFFORn, their Relation, a Courtier. 
 
 QuF.NTiN BLANE,rt Youth, educated for a clergyman, but Sent by Auchindrane /<> j^rw 
 in a Band of Auxiliaries in the wars of the Netherlands, and lately employed as Clerk 
 or Cotnpt roller to the Regiment — disbanded, however, and on his return to his native 
 Country. He is of a mild, gentle, and rather feeble character, liable to be influenced 
 by any person of stronger mind who will take the trouble to direct him. He is sonu- 
 what of a nervous temperament, varying from sadness to gayety, according to the im- 
 pulse of the moment ; an amiable hypochondriac. 
 
 HiLDEBRANP, « stout old Englishman, who, by feats of courage, has raised himself to 
 the rank of Scrgeant-Major (then of greater consequence than at present). He, too, 
 has been disbanded, but cannot bring himself to believe that he has lost his command 
 over his Resiment. 
 
 Abraham, 
 Williams, 
 Jenkins, 
 And Others. 
 
 Privates dismissed from the same Regiment in which Quentin and 
 Hildebrand had served. These are mutinous, and are much disposed 
 to remember former quarrels with their late officers. 
 
 Neil MacLellan, Keeper of Auchindrane Forest and Game. 
 
 Earl of Dunbar, commanding an Army as Lieutenant of James I, for execution of 
 Justice on Offenders. 
 
 Guards, Attendants, etc., etc. 
 
 Marion, HT/iro/NEiL MacLellan. 
 Isabel, their daughter, a Girl of six years old. 
 Other Children and Peasant Women. 
 
 ACT I. —Scene I. 
 A rocky Bay on the Coast of Carrick, in 
 Ayrshire, not far from the Point of 
 Tttrnberry. The sea comes in upon 
 a hold, rocky Shore. The remains of a 
 small half-ruined Tcnver are seen on 
 the right hand, overhanging the sea. 
 There is a Vessel at a distance in the 
 offing. A Boat at the bottom of the 
 Stage lands eight or ten persons, dressed 
 like disbanded, and in one or two 
 eases like disabled. Soldiers. They 
 come straggling for'ioard with their 
 knapsacks and bundles. IIlLDE- 
 BRAND, the Sergeant belonging to the 
 party, a stout elderly man, stands by 
 the boat, as if superintending the 
 disembarkation. QuENTIN remains 
 apart. 
 
 Abraham. Farewell the flats of Hol- 
 land, and right welcome 
 
 The cliffs of Scotland ! Fare thee well, 
 black beer 
 
 And Schiedam gin ! and welcome two- 
 penny 
 
 Oatcakes and usquebaugh. 
 
 Williams {who wants an arm). Fare- 
 well the gallant field, and " For- 
 ward, pikemen ! " 
 
 For the bridge-end, the suburb, and the 
 lane — 
 
 And, " Bless your honor, noble gentleman, 
 
 Remember a poor soldier ! " 
 
 Abr. My tongue shall never need to 
 smooth itself 
 
 To such poor sounds, while it can boldly 
 say, 
 
 " Stand and deliver ! " 
 
622 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 WiU Hush ! the sergeant hears you. 
 Abr. And let him hear; he makes a 
 
 bustle yonder. 
 And dreams of his authority, foi^etting 
 We are disbanded men, o'er whom his 
 
 halberd 
 Has not such influence as the beadle's 
 
 baton. 
 We are no soldiers now, but every one 
 The lord of his own person. 
 
 Wll_ A wretched lordship — and our 
 
 freedom such 
 As that of the old cart-horse, when the 
 
 owner 
 Turns him upon the common. I for one 
 Will still continue to respect the sergeant. 
 And the comptroller, loo, — while the 
 
 cash lasts. 
 Abr. I scorn them both. I am too 
 
 stout a Scotsman 
 To bear a Southron's rulean instant longer 
 Than discipline obliges; and for Quenlin, 
 Quentin, the quillman, Quentin, the 
 
 comptroller. 
 We have no regiment now ; or, if we had, 
 Quentin's no longer clerk to it. 
 
 WiL. For shame ! for shame ! — What, 
 
 shall old comrades jar thus. 
 And on the verge of parting, and for- 
 ever? — 
 Nay, keep thy temper, Abraham, tho' a 
 
 bad one. — 
 Good Master Quentin, let thy song last 
 
 night 
 Give us once more our welcome to old 
 
 Scotland. 
 Abr. Ay, they sing light whose task 
 
 is telling money. 
 When dollars clink for chorus. 
 
 Que. I've done with counting silver, 
 
 honest Abraham, 
 As thou, I fear, with pouching thy small 
 
 share on't. 
 But lend your voices, lads, and I will 
 
 sing 
 As blithely yet as if a town were won; 
 As if upon a 6eld of battle gain'd. 
 Oar banners waved victorious. — {^He 
 
 singif and the reU bear chorus. ) 
 
 SONG. 
 Hither we come. 
 Once slaves to the drum. 
 
 But no longer we list to its rattle; 
 Adieu to the wars, 
 With their slashes and scars, 
 
 The march, and the storm, and the battle. 
 
 There are some of us maim'd. 
 
 And some that are lamed. 
 And some of old aches are complaining: 
 
 But we'll take up the tools. 
 
 Which we flung by like fools, 
 'Gainst Don Spaniard to go a-campaign- 
 ing. 
 
 Dick Hawthorn doth vow 
 
 To return to the plough. 
 Jack Steele to his anvil and hammer; 
 
 The weaver shall find room 
 
 At the wight-wapping loom. 
 And your clerk shall teach writing and 
 grammar. 
 
 Abr. And this is all that thou canst 
 
 do, gay Quentin? 
 To swa^er o'er a herd of parish brats. 
 Cut cheese or dibble onions with thy 
 
 poniard. 
 And turn the sheath into a ferula? 
 
 Que. I am the prodigal in holy wTit; 
 I cannot work — to beg I am ashamed. 
 Besides, good mates, I care not who may 
 
 know it, 
 I'm e'en as fairly tired of this same 
 
 fighting. 
 As the poor cur that's worried in the 
 
 shambles 
 By all the mastiff d<^ of all the butchers ; 
 Wherefore, farewell sword, poniard, pet- 
 
 ronel. 
 And welcome poverty, and peaceful labor. 
 Abr. Clerk Quentin, if of fighting 
 
 thou art tired. 
 By mv good word, thou'rt quickly satis- 
 fied, 
 For thou'st seen but little on't. 
 
 Wii_ Thou dost belie him — I have 
 
 seen him f^ht 
 Bravely enough for one in his condition. 
 Abr. What! he? that counter-casting, 
 
 smock -faced boy? 
 What was he but the colonel's scribbling 
 
 drudge. 
 With men of straw to stuff the regimeni 
 
 roll; 
 
Scene I. 
 
 A VCHINDRANE. 
 
 «»3 
 
 With dpherings unjust to cheat his com- 
 rades, 
 
 And cloak false musters for our noble 
 captain? 
 
 He bid farewell to sword and petronel ! 
 
 He should have said, farewell my pen 
 and standish. 
 
 These, with the rosin used to hide era- 
 sures. 
 
 Were the best friends he left in camp 
 behind him. 
 Que. The sword you scoff at is not 
 far, but scorns 
 
 The threats of an unmanner'd mutineer. 
 Ser. {iniir poses). We'll have no brawl- 
 ing. — Shall it e'er be said. 
 
 That being comrades six long years to- 
 gether. 
 
 While gulping down the frowsy fogs of 
 Holland, 
 
 We lilted at each other's throats so soon 
 
 As the first draught of native air re- 
 fresh'd them? 
 
 No ! by Saint Dunstan, I forbid the com- 
 bat. 
 
 You all, methinks, do know this trusty 
 halberd; 
 
 For I opine, that every back amongst you 
 
 Hath felt the weight of the tough ashen 
 staff, 
 
 Endlong or overthwart. Who is it wishes 
 
 .\ remembrancer now ? (Raises his hal- 
 berd.) 
 .\br. Comrades, have you ears 
 
 To hear the old man bully? — eyes to see 
 
 His staff rear'd o'er your heads, as o'er 
 the hounds 
 
 The huntsman cracks his whip? 
 
 Wii^ Well said! — stout Abraham has 
 the right on't. — 
 
 I tell thee, sergeant, we do reverence thee. 
 
 And pardon the rash humors thou hast 
 caught. 
 
 Like wiser men, from thy authority. 
 
 'Tis ended, howsoe'er, and well not suffer 
 
 A word of sergeantr)', or halberd-staff. 
 
 Nor the most pett)' threat of discipline. 
 
 If thou wilt lay aside thy pride of ofiBce, 
 
 .\nd drop thy wont of swaggering and 
 commanding. 
 
 Thou art our comrade still for good or evil. 
 
 Else take thy course apart, or i*ith the 
 clerk there — 
 
 A sergeant thou, and he being all thy regi- 
 ment. 
 Ser. Is't come to this, false knaves? 
 And think you not. 
 That if you bear a name o'er other sol- 
 diers. 
 It was because you follow'd to the charge 
 One that had real and skill enough to 
 
 lead you 
 Where fame was won by danger? 
 
 WiL. We grant thy skill in leading, 
 noble sergeant. 
 Witness some empty boots and sleeves 
 
 amongst us. 
 Which else had still been tenanted with 
 
 limbs 
 In the full quantity; and for the arguments 
 With which you used to back our resolu- 
 tion. 
 Our shoulders do record them. At a word. 
 Will you conform, or must we part our 
 company ? 
 Ser. Conform to you ? Base dogs ! I 
 would not lead you 
 A bolt-flight farther to be made a general. 
 Mean mutineers! when you swill'd off 
 
 the dregs 
 Of my poor sea-stores, it was: — " NoMe 
 
 Sergeant ! — 
 Heaven bless old Hildebrand! — we'll 
 
 follow him. 
 At least, until we safely see him lodged 
 Within the merry bounds of his own Ei^- 
 land ! " 
 Wll^ Ay, truly, sir; but, mark, the ale 
 was mighty. 
 And the Geneva potent. Such stout liquor 
 Makes violent protestations. Skink it 
 
 round. 
 If you have any left, to the same tune. 
 And we may find a chorus for it still. 
 Abr. We lose our time. — Tell us at 
 once, old man. 
 If thou wilt march with us, or stay with 
 Quentin ? 
 Ser. Out, mutineers! HHshonor dog 
 
 your heels ! 
 Abr. Wilful will have his way. Adieu, 
 stout Hildebrand ! 
 
 [ The Soldiers go off laughing^ 
 and taking leaze, with mockery, 
 of the Sergeant a«</QuENTm, 
 who remain on the stage. ] 
 
6^4 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Ser. {after a pause). Fly you not 
 
 with the rest ! — fail you to follow 
 Yon goodly friendship and fair example ? 
 Come, take your wild-goose flight. I 
 
 know you Scots, 
 Like your own sea-fowl, seek your course 
 
 together. 
 Que. Faith, a poor heron I, who wing 
 
 my flight 
 In loneliness, or with a single partner; 
 And right it is that I should seek for soli- 
 tude, 
 Bringing but evil luck on them I herd with. 
 Ser. Thou'rt thankless. Had we 
 
 landed on the coast. 
 Where our course bore us, thou wert far 
 
 from home; 
 But the fierce wind that drove us round 
 
 the island, 
 Barring each port and inlet that we aim'd 
 
 at, 
 Hath wafted thee to harbor; for I judge 
 This is thy native land we disembark on. 
 Que. True, worthy friend. Each rock, 
 
 each stream I look on, 
 Each bosky wood, and every frowning 
 
 tower, 
 Awakens some young dream of infancy. 
 Yet such is my hard hap, I might more 
 
 safely 
 Have look'd on Indian cliffs, or Afric's 
 
 desert, 
 Than on my native shores. I'm like a 
 
 babe 
 Doom'd to draw poison from my nurse's 
 
 bosom. 
 Ser. Thou dream'st, young man. Un- 
 real terrors haunt. 
 As I have noted, giddy brains like thine — 
 Flighty, poetic, and imaginative — 
 To whom a minstrel whim gives idle rap- 
 ture, 
 And, when it fades, fantastic misery. 
 Que. But mine is not fantastic. I can 
 
 tell thee. 
 Since I have known thee still my faithful 
 
 friend, 
 In part at least the dangerous plight I stand 
 
 in. 
 Ser. And I will hear thee willingly, the 
 
 rather, 
 That I would let these vagabonds march 
 
 on. 
 
 Nor join their troop again. Besides, good 
 
 sooth, 
 I'm wearied with the toil of yesterday. 
 And revel of last night. — And I may aid 
 
 thee; 
 Yes, I may aid thee, comrade, and per- 
 chance 
 Thou may'st advantage me. 
 
 Que. May it prove well for both ! — But 
 
 note, my friend, 
 I can but intimate my mystic story. 
 Some of it lies so secret, — even the winds 
 That whistle round us must not know the 
 
 whole — 
 An oath ! — an oath ! — 
 
 Ser. That must be kept, of course. 
 I ask but that which thou may'st freely 
 
 tell. 
 Que. I was an orphan boy, and first saw 
 
 light 
 Not far from where we stand — my lin- 
 eage low. 
 But honest in its poverty. A lord, 
 The master of the soil for many a mile. 
 Dreaded and powerful, took a kindly 
 
 charge 
 For my advance in letters, and the qualities 
 Of the poor orphan lad drew some ap- 
 plause. 
 The knight was proud of me, and, in his 
 
 halls, 
 I had such kind of welcome as the great 
 Give to the humble, whom they love to 
 
 point to 
 As objects not unworthy their protection. 
 Whose progress is some honor to their 
 
 patron — 
 A cure was spoken of, which I might 
 
 serve. 
 My manners, doctrine, and acquirements 
 
 fitting. 
 Ser. Hitherto thy luck 
 Was of the best, good friend. Few lords 
 
 had cared 
 If thou couldst read thy grammar or thy 
 
 psalter : 
 Thou hadst been valued couldst thou scour 
 
 a harness. 
 And dress a steed distinctly. 
 
 Que. My old master 
 
 Held different doctrine, at least it seem'd 
 
 so — 
 But he was mix'd in many a deadly feud — 
 
SCENR I. 
 
 AUCHINDRANE, 
 
 625 
 
 And here my tale grows mystic. I became 
 Unwitting and unwilling, the depositary, 
 Of a dread secret, and the knowledge on't 
 Has wreck'd my peace forever. It be- 
 came 
 My patron's will, that I, as one who knew 
 More than I should, must leave the realm 
 
 of Scotland, 
 And live or die within a distant land. 
 Ser. Ah ! thou hast done a fault in some 
 
 wild raid. 
 As you wild Scotsmen call them. 
 
 Que. Comrade, nay; 
 
 Mine was a peaceful part, and happ'd by 
 
 chance. 
 I must not tell you more. Enough, my 
 
 presence 
 Brought danger to my benefactor's house. 
 Tower after tower conceal'd me, willing 
 
 still 
 To hide my ill-omen' d face with owls and 
 
 ravens, 
 And let my patron's safety be the purchase 
 Of my severe and desolate captivity. 
 So thought I, svhen dark Arran, with its 
 
 walls 
 Of native rock, enclosed me. There I 
 
 lurk'd, 
 A peaceful stranger amid armed clans. 
 Without a friend to love or to defend me. 
 Where all beside were link'd by close alli- 
 ances. 
 At length I made my option to take service 
 In that same legion of auxiliaries 
 In which we lately served the Belgian. 
 Our leader, stout Montgomery, hath been 
 
 kind 
 Thro' full six years of warfare, and as- 
 
 sign'd me 
 More peaceful tasks than the rough front 
 
 of war. 
 For which my education little suited me. 
 Ser. Ay, therein w.is Montgomery kind 
 
 indeed; 
 Nay, kinder than you think, my simple 
 
 Quentin. 
 The letters which you brought to the 
 
 Montgomery, 
 Pointed to thrust thee on some desperate 
 
 service, 
 Which should most likely end thee. 
 Que. Bore I such letters? — Surely, 
 
 comrade, no. 
 
 Full deeply was thewriterboundtoaid me. 
 Perchance he only meant to prove my 
 
 mettle; 
 And it was but a trick of my bad fortune 
 That gave his letters ill interpretation. 
 Ser. Ay, but thy better angel wrought 
 
 for good, 
 Whatever ill thy evil fate design'd thee. 
 Montgomery pitied thee, and changed thy 
 
 service 
 In the rough field for labor in. the tent. 
 More fit for thy green years and peaceful 
 
 habits. 
 Que. Even there his well-meant kind- 
 ness injured me. 
 My comrades hated, undervalued me. 
 And whatsoe'er of servicel could do them. 
 They guerdon'd with ingratitude and 
 
 envy — 
 Such my strange doom, that if I serve a 
 
 man 
 At deepest risk, he is my foe forever ! 
 Ser. Hast thou worse fate than others 
 
 if it were so? 
 Worse even than me, thy friend, thine 
 
 officer, — 
 Whom yon ungrateful slaves have pitch'd 
 
 ashore. 
 As wild waves heap the sea-weed on the 
 
 beach, 
 And left him here, as if he had the pest 
 Or leprosy, and death were in his com- 
 pany? 
 Que. They think at least you have the 
 
 worst of plagues. 
 The worst of leprosies, — they think you 
 
 poor. 
 Ser. They think like lying villains 
 
 then; — I'm rich, 
 And they too might have felt it. I've' a 
 
 thought — 
 But stay — what plans your wisdom for 
 
 yourself ? 
 Que. My thoughts are well-nigh des- 
 perate. But I purpose 
 Return to my stern patron — there to tell 
 
 him 
 That wars, and winds, and waves, have 
 
 cross'd his pleasure, 
 .\nd cast me on the shore from whence he 
 
 banish 'd me; 
 Then let him do his will and destine for me 
 A dungeon or a grave. 
 
626 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Ser. Now, by the rood, thou art a 
 simple fool ! 
 
 I can do better for thee. Mark me, 
 Quentin. 
 
 I took my license from the noble regiment, 
 
 Partly that I was worn with age and war- 
 fare. 
 
 Partly that an estate of yeomanry, 
 
 Of no great purchase, but enough to live 
 on, 
 
 lias call'd me owner since a kinsman's 
 death. 
 
 It lies in merry Yorkshire, where the 
 wealth 
 
 Of fold and furrow, proper to Old Eng- 
 land, 
 
 Stretches by streams which walk no slug- 
 gish pace. 
 
 But dance as light as yours. Now, good 
 friend Quentin, 
 
 This copyhold can keep two quiet inmates. 
 
 And I am childless. Wilt thou be my son ? 
 Que. Nay, you can only jest, my 
 worthy friend ! 
 
 What claim have I to be a burden to you? 
 Ser. The claim of him that wants, and 
 is in danger. 
 
 On him that has, and can afford protec- 
 tion. 
 
 Thou wouldst not fear a foeman in my 
 cottage. 
 
 Where a stout mastiff slumber'd on the 
 hearth. 
 
 And this good halberd hung above the 
 chimney ? 
 
 But come — I have it — thou shall earn thy 
 bread 
 
 Duly, and honorably, and usefully. 
 
 Our village schoolmaster hath left the 
 parish. 
 
 Forsook the ancient school -house with its 
 yew-trees. 
 
 That lurk'd beside a church two centuries 
 older, — 
 
 So long devotion took the lead of knowl- 
 edge; 
 
 And since his little flock are shepherdless, 
 
 'Tis thou shall be promoted in his room ; 
 
 And rather than thou wanlest scholars, 
 man. 
 
 Myself will enter pupil. Better late. 
 
 Our proverb says, than never to do well. 
 
 And look you, on the holydays I'd tell. 
 
 To all the wondering boors and gaping 
 
 children. 
 Strange tales of what the regiment did 
 
 in Flanders, 
 And thou shouldst say Amen, and be my 
 
 warrant 
 That I speak truth to them. 
 
 Que. Would I might take thy offer ! 
 
 But, alas ! 
 Thou art the hermit who compell'd a pil- 
 grim. 
 In name of heaven and heavenly charily. 
 To share his roof and meal, but found 
 
 too late 
 That he had drawn a curse on him and his. 
 By sheltering a wretch foredoom'd of 
 
 heaven ! 
 Ser. Thou talk'st in riddles to me. 
 Que. If I do, 
 
 'Tis that I am a riddle to myself. 
 Thou know'st I am by nature born a 
 
 friend 
 To glee and merriment, can make wild 
 
 verses; 
 The jest or laugh has never stopp'd with 
 
 me, 
 When once 'twas set a rolling. 
 
 Ser. I have known thee 
 
 A blithe companion still, and wonder now 
 Thou shouldst become thus crestfallen. 
 Que. Does the lark sing her descant 
 
 when the falcon 
 Scales the blue vault with bolder wing 
 
 than hers. 
 And meditates a stoop ? The mirth thou 'st 
 
 noted 
 Was all deception, fraud. — Hated enough 
 For other causes, I did veil my feelings 
 Beneath the mask of mirth, — laugh'd, 
 
 sung, and caroll'd, 
 To gain some interest in my comrades' 
 
 bosoms. 
 Although mine own was bursting. 
 
 Ser. Thou'rt a hypocrite 
 
 Of a new order. 
 
 Que. But harmless as the innoxious 
 
 snake, 
 WTiich bears the adder's form, lurks in 
 
 his haunts. 
 Yet neither hath his fang-teeth nor his 
 
 poison. 
 Look you, kind Hildebrand, I would seem 
 
 merry. 
 
Scene l. 
 
 A UCHINDRANE. 
 
 62J 
 
 Lest other men should, tiring of my sad- 
 ness, 
 
 Expel me from them, as the hunted wether 
 
 Is driven from the flock. 
 
 Ser. Faith, thou hast borne it bravely 
 out. 
 
 Had I been ask'd to name the merriest 
 fellow 
 
 Of all our muster-roll — that man wert 
 thou. 
 Que. See'st thou, my friend, yon brook 
 dance down the valley. 
 
 And sing blithe carols over broken rock 
 
 And tiny waterfall, kissing each shrub 
 
 And each gay flower it nurses in its pas- 
 sage, — 
 
 Where, thinkst thou, is its source, the 
 bonny brook? — 
 
 It flows from forth a cavern, black and 
 gloomy. 
 
 Sullen and sunless, like this heart of 
 mine. 
 
 Which others see in a false glare of gayety. 
 
 Which I have laid before you in its sad- 
 ness. 
 Ser. If such wild fancies dog thee, 
 wherefore leave 
 
 The trade where thou wert safe midsi 
 others' dangers. 
 
 And venture to thy native land, where fate 
 
 Lies on the watch for thee? Had old 
 Montgomery 
 
 Been with the regiment, thou hadst had 
 no conge. 
 Que. No, 'tis most likely. — But I had 
 a hope, 
 
 A poor, vain hope, that I might live ob- 
 scurely 
 
 In some far corner of my native Scotland, 
 
 Which, of all others, splinter'd into dis- 
 tricts, 
 
 Differing in manners, families, even lan- 
 guage, 
 
 Seem'd a safe refuge for the humble 
 wretch 
 
 Whose highest hope was to remain un- 
 heard of. 
 
 But fate has baflHed me — the winds and 
 waves. 
 
 With force resistless, have impell'd me 
 hither — 
 
 Have driven me to the clime most dan- 
 gerous to me: 
 
 And I obey the call, like the hurt deer. 
 
 Which seeks instinctively his native lair, 
 
 Tho' his heart tells him it is but to die 
 there. 
 Ser. 'Tis false, by Heaven, young 
 man ! This same despair, 
 
 Tho' showing resignation in its banner, 
 
 Is but a kind of covert cowardice. 
 
 Wise men have said, that tho' our stars 
 incline, ^ 
 
 They cannot force us. — Wisdpm is the 
 pilot. 
 
 And if he cannot cross, he may evade 
 them. 
 
 You lend an ear to idle auguries. 
 
 The fruits of our last revels — still most 
 sad 
 
 Under the gloom that follows boisterous 
 mirth, 
 
 As earth looks blackest after brilliant 
 sunshine. 
 Que. No, by my honest word. Ijoin'd 
 the revel, 
 
 And aided it with laugh and song and 
 shout. 
 
 But my heart revell'd not; and, when 
 the mirth 
 
 Was at the loudest, on yon galliot's prow 
 
 I stood unmarked, and gazed upon the 
 land. 
 
 My native land — each cape and cliff I 
 knew. 
 
 "Behold me now," I said, "your des- 
 tined victim ! ' ' 
 
 So greets the sentenced criminal the head- 
 man. 
 
 Who slow approaches with his lifted axe. 
 
 "Hither I come," I said, "ye kindred 
 hills, 
 
 Whose darksome outline in a distant land 
 
 Haunted my slumbers; here I stand, thou 
 ocean, 
 
 Whose hoarse voice, murmuring in my 
 dreams, required me; 
 
 See me now here, ye winds, whose plain- 
 tive wail. 
 
 On yonder distant shores, appear'd to call 
 me — 
 
 Summon 'd, behold me." And the winds 
 and waves. 
 
 And the deep echoes of the distant moun- 
 tain. 
 
 Made answer: — " Come and die ! " 
 
628 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Ser. Fantastic all ! Poor boy, thou art 
 distracted 
 With the vain terrors of some feudal 
 
 tyrant, 
 VVhose frown hath been from infancy thy 
 
 bugbear. 
 Why seek his presence? 
 
 Que. Wherefore does the moth 
 
 Fly to the scorching taper? — why the 
 
 . bird. 
 Dazzled by lights at midnight, seek the 
 
 net? — 
 Why does the prey, which feels the fas- 
 cination 
 Of the snake's glaring eye, drop in his 
 jaws? 
 Ser. Such wild examples but refute 
 themselves. 
 Let bird, let moth, let the coil'd adder's 
 
 Resist the fascination and be safe. 
 
 Thou goest not near this Baron — if thou 
 goest, 
 
 I will go with thee. Known in many a 
 field. 
 
 Which he in a whole life of petty feud 
 
 Has never dream'd of, I will teach the 
 knight 
 
 To rule him in this matter — be thy war- 
 rant. 
 
 That far from him, and from his petty 
 lordship, 
 
 You shall henceforth tread English land, 
 and never 
 
 Thy presence shall alarm his conscience 
 more. 
 Que. 'Twere desperate risk for both. 
 I will far rather 
 
 Hastily guide thee thro' this dangerous 
 province, 
 
 And seek thy school, thy yew-trees, and 
 thy churchyard; — 
 
 The last, perchance, will be the first I find. 
 Ser. I would rather face him, 
 
 Like a bold Englishman that knows his 
 right, 
 
 And will stand by his friend. And yet 
 'tis folly — 
 
 Fancies like these are not to be resisted; 
 
 'Tis better to escape them. Many a pres- 
 age, 
 
 Too rashly braved, becomes its own ac- 
 complishment. 
 
 Then let us go — But whither ? My old 
 
 head 
 As little knows where it shall lie to-night 
 As yonder mutineers that left their officer ; 
 As reckless of his quarters as these bil- 
 lows. 
 That leave the withcr'd sea-weed on the 
 
 beach, 
 And care not where they pile it. 
 
 Que. Think not for that, good friend. 
 
 We are in Scotland, 
 And if it is not varied from its wont. 
 Each cot, that sends a curl of smoke to 
 
 heaven. 
 Will yield a stranger quarters for the 
 
 night. 
 Simply because he needs them. 
 
 Sek. But are there none within an easy 
 
 walk 
 Give lodgings here for hire ? for I have left 
 Some of the Don's piastres (tho' I kept 
 The secret from yon gulls), and I had 
 
 rather 
 Pay the fair reckoning I can well afford. 
 And my host takes with pleasure, than I'd 
 
 cumber 
 Some iioor man's roof with me and all 
 
 my wants. 
 And tax his charity beyona discretion. 
 Que. Some six miles hence there is a 
 
 town and hostelry. 
 But you are wayworn, and it is most likely 
 Our comrades must have fill'd it. 
 
 Ser. Out upon them ! — 
 
 Were there a friendly mastiff who would 
 
 lend me 
 
 Half of his supper, half of his poor kennel, 
 I would help Honesty to pick his bones, 
 And share his straw, far rather than I'd 
 
 sup 
 On jolly fare with these base varlets ! 
 Que. We'll manage better; for our 
 
 Scottish dogs, 
 Tho' stout and trusty, are but ill-instructed 
 In hospitable rights. — Here is a maiden, 
 A little maid, will tell us of the country. 
 And sorely it is changed since I left it, 
 If we should fail to find a harlwrage. 
 
 Enter ISABEL MacLellan, a girl of 
 about six years old, bearing a milk-pail 
 on her head ; she stops on seeing the 
 Sergeant ^m/QuENTiN. 
 
Scene II. 
 
 A UCHINDRANE. 
 
 629 
 
 Que. There's something in her look 
 
 that doth remind me — 
 But 'tis not wonder I find recollections 
 In all that here I look on. — Pretty maid — 
 Ser. You're slow, and hesitate. I will 
 
 be spokesman. — 
 Good even, my pretty maiden — canst thou 
 
 tell us, 
 Is there a Christian house would render 
 
 strangers, 
 For love or guerdon, a night's meal and 
 
 lodging? 
 ISA. Full surely, sir; we dwell in yon 
 
 old house 
 Upon the cliff — they call it Chapeldonan. 
 
 (^Points to (he buildittg.) 
 
 Our house is large enough, and if our 
 
 supper 
 Chance to be scant, you shall have half 
 
 of mine, 
 For, as I think, sir, you have been a 
 
 soldier. 
 Up yonder lies our house ; I'll trip before. 
 And tell my mother she has guests 
 
 a-coming; 
 The path is something steep, but you shall 
 
 see 
 I'll be there first. I must chain up the 
 
 dogs, too; 
 Nimrod and Bloodylass are cross to 
 
 strangers. 
 But gentle when you know them. 
 
 [Exit,anJis seen partially ascend- 
 ing to the Castle. 
 
 Ser. You have spoke 
 
 Your country folk aright, both for the 
 
 dogs 
 And for the people. We had luck to light 
 On one too young for cunning and for 
 
 selfishness. — 
 He's in a reverie — a deep one sure. 
 Since the gilje on his country wakes him 
 
 not. — 
 Bestir thee, Quentin ! 
 
 Que. 'Twas a wondrous likeness ! 
 
 Ser. Likeness! of whom? I'll warrant 
 thee of one 
 Whom thou hast loved and lost. Such 
 
 fantasies 
 Live long in brains like thine, which fash- 
 ion visions 
 
 Of woe and death when they are cross'd 
 
 in love. 
 As most men are or have been. 
 
 Que. The guess has touch 'd me, tho* 
 
 it is but slightly, 
 'Mongst other woes: I knew in former 
 
 days, 
 A maid that view'd me with some glance 
 
 of favor; 
 But my fate carried me to other shores, 
 And she has since been weddfed. I did 
 
 think on't 
 But as a bubble burst, a rainbow vanish'd; 
 It adds no deeper shade to the dark gloom 
 Which chills the springs of hope and life 
 
 within me. 
 Our guide hath got a trick of voice and 
 
 feature 
 Like to the maid I spoke of — that is all. 
 Ser. She bounds before us like a game- 
 some doe. 
 Or rather as the rock -bred eaglet soars 
 Up to her nest, as if she rose by will, 
 Without an effort. Now a Netherlander, 
 One of our Frogland friends, viewing the 
 
 scene. 
 Would take his oath that tower, and rock, 
 
 and maiden. 
 Were forms too light and lofty to be real. 
 And only some delusion of the fancy. 
 Such as iHen dream at sunset. I myself 
 Have kept the level ground .so many 
 
 years, 
 I have well-nigh forgot the art to climb, 
 Unless assisted by thy younger arm. 
 
 [ They go off as if to ascend to the 
 Tower, the SERGEANT leaning 
 upon Quentin. 
 
 Scene II 
 Scene changes to the Front of the OUlTower. 
 Isabel comes forward with her Mother^ 
 — Marion speaking as they advance. 
 Mar. I blame thee not, my child, for 
 bidding wanderers 
 Come share our food and shelter, if thy 
 
 father 
 Were here to welcome them; but, Isabel, 
 He waits upon his lord at Auchindrane, 
 And comes not home to-night. 
 
 ISA. What then, my mother? 
 
 The travellers do not ask to see my father ; 
 
630 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Food, shelter, rest, is all the poor men 
 
 want, 
 And we can give them these without my 
 father. 
 Mar. Thou canst not understand, nor 
 I explain, 
 Why a lone female asks not visitants 
 What time her husband's absent. — 
 
 {Aparl.) My poor child, 
 And if thou'rt wedded to a jealous hus- 
 band, 
 Thou'lt know too soon the cause. 
 
 ISA. (^partly overhearing what her 
 mother says) — - 
 Ay, but I know already — Jealousy 
 Is when my father chides, and you sit 
 weeping. 
 Mar. Out, little spy ! thy father never 
 chides ; 
 Or, if he does, 'tis when his wife deservesit. 
 But to our strangers; they are old men, 
 
 Isabel, 
 That seek this shelter, are they not? 
 
 Isa. One is old — 
 
 Old as this tower of ours, and worn like 
 
 that. 
 Bearing deep marks of battles long since 
 fought. 
 Mar. Some remnant of the wars; he's 
 welcome, surely, 
 Bringing no quality along with him 
 Which can alarm suspicion. — Well, the 
 other ? 
 Isa. a young man, gentle-voiced and 
 gentle-eyed. 
 Who looks and speaks like one the world 
 
 has frown'd on; 
 But smiles when you smile, seeming that 
 
 he feels 
 Joy in your joy, tho' he himself is sad. 
 Brown hair, and downcast looks. 
 
 Mar. (^alarmed). 'Tis but an idle 
 thought — it cannot be ! 
 (^Listens.) I hear his accents — It is all 
 
 too true — 
 My terrors were prophetic ! — I'll com- 
 pose myself. 
 And then accost him firmly. Thus it must 
 be. 
 
 [ She retires hastily into the Toiver. 
 — The voices of the Sergeant 
 rt«f/QuENTiN are heard ascend- 
 ing behind the Scenes. 
 
 Que. One effort more — we stand upon 
 the level. 
 I've seen thee work thee up glacis and 
 
 cavalier 
 Steeper than this ascent, when cannon, 
 
 culverine, 
 Musket, and hackbut, shower 'd their shot 
 
 upon thee. 
 And form'd, with ceaseless blaze, a fiery 
 
 garland 
 Round the defences of the post you 
 storm'd. 
 
 [ They come on the Stage, and at 
 the same time Marion re-enters 
 from the To2uer. 
 
 Ser. Truly thou speak'st. I am the 
 
 tardier 
 That I, in climbing hither, miss the fire. 
 Which wont to tell me there was death in 
 
 loitering. — J 
 
 Here stands, methinks, our hostess. 1 
 
 \_IIe goes forward to address MAR- 
 ION. QUENTIN, struck on see- 
 ing her, keeps back. 
 Ser. Kind dame, yon little lass hath 
 
 brought you strangers, 
 Willing to be a trouble, not a charge to 
 
 you. J 
 
 We are disbanded soldiers, but have I 
 
 means 1 
 
 Ample enough to pay our journey home- 
 ward. 
 Mar. We keep no house of general 
 
 entertainment. 
 But know our duty, sir, to locks like 
 
 yours, 
 Whiten'd and thinn'd by many a long 
 
 campaign. 
 Ill chances that my husband should be 
 
 absent — 
 (^Apart.) — Courage alone can make me 
 
 struggle thro' it • — 
 For in your comrade, tho' he hath forgot 
 
 me, 
 I spy a friend whom I have known in 
 
 school-days, 
 And whom I think MacLellan well re- 
 members. • — ■ 
 (^She goes up to Qu ENTIN.) You see a 
 
 woman's memory 
 Is faith fuller than yours: for Quentin 
 
 Blane 
 
Scene II. 
 
 A UCHINDRANE. 
 
 631 
 
 Hath not a greeting left for Marion 
 Harkness. 
 Que. {with effort). I seek, indeed, my 
 native land, good Marion, 
 
 Butseek it like a stranger. All is changed, 
 
 And thou, thyself — 
 
 Mar. You left a giddy maiden. 
 
 And find, on your return, a wife and 
 mother. 
 
 Thine old acquaintance, Quentin, is my 
 mate — 
 
 Stout Niel MacLellan, ranger to our lord. 
 
 The Knight of Auchindrane. He's ab- 
 s!ent now. 
 
 But will rejoice to see his former com- 
 rade. 
 
 If, as I trust, you tarry his return. 
 
 {Apart.) Heaven grant he understand 
 my words by contraries ! 
 
 He must remember Niel and he were 
 rivals; 
 
 He must remember Niel and he were 
 foes; 
 
 He must remember Niel is warm of tem- 
 per. 
 
 And think, instead of welcome, I would 
 blithely 
 
 Bid him, God speed you. But he is as 
 simple 
 
 And void of guile as ever. 
 
 Que. Marion, I gladly rest within your 
 cottage. 
 
 And gladly wait returnof Niel MacLellan, 
 
 To clasp his hand, and wish him happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Some rising feelings might perhaps pre- 
 vent this — 
 
 But 'tisa peevish part to grudge our friends 
 
 Their share of fortune because we have 
 miss'd it; 
 
 I can wish others joy and happiness. 
 
 Though I must ne'er partake them. 
 Mar. Hut if it grieve you — 
 Que. No ! do not fear. The brightest 
 gleams of hope 
 
 That shine on me are such as are reflected 
 
 From those which shine on others. 
 
 [ The Sergeant and Quentin en- 
 ter the Tcnver with the little girl. 
 Mar. {comes forward, and speaks in 
 agitation ) — 
 
 Even so ! the simple youth has miss'd my 
 meaning : 
 
 I shame to make it plainer, or to say, 
 In one brief word. Pass on. — Heaven 
 
 guide the bark. 
 For we are on the breakers ! 
 
 \_Exit into the To7ver. 
 
 ACT II. — Scene I. 
 
 A Withdrawing Apartment in the Castle 
 of Auchindrane. Servants place a 
 J'able, with a Flask of Wine and 
 Drinking- Cups, 
 
 Enter MuRE of AuCHiNDRANE, with 
 Albert Gifforu, his Relation and 
 Visitor. 7 'hey place themselves by the 
 Table, after some complimentary cere- 
 mony. At some distance is heard the 
 noise of revelling. 
 
 AucH. We're better placed for confi- 
 dential talk, 
 
 Than in the hall fill'd with disbanded 
 soldiers. 
 
 And fools and fiddlers gather'd on the 
 highway, — 
 
 The worthy guests whom Philip crowds 
 my hall with. 
 
 And with them spends his evening. 
 GiF. But think you not, my friend, that 
 your son Philip 
 
 Should be participant of these our coun- 
 sels, 
 
 Being so deeply mingled in the danger — 
 
 Your house's only heir — your only son? 
 AuCH. Kind cousin Gifford, if thou 
 lack'st good counsel 
 
 At race, at cockpit, or at gambling table, 
 
 Or any freak by which men cheat them- 
 selves 
 
 As well of life as of the means to live. 
 
 Call for assistance upon Philip Mure; 
 
 But in all serious parley spare invoking 
 him. 
 GiF. You speak too lightlyof my cousin 
 Philip; 
 
 All name him brave in arms. 
 
 AucH. A second Bevis; 
 
 But I, my youth bred up in graver fashions, 
 
 Mourn o'er the mode of life in which he 
 spends. 
 
 Or rather dissipates, his time and sub- 
 stance. 
 
 No vagabond escapes his search — The 
 soldier 
 
632 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Spurn'd from the service, henceforth to 
 
 be ruffian 
 Upon his own account, is Philip's com- 
 rade; 
 The fiddler, whose crack'd crowd has still 
 
 three strings on't; 
 The balladeer, whose voice has still two 
 
 notes left; 
 Whate'er is roguish, and whate'er is 
 
 vile, 
 Are welcome to the board of Auchin- 
 
 drane. 
 And Philip will return them shout for 
 
 shout, 
 And pledge for jovial pledge, and song 
 
 for song, 
 Until the shame-faced sun peep at our 
 
 windows. 
 And ask: " What have we here? " 
 GiF. You take such revel deeply; — 
 
 we are Scotsmen, 
 Far known for rustic hospitality. 
 That mind not birth or titles in our 
 
 guests: 
 The harper has his seat beside our 
 
 hearth. 
 The wanderer must find comfort at our 
 
 board. 
 His name unask'd,his pedigree unknown; 
 So did our ancestors, and so must we. 
 AucH. All this is freely granted, worthy 
 
 kinsman; 
 And prithee do not think me churl enough 
 To count how many sit beneath my salt. 
 I've wealth enough to (ill my father's hall 
 Each day at noon, and feed the guests 
 
 who crowd it; 
 I am near mate with those whom men 
 
 call Lord, 
 Tho' a rude western knight. But mark 
 
 me, cousin, 
 Altho' I feed wayfaring vagabonds, 
 I make them not mycomrades. Such as I, 
 Who have advanced the fortunes of my 
 
 line. 
 And swell'd a baron's turret to a palace. 
 Have oft the curse awaiting on our thrift. 
 To see, while yet we live, the things which 
 
 must l)e 
 At our decease — the downfall of our 
 
 family, 
 The loss of land and lordship, name and 
 
 knighthood, 
 
 The wreck of the fair fabric we have built, 
 
 By a degenerate heir. Philip has that 
 
 Of inborn meanness in him, that he loves 
 not 
 
 The company of betters nor of equals ; 
 
 Never at ease, unless he liears the bell. 
 
 And crows the loudest in the company. 
 
 He's mesh'd, too, in the snares of every 
 female 
 
 Who deigns to cast a passing glance on 
 him — 
 
 Licentious, disrespectful, rash, and prof- 
 ligate. 
 GiF. Come, my good coz, think we too 
 have been young. 
 
 And I will swear that in your father's 
 lifetime 
 
 You have yourself been trapp'd by toys 
 like these. 
 AuCH. A fool I may have been — but 
 not a madman; 
 
 I never play'd the rake among my fol- 
 lowers. 
 
 Pursuing this man's sister, that man's 
 wife: 
 
 And therefore never saw I man of mine. 
 
 When summon'd to obey my best, grow 
 restive. 
 
 Talk of his honor, of his peace destroy'd. 
 
 And, while obeying, nmtter threats of 
 vengeance. 
 
 But now the humor of an idle youth, 
 
 Disgusting trusted followers, sworn de- 
 pendants, 
 
 Plays football with his honor and my 
 safety. 
 GiF. I'm sorry to find discord in your 
 house. 
 
 For I had hoped, while bringing you cold 
 news. 
 
 To find you arm'd in union 'gainst the 
 danger. 
 AucH. What can man speak that I 
 would shrink to hear. 
 
 And where the danger I would deii;n 
 to shun? {lit- rises.') 
 
 What should appal a man iniircd to perils. 
 
 Like the l>old climlier on the crags of 
 Ailsa ? 
 
 Winds whistle past him, billows rage, be- 
 low. 
 
 The sea-fowl sweep around, with shriek 
 and clang. 
 
Scene I. 
 
 AUCHINDRANE. 
 
 633 
 
 One single slip, one unadvised pace, 
 One qualm of giddiness — and peace be 
 
 with him ! 
 But he whose grasp is sure, whose step 
 
 is firm. 
 Whose brain is constant — he makes one 
 
 proud rock 
 The means to scale another, till he stand 
 Triumphant on the peak. 
 
 GiF. And so I trust 
 
 Thou wilt surmount the danger now ap- 
 proaching, 
 Which scarcely can I frame my tongue 
 
 to tell you. 
 Though I rode here on purpose. 
 
 Aucn. Cousin, I think thy heart was 
 
 never coward. 
 And strange it seems thy tongue should 
 
 take such semblance. 
 I've heard of many a loud-mouth'd, noisy 
 
 braggart, 
 Whose hand gave feeble sanction to his 
 
 tongue; 
 But thou art one whose heart can think 
 
 bold things. 
 Whose hand can act them — but who 
 
 shrinks to speak them ! 
 GiF. And if I speak them not, 'tis that 
 
 I shame 
 To tell thee of the calumnies that load 
 
 thee. 
 Things loudly spoken at the city Cross — 
 Things closely whisper'd in our Sover- 
 eign's ear — • 
 Things which the plumed lord and flat- 
 
 capp'd citizen 
 Do circulate amid their different ranks — 
 Things false, no doubt; but, falsehoods 
 
 while I deem them. 
 Still honoring thee, I shun the odious 
 
 topic. 
 AUCH. Shun it not, cousin; 'tis a 
 
 friend's best office 
 To bring the news we hear unwillingly. 
 The sentinel, who tells the foe's approach, 
 And wakes the sleeping camp, does but 
 
 his duty: 
 Be thou as l)old in telling me of danger. 
 As I shall be in facing danger told of. 
 GiF. I need not bid thee recollect the 
 
 death-feud 
 That raged so long betwixt thy house and 
 
 Cassilis; 
 
 I need not bid thee recollect the league. 
 When royal James himself stood mediator 
 Between thee and Earl Gilbert. 
 
 AucH. Call you these news? — You 
 
 might as well have told me 
 That old King Coil is dead, and craved 
 
 at Kylesfeld, 
 I'll help thee out — King James com- 
 manded us 
 Henceforth to live in peace, made ub clasp 
 
 hands too. 
 O, sir, when such an union hath been 
 
 made. 
 In heart and hand conjoining mortal foes, 
 Under a monarch's royal mediation, 
 The league is not forgotten. And with 
 
 this 
 What is there to be told? The King 
 
 commanded — 
 " Be friends." No doubt we were so — 
 
 Who dares doubt it ? 
 GiF. You speak but half the tale. 
 AuCH. By good Saint Trimon, but I'll 
 
 tell the whole ! 
 There is no terror in the tale for me — 
 Go speak of ghosts to children ! — This 
 
 Earl Gilbert 
 (God sain him) loved Heaven's peace 
 
 as well as I did. 
 And we were wondrous friends whene'er 
 
 we met 
 At church or market, or in burrows town. 
 Midst this, our good Lord Gilbert, Earl 
 
 of Cassilis, 
 Takes purpose he would journey forth to 
 
 Edinburgh. 
 The King was doling gifts of abbey-lands. 
 Good things that thrifty house was wont 
 
 to fish for. 
 Our mighty Earl forsakes his sea-wash'd 
 
 castle, 
 Passes our borders some four miles from 
 
 hence ; 
 And, holding it unwholesome to be fast- 
 
 ers 
 Long after sunrise, lo ! the Earl and 
 
 train 
 Dismount, to rest their nags and eat their 
 
 breakfast. 
 The morning rose, the small birds caroll'd 
 
 sweetly — 
 The corks were drawn, the pasty brooks 
 
 incision — 
 
634 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 His lordship jests, his train are choked 
 
 with laughter; 
 When, — wondrous change of cheer, and 
 
 most unlook'd for. 
 Strange epilogue to bottle and to baked 
 
 meat ! — 
 Flash'd from the greenwood half a score 
 
 of carabines; 
 And the good Earl of Cassilis, in his 
 
 breakfast, 
 Had nooning, dinner, supper, all at once, 
 Even in the morning that he closed his 
 
 journey; 
 And the grim sexton, for his chamberlain, 
 Made him the bed which rests the head 
 
 forever. 
 GiF. Told with much spirit, cousin — 
 
 some there are 
 Would add, and in a tone resembling 
 
 triumph. 
 And would that with these long estab- 
 
 lish'd facts 
 My tale began and ended ! I must tell 
 
 you. 
 That evil -deeming censures of the events. 
 Both at the time and now, throw blame 
 
 on thee — 
 Time, place, and circumstance, they say, 
 
 proclaim thee, 
 Alike, the author of that morning's am- 
 bush. 
 AUCH, Ay, 'tis an old belief in Carrick 
 
 here, 
 Where natives do not always die in bed, 
 That if a Kennedy shall not attain 
 Methuselah's last span, a Mure has slain 
 
 him; 
 Such is the general creed of all their clan. 
 Thank Heaven, that they are bound to 
 
 prove the charge 
 They are so prompt in making. They 
 
 have clamor'd 
 Enough of this before, to show their 
 
 malice. 
 But what said these coward pickthanks 
 
 when I came 
 Before the King, before the Justicers, 
 Rebutting all their calumnies, and daring 
 
 them 
 To show that I knew aught of Cassilis' 
 
 journey — 
 Which way he meant to travel — where 
 
 to halt — 
 
 Without which knowledge I possess'd no 
 means 
 
 To dress an ambush for him? Did I not 
 
 Defy the assembled clan of Kennedys, 
 
 To show, by proof direct or inferential, 
 
 Wherefore they slander'd me with this 
 foul charge? 
 
 My gauntlet rung before them in the 
 court. 
 
 And I did dare the best of them to lift it. 
 
 And prove such charge a true one — Did 
 I not? 
 GiF. I saw your gauntlet lie before the 
 Kennedys, 
 
 Who looked on it as men do on an adder. 
 
 Longing to crush, and yet afraid to grasp 
 it. 
 
 Not an eye sparkled — not a foot ad- 
 vanced — 
 
 No arm was stretch'd to lift the fatal sym- 
 bol. 
 AucH. Then, wherefore do the hildings 
 murmur now? 
 
 Wish theytosee again, how one lx)ld Mure 
 
 Can baflle and defy their assembled valor? 
 GlF. No; but they speak of evidence 
 
 suppress'd. 
 AuCH. Suppress'd ! — what evidence ? 
 — by whom suppress'd? 
 
 What Will-o'- Wisp — what idiot of a wit- 
 ness. 
 
 Is he to whom they trace an empty voice. 
 
 But cannot show his person ? 
 
 GiF. They pretend. 
 
 With the King's leave, to bring it to a 
 trial ; 
 
 Averring that a lad named Quentin Blane 
 
 Brought thee a letter from the murder'd 
 Earl, 
 
 With friendly greetings, telling of his 
 journey. 
 
 The hour which he set forth, the place he 
 halted at, — 
 
 Affording thee the means to form the am- 
 bush, 
 
 Of which your hatred made the applica- 
 tion. 
 AucH. A prudent Earl, indeed, if such 
 his practice. 
 
 When dealing with a recent enemy ! 
 
 And what should he propose by such 
 strange confidence 
 
 In one who sought it not? 
 
Scene I. 
 
 A UCHINDRANE. 
 
 GiF. His purposes were kindly, say the 
 Kennedys — 
 
 Desiring you would meet him where he 
 halted. 
 
 Offering to undertake whate'er commis- 
 sions 
 
 You listed trust him with, for court or 
 city: 
 
 And, thus apprised of Cassilis' purposed 
 journey, 
 
 And of his halting- place, you placed the 
 ambush, 
 
 Prepared the homicides 
 
 AuCH. They're free to say their pleas- 
 ure. They are men 
 
 Of the new court — and I am but a frag- 
 ment 
 
 Of stout old Morton's faction. It is rea- 
 son 
 
 That such as I be rooted from the 
 earth, 
 
 That they may have full room to spread 
 their branches. 
 
 No doubt, 'tis easy to find strolling va- 
 grants 
 
 To prove whate'er they prompt. This 
 Quentin lilane — 
 
 Did you not call him so.-* — why comes 
 he now? 
 
 And wherefore not before? This must 
 be answer'd — 
 
 {Abruptly.) — Where is he now? 
 
 GiF. AVjroad — they say — kidnapp'd. 
 
 By you kidnapp'd, that he might die in 
 Flanders. 
 
 But orders have been sent for his dis- 
 charge. 
 
 And his transmission hither. 
 
 AucH. {tjsstdming an air of com- 
 posure). — 
 
 When they produce such witness, cousin 
 Gifford, 
 
 We'll be prepared to meet it. In the 
 meanwhile, 
 
 The King doth ill to throw his royal 
 sceptre 
 
 In the accuser's scale, ere he can know 
 
 How justice shall incline it. 
 
 GiF. Our sage prince 
 
 Resents, it may be, less the death of Cas- 
 silis, 
 
 Than he is angry that the feud should 
 burn. 
 
 635 
 
 'Be 
 
 After his royal voice had said, 
 
 quench'd: " 
 Thus urging prosecution less for slaughter. 
 Than that, being done against the King's 
 
 command. 
 Treason is mix'd with homicide. 
 
 AuCH. Ha! ha! most true, my cousin. 
 Why, well consider'd, 'tis a crime so 
 
 great 
 To slay one's enemy, the King forbidding 
 
 Like parricide, it should be held impos- 
 sible. 
 
 'Tis just as if a wretch retain 'd the evil. 
 
 When the King's touch had bid the sores 
 be heal'd; 
 
 And such a crime merits the stake at 
 least. 
 
 What ! can there be within a Scottish 
 bosom 
 
 A feud so deadly, that it kept its ground 
 
 When the King said, " Be friends! " It 
 is not credible. 
 
 Were I King James, I never would be- 
 lieve it; 
 
 I'd rather think the story all a dream. 
 
 And that there was no friendship, feud, 
 nor journey. 
 
 No halt, no ambush, and no Earl of Cas- 
 silis, 
 
 Than dream anointed Majesty has 
 wrong ! — 
 GiF. Speak within door, coz. 
 AucH. O, true. — {Aside. ) — I 
 
 shall betray myself 
 
 Even to this half-bred fool.— I must 
 have room. 
 
 Room for an instant, or I suffocate. — 
 
 Cousin, I prithee call our Philip hither — 
 
 Forgive me; 'twere more meet I sum- 
 mon'd him 
 
 Myself; but then the sight of yonder 
 revel 
 
 Would chafe my blood, and I have need 
 
 of coolness. 
 
 GiF. I understand thee — I will bring 
 
 him straight. [Exit. 
 
 AuCH. And if thou dost, he's lost his 
 
 ancient trick 
 
 To fathom, as he wont, his five-pint 
 flagons. — 
 
 This space is mine — O for the power to 
 fill it, 
 
636 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Instead of senseless rage and empty curses, 
 With the dark spell which witches learn 
 
 from fiends, 
 That smites the object of their hate afar. 
 Nor leaves a token of its mystic action, 
 Stealing the soul from out the unscathed 
 
 body, 
 As lightning melts the blade, nor harms 
 
 the scabbard ! 
 — 'Tis vain to wish for it — Each curse 
 
 of mine 
 Falls to the ground as harmless as the 
 
 arrows 
 Which children shoot at stars ! The time 
 
 for thought. 
 If thought could aught avail me, melts 
 
 away. 
 Like to a snowball in a schoolboy's hand. 
 That melts the faster the more close he 
 
 grasps it ! — 
 If I had time, this Scottish Solomon, 
 Whom some call son of David the Musi- 
 cian,* 
 Might find it perilous work to march to 
 
 Carrick. 
 There's many a feud still slumbering in 
 
 its ashes. 
 Whose embers are yet red. Nobles we 
 
 have. 
 Stout as old Graysteel, and as hot as 
 
 Bothwell; 
 Here too are castles look from crags as 
 
 high 
 On seas as wide as Logan's. So the 
 
 King — 
 Pshaw ! He is here again — 
 Enter GiFFORD. 
 
 GiF. I heard you name 
 
 The King, my kinsman; know, he comes 
 not hither. 
 AUCH. {affecting indifference). Nay, 
 then we need not broach our barrels, 
 cousin, 
 Nor purchase us new jerkins. — Comes 
 not Philip? 
 GiF. Yes, sir. He tarries but to drink 
 a service 
 To his good friends at parting. 
 
 AuCH. Friends for the beadle or the 
 sheriff-officer. 
 
 * An allusion to the calumnious report that 
 James VI. was son to Queen Mar)- by Rizzio. 
 
 Well, let it pass. Who comes, and how 
 attended, 
 
 Since James designs not westward? 
 GiF. O you shall have, instead, his 
 fiery functionary, 
 
 George Home that was, but now Dun- 
 bar's great Earl; 
 
 He leads a royal host, and comes to 
 show you 
 
 How he distributes justice on the Border, 
 
 Where judge and hangman oft reverse 
 their office, 
 
 And the noose does its work before the 
 sentence. 
 
 But I have said my tidings best and worst. 
 
 None but yourself can know what course 
 the time 
 
 And peril may demand. To lift your 
 banner. 
 
 If I might be a judge, were desperate 
 game : 
 
 Ireland and Galloway offer you conven- 
 ience 
 
 For flight, if flight be thought the better 
 remedy; 
 
 To face the court requires the conscious- 
 ness 
 
 And confidence of innocence. You alone 
 
 Can judge if you possess these attributes. 
 
 (.7 7toise behind the scenes.) 
 
 AuCH. Philip, I think, has broken up 
 his revels; 
 His ragged regiment are dispersing them, 
 Well liquor'd doubtless. They're dis- 
 banded soldiers. 
 Or some such vagabonds. — • Here comes 
 the gallant. 
 
 Enter Philip. He has a buff-coat and 
 head-piece, wears a S7vord and dagger, 
 with pistols at his girdle. He appears 
 to be affected by liquor, but to be by no 
 means intoxicated. 
 
 AucH. You scarce have been made 
 known to one another, 
 Altho' you sate together at the board. — 
 Son Philip, know and prize our cousin 
 Gifford. 
 Phi. {tastes the wi/te on the table). — 
 If you had praised him, sir, you had 
 
 been loth 
 To have welcomed him in bastard Alicant. 
 
Scene I. 
 
 AUCHINDRANE. 
 
 6^ 
 
 I'll make amends, by pledging his good 
 journey 
 
 In glorious Burgundy. — The stirrup-cup, 
 ho! 
 
 And bring my cousin's horses to the court. 
 AUCH. {Jraws him aside). — 
 
 The stirrup-cup ! He doth not ride to- 
 night — 
 
 Shame on such churlish conduct to a 
 kinsman ! 
 Phi. (aside to his fut/ter). I've news 
 of pressing import. 
 
 Send the fool off. — Stay, I will start 
 him for you. 
 
 (To Gl¥.) Yes, my kind cousin, Bur- 
 gundy is better, 
 
 On a night-ride, to those who thread our 
 moors, 
 
 And we may deal it freely to our friends. 
 
 For we came freely by it. Yonder ocean 
 
 Rolls many a purple cask upon our shore 
 
 Rough with embossed shells and shagged 
 sea -weed. 
 
 When the good skipper and his careful 
 crew 
 
 Have had their latest earthly draught of 
 brine, 
 
 And gone to quench, or to endure their 
 thirst, 
 
 Where nectar's plenty, or even water's 
 scarce. 
 
 And filter'd to the parched crew by drops- 
 ful. 
 AucH. Thou'rt mad, son Philip! Gif- 
 ford's no intruder. 
 
 That we should rid him hence by such 
 wild rants: 
 
 My kinsman hither rode at his own dan- 
 ger, 
 
 To tell us that Dunbar is hasting to us. 
 
 With a strong force, and with the King's 
 commission, 
 
 To enforce against our house a hateful 
 charge. 
 
 With every measure of extremity. 
 
 Phi. And is this all that our good 
 cousin tells us? 
 
 I can say more, thanks to the ragged 
 regiment. 
 
 With whose good company you have up- 
 braided me, 
 
 On whose authority, I tell thee, cousin, 
 Dunbar is here already. 
 
 GiF. Already? 
 
 Phi. Yes, gentle coz. And you, my 
 
 sire, be hasty 
 In what you think to do. 
 
 AucH. I think thou darest not jest on 
 
 such a subject. 
 Where hadst thou these fair tidings? 
 Phi. Where you, too, might have 
 
 heard them, noble father, 
 Save that your ears, nail'd to our kins- 
 man's lips. 
 Would list no coarser accents. O, my 
 
 soldiers. 
 My merry crew of vagabonds, forever ! 
 Scum of the Netherlands, and wash'd 
 
 ashore 
 Upon this coast like unregarded sea-weed, 
 They had not been two hours on Scottish 
 
 land. 
 When, lo ! they met a military friend, 
 An ancient fourier, known to them of 
 
 old. 
 Who, warm'd by certain stoups of search- 
 ing wine, 
 Inform'd his old companions that Dunbar 
 Left Glasgow yesterday, comes here to- 
 morrow ; 
 Himself, he said, was sent a spy before. 
 To view what preparations we were 
 
 making. 
 Auch. (/oGiF.). If this l)e sooth, good 
 
 kinsman, thou must claim 
 To take a part with us for life and death. 
 Or speed from hence, and leave us to 
 
 our fortune. 
 GiF. In such dilemma. 
 Believe me, friend, I'd choose upon the 
 
 instant — 
 But 1 lack harness, and a steed to charge 
 
 on. 
 For mine is overtired, and, save my page. 
 There's not a man to back me. But I'll 
 
 hie 
 To Kyle, and raise my vassals to your aid. 
 
 Phi. 'Twill \vi when the r.its. 
 That on these tidings fly this house of 
 
 ours. 
 Come back to pay their rents. — {Apart. ) 
 AucH. Courage, cousin ! — 
 
 Thou goest not hence ill mounted for thy 
 
 need; 
 Full forty coursers feed in my wide 
 
 stalls — 
 
638 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 The best of them is yours to speed your 
 journey. 
 Phi. Stand not on ceremony, good our 
 cousin, 
 When safety signs, to shorten courtesy. 
 GiF. (/o AUCH.). Farewell, then, 
 cousin; for my tarrying here 
 Were ruin to myself, small aid to you; 
 Yet loving well your name and family, 
 I'd fain — 
 
 Phi. Be gone? — that is our object, 
 too — 
 Kinsman, adieu. 
 
 \^Exit GiFFORD, Philip calls 
 after him. 
 
 You Yeoman of the stable. 
 Give Master Gifford there my fleetest 
 
 steed. 
 Yon cut-tail'd roan, that trembles at a 
 spear. — 
 
 ( Trampling of the horse heard 
 going off.) 
 Hark ! he departs. How swift the das- 
 tard rides, 
 To shun the neighborhood of jeopardy ! 
 (^He lays aside the appearance of 
 levity which he has hitherto 
 •worn, and says very seri- 
 ously) — 
 
 And, now, my father — 
 AuCH. And now, my son — thou'st 
 ta'en a perilous game 
 Into thine hands, rejecting elder coun- 
 sel, — 
 How dost thou mean to play it? 
 
 Phi. Sir, good gamesters play not 
 Till they review the cards which fate has 
 
 dealt them, 
 Computing thus the chances of the game. 
 And woefully they seem to weigh against 
 us. 
 AucH. Exile's a passing ill, and may 
 be borne; 
 And when Dunbar and all his myrmidons 
 Are eastward turn'd, we'll seize our own 
 again. 
 Phi. Would that were all the risk we 
 had to stand to ! 
 But more and worse, — a doom of trea- 
 son, forfeiture. 
 Death to ourselves, dishonor to our 
 house. 
 
 Is what the stern Justiciary menaces; 
 
 And, fatally for us, he hath the means 
 
 To make his threatenings good. 
 
 AucH. It cannot be. I tell thee, 
 there's no force 
 
 In Scottish law to raze a house like mine, 
 
 Coeval with the time the Lords nf Gal- 
 loway 
 
 Submitted them unto the Scottish sceptre. 
 
 Renouncing rights of Tanistry and Bre- 
 hon. 
 
 Some dreams they have of evidence — ■ 
 some suspicion; 
 
 But old Montgomery knows my purpose 
 well. 
 
 And long before their mandate reach the 
 camp 
 
 To crave the presence of this mighty wit- 
 ness. 
 
 He will be fitted with an answer to it. 
 Phi. Father, what we call great, is 
 often ruin'd 
 
 By means so ludicrously disproportion'd. 
 
 They make me think upon the gunner's 
 linstock, 
 
 Which, yielding forth a light about the 
 size 
 
 And semblance of the glowworm, yet 
 applied 
 
 To powder, blew a palace into atoms, 
 
 Sent a young King — a young Queen's 
 mate, at least — 
 
 Into the air, as high as e'er flew night- 
 hawk. 
 
 And made such wild work in the realm 
 of Scotland, 
 
 As they can tell who heard, — and you 
 were one 
 
 Who saw, perhaps, the night-flight which 
 began it. 
 AucH. If thou hast naught to speak 
 but drunken folly, 
 
 I cannot listen longer. 
 
 Phi. I will speak brief and sudden. — 
 There is one 
 
 Whose tongue to us has the same peril- 
 ous force 
 
 Which Bothwell's powder had to Kirk 
 of Field; 
 
 One whose least tones, and those but 
 peasant accents. 
 
 Could rend the roof off our fathers' castle. 
 
 Level its tallest turret with its base; 
 
Scene I. 
 
 A UCHINDRANE. 
 
 And he that doth possess this wondrous 
 
 power 
 >lceps this same night not five miles dis- 
 tant from us. 
 AUCH. (ivho had looked on PHILIP laith 
 
 much appearance of astonishment 
 
 and doubt, exclaims). — 
 Then thou art mad indeed! Ha! ha! 
 
 I'm glad on't. 
 1 purchase an escape from what I dread, 
 . vvi by the frenzy of my only son. 
 J Phi. I thank you, but agree not to the 
 
 bargain. 
 You rest on what yon civet cat has said: 
 Yon silken doublet, stuff'd with rotten 
 
 straw. 
 Told you but half the truth, and knew 
 
 no more. 
 But my good vagrants had a perfect tale. 
 They told me, little judging the impor- 
 tance, 
 That Quentin Blane had been discharged 
 
 with them. 
 They told me, that a quarrel happ'd at 
 
 landing, 
 And that the youngster and an ancient 
 
 sergeant 
 Had left their company, and taken refuge 
 In Chapeldonan, where our ranger 
 
 dwells ; 
 They saw him scale the cliff on which it 
 
 stands. 
 Ere they were out of sight; the old man 
 
 with him, 
 And therefore laugh no more at me as 
 
 mad; 
 But laugh, if thou hast list for merriment. 
 To think he stands on the same land 
 
 with us. 
 Whose absence thou wouldst deem were 
 
 cheaply purchased 
 With thy soul's ransom and thy body's 
 
 danger. 
 AuCH. 'Tis then a fatal truth. Thou 
 
 art no yelper 
 To open rashly on so wild a scent; 
 Thou'rt the young bloodhound, which 
 
 careers and springs. 
 Frolics and fawns, as if the friend of 
 
 man, 
 But seizes on his victim like a tiger. 
 Phi. No matter what I am — I'm as 
 
 you bred me; 
 
 So let that pass till there be time to mend 
 
 me. 
 And let us speak like men, and to the 
 
 purpose. 
 This object of our fear and of our dread. 
 Since such our pride must own him, 
 
 sleeps to-night 
 Within our power: — to-morrow in Dun- 
 bar's, 
 And we are then his victims. 
 AucH. He is ours to-night. 
 Phi. He is. I'll answer that Mac- 
 
 Lellan's trusty. 
 AucH. Yet he replied to you to-day 
 
 full rudely. 
 Phi. Yes! the poor knave has got a 
 handsome wife, 
 And is gone mad with jealousy. 
 
 AucH. Fool ! — when we need the ut- 
 most faith, allegiance, 
 Obedience, and attachment in our vassals. 
 Thy wild intrigues pour gall into their 
 
 hearts. 
 And turn their love to hatred ! 
 
 Phi. Most reverend sire, you talk of 
 ancient morals, 
 Preach'd on by Knox, and practised by 
 
 Glencairn.* 
 Respectable, indeed, but somewhat musty 
 In these our modern nostrils. In our days 
 If a young baron chance to leave his vassal 
 The sole possessor of a handsome wife, 
 'Tis sign he loves his follower; and if not, 
 He loves his follower's wife, which often 
 
 proves 
 The surerbond of patronage. Take either 
 
 case. 
 Favor flows in of course, and vassals rise. 
 
 AucH. Philip, this b infamous. 
 And what is worse, impolitic. Take ex- 
 ample: 
 Break not God's laws or man's for each 
 temptation 
 
 » Alexander, Fifth Earl of Glencairn, called 
 "The Good Earl," concurred in the Reforma- 
 tion, asisting the Reformers with pen and sword. 
 He had a chief command in the army raised 
 against Queen Mary in June, 1567 and demol- 
 ished the altar, broke the images, tore down the 
 pictures and committed other acts of iconoclasuc 
 vandalism in the Chapel royal of Holyrood-house 
 after the Queen was conducted to Lfjchleven. 
 He was the author of a satirical poem against the 
 Roman Catholics called "The Hermit of All* 
 reit" (Loretto). He died in 1574. 
 
640 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 That youth and blood suggest. I am a 
 
 man — 
 A weak and erring man; — full well thou 
 
 know'st 
 That I may hardly term myself a pattern 
 Even to my son; yet thus far will I say, 
 I never swerved from my integrity, 
 Save at the voice of strong necessity, 
 Or such o'erpowering view of high ad- 
 vantage 
 As wise men liken to necesssity, 
 In strength and force compulsive. No 
 
 one saw me 
 Exchange my reputation for my pleasure. 
 Or do the devil's work without his wages. 
 I practised prudence, and paid tax to vir- 
 tue, 
 By following her behests, save where 
 
 strong reason 
 Compell'd a deviation. Then, if preach- 
 ers 
 At times look'd sour, or elders shook their 
 
 heads, 
 They could not term my walk irregular; 
 For I stood up still for the worthier cause, 
 A pillar, tho' a flaw'd one, of the altar, 
 Kept a strict walk, and led three hundred 
 horse. 
 Phi. Ah, these three hundred horse in 
 such rough times 
 Were better commendation to a party 
 Than all your efforts at hypocrisy, 
 Betray'd so oft by avarice and ambition. 
 And dragg'd to open shame. But, right- 
 eous father. 
 When sire and son unite in mutual crime, 
 And join theireffortstothe same enormity. 
 It is no time to measure other's faults. 
 Or fix the amount of each. Most moral 
 
 father. 
 Think if it be a moment to weigh 
 The vices of the Heir of Auchindrane, 
 Or take precaution that the ancient house 
 Shall have another heir than the sly cour- 
 tier 
 That's gaping for the forfeiture. 
 
 AuCH. We'll disappoint him, Philip, — 
 We'll disappoint him yet. It is a folly, 
 A wilful cheat, to cast our eyes behind. 
 When time, and the fast flitting oppor- 
 tunity, 
 Call loudly — nay, compel us to look for- 
 ward: 
 
 Why are we not already at MacLellan's, 
 
 Since there the victim sleeps? 
 
 Phi. Nay, soft, I pray thee. 
 
 I had not made your piety my confessor. 
 
 Nor enter'd in debate on these sage coun- 
 sels. 
 
 Which you're more like to give than I to 
 profit by, 
 
 Could I have used the time more use- 
 fully; 
 
 But first an interval must pass between 
 
 The fate of Quentin and the little artifice 
 
 That shall detach him from his comrade, 
 
 The stout old soldier that I told you of. 
 AuCH. How work a point so difficult 
 
 — so dangerous? 
 Phi. Tis cared for. Mark, my father, 
 the convenience 
 
 Arising from mean company. My agents 
 
 Are at my hand, like a good workman's 
 tools. 
 
 And if I mean a mischief, ten to one 
 
 That they anticipate the deed and guilt. 
 
 Well knowing this, when first the va- 
 grants' tattle 
 
 Gave me the hint that Quentin was so 
 near us, 
 
 Instant I sent MacLellan, with strong 
 charges 
 
 To stop him for the night, and bring me 
 word. 
 
 Like an accomplish'd spy, how all things 
 stood, 
 
 Lulling the enemy into security. 
 
 Auch. There was a prudent general ! 
 Phi. MacLellan went and came within 
 the hour. 
 
 The jealous bee, which buzzes in hisnight- 
 cap. 
 
 Has humm'd to him, this fellow, Qui-ntin 
 Blane, 
 
 Had been in schoolboy ilays an humble 
 lover 
 
 Of his own pretty wife — 
 
 AucH. Most fortunate ! 
 
 The knave will be more prompt to serve 
 our purpose. 
 Phi. No doubt on't. Mid the tidings 
 he brought back. 
 
 Was one of someimportance. Theoldman 
 
 Is flush of dollars; this I caused him tell 
 
 Among his comrades, who became as 
 eager 
 
Scene I. 
 
 A UCHINDRANE. 
 
 641 
 
 To have him in their company, as e'er 
 They had lx;en wild to part with him. And 
 
 in brief space, 
 A letter's framed by an old hand amongst 
 
 them, 
 Familiar with such feats. It bore the 
 
 name 
 And character of old Montgomery, 
 Whom he might well supjx)se at no great 
 
 distance, 
 CommandinghisoldSergeantHildebrand, 
 By all the ties of late authority, 
 Conjuring him by ancient soldiership. 
 To hasten to his mansion instantly. 
 On business of high import, with a charge 
 To come alone — 
 
 AucH. Well, he sets out, I doubt it 
 
 not: what follows? 
 Phi. I am not curious into others' prac- 
 tices, — 
 So far I'm an economist in guilt, 
 As you, my sire, advise. But on the road 
 To old Montgomery's he meets his com- 
 rades ; 
 They nourish grudge against him and his 
 
 dollars. 
 And things may hap, which counsel, 
 
 learn'd in law. 
 Call Robbery and Murder. Should he 
 
 live, 
 He has seen naught that we would hide 
 
 from him. 
 AucH. Who carries the forged letter to 
 
 the veteran? 
 Phi. Why, Niel MacLellan, who re- 
 
 turn'd again 
 To his own tower, as if to pass the night 
 
 there. 
 They pass'd on him, or tried to pass, a 
 
 story. 
 As if they wish'd the sergeant's company. 
 Without the young comptroller's — that 
 
 is Qucntin's, 
 And he became an agent of their plot. 
 That he might better carry on our own. 
 AucH. There's life in it — yes, there is 
 
 life in't; 
 And we will have a mounted party ready 
 To scour the moors in quest of the banditti 
 That kill'd the poor old man — they shall 
 
 die instantly. 
 Dunbar shall see us use sharp justice here 
 As well as he in Teviotdale. You are sure 
 
 You gave no hint nor impulse to their 
 purpose ? 
 Phi. It needed not. The whole pack 
 oped at once 
 
 Upon the scent of dollars. — But time 
 comes 
 
 When I must seek the tower, and act with 
 Niel 
 
 What farther's to be done. 
 
 AucH. Alone with him thou goest not. 
 He lx;ars grudge — 
 
 Thou art my only son, and on a night 
 
 When such wild passions are so free 
 abroad, 
 
 When such wild deeds are doing, 'tis but 
 natural 
 
 I guarantee thy safety. — I'll ride with 
 thee. 
 Phi. E'en as you will, my lord. But 
 — pardon me — 
 
 If you will come, let us not have a word 
 
 Of conscience, and of pity, and forgive- 
 ness ; 
 
 Fine words to-morrow, out of place to- 
 night. 
 
 Take counsel, then — leave all this work 
 to me; 
 
 Call up your household, make fit prepara- 
 tion, 
 
 In love and peace, to welcome this E^rl 
 Justiciar, 
 
 As one that's free of guilt. Go, deck the 
 castle 
 
 As for an honor'd guest. Hallow the 
 chapel 
 
 (If they have power to hallow it) with 
 thy prayers. 
 
 Let me ride forth alone, and ere the sun 
 
 Comes o'er the eastern hill, thou shalt 
 accost him: 
 
 "Now do thy worst, thou oft-returning 
 
 spy. 
 
 Here's naught thou canst discover. ' 
 Auch. Yet goest thou not alone with 
 that MacLellan ! 
 
 He deems thou bcarest will to injure him, 
 
 And seek'st occasion suiting to such will. 
 
 Philip, thou art irreverent, fierce, ill- 
 nurtured, 
 
 Stain'd with low vices, which disgust a 
 father; 
 
 Yet ridest thou not alone with yonder 
 man, — 
 
642 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Come weal, come woe, myself will go 
 
 with thee. 
 \Exit^ and calls to horse behind the 
 
 scene. 
 Phi. (^alone^. Now would I give my 
 
 fleetest horse to know 
 What sudden thought roused this pater- 
 nal care, 
 And if 'tis on his own account or mine; 
 'Tis true, he hath the deepest share in all 
 That's likely now to hap, or which has 
 
 happcn'd. 
 Yet strong thro' Nature's universal reign, 
 The link which binds the parent to the 
 
 offspring: 
 The she-wolf knows it, and the tigress 
 
 owns it. 
 So that dark man, who, shunning what is 
 
 vicious. 
 Ne'er turned aside from an atrocity. 
 Hath still some care left for his hapless 
 
 offspring. 
 Therefore 'tis meet, tho' wayward, light, 
 
 and stubborn. 
 That I should do for him all that a son 
 Can do for sire — and his dark wisdom 
 
 join'd 
 To influence my bold courses, 'twill l^e 
 
 hard 
 To break our mutual purpose. — Horses 
 
 there! ^Exit. 
 
 ACT HI. —Scene I. 
 
 // is Moonlight. The Scene is the Beach 
 beneath the Tower luhich was exhibited 
 in the first scene, — the Vessel is gone 
 from her anchorage. AUCHINDRANE 
 and Philip, as if dismounted from 
 their horses, cotne forruard cautiously. 
 Phi. The nags are safely stow'd. 
 Their noise might scare him; 
 Let them be safe, and ready when we 
 
 need them. 
 The business is but short. We'll call 
 
 MacLellan, 
 To wake him, and in quiet bring him forth, 
 If he be so disposed; for here are waters 
 Enough to drown, and sand enough to 
 
 cover him. 
 But if he hesitate, or fear to meet us, 
 By heaven I'll deal on him in Chajieldo- 
 nan 
 
 With my own hand ! — 
 
 AUCH. Too furious boy ! — alarm or 
 
 noise undoes us: 
 Our practice must be silent as 'tis sudden. 
 Bethink thee that conviction of this 
 
 slaughter 
 Confirms the very worst of accusations 
 Our foes can bring against us. Where- 
 fore sho'ild we. 
 Who by birth and fortune mate with 
 
 nobles. 
 And are allied with them, take this lad's 
 
 life, — 
 His peasant life, — unless to quash his 
 
 evidence. 
 Taking such pains to rid him from the 
 
 world. 
 Who would, if spared, have fix'd a crime 
 
 upon us. 
 Phi. Well, I do own me one of those 
 
 wise folks, 
 Who think that when a deed of fate is 
 
 plann'd 
 The execution cannot be too rapid. 
 But do we still keep purpose ? Is't deter- 
 mined 
 He sails for Ireland — and without a 
 
 wherry? 
 Salt water is his passport — is it not so? 
 AuCH. I would it could be otherwise ! 
 Might he not go there while in life and 
 
 limb. 
 And breathe his span out in another air? 
 Many seek Ulster never to return — 
 Why might this wretched youth not harbor 
 
 there? 
 Phi. With all my heart. It is small 
 
 honor to me 
 To be the agent in a work like this. — 
 Yet this poor caitiff, having thrust himself 
 Into the secrets of a noble house, 
 And twined himself so closely with our 
 
 safety. 
 That we must perish, or that he must die, 
 I'll hesitate as little on the action. 
 As I would do to slay the animal 
 Whose flesh supplies my dinner, 'Tis as 
 
 harmless. 
 That deer or steer, as is this Quentin 
 
 Blane, 
 And not more necessary is its death 
 To our accommodation — so we slay it 
 Without a moment's pause or hesitation. 
 
Scene I. 
 
 AUCHINDRANE. 
 
 643 
 
 AucH. 'Tis not, my son, the feeling 
 
 call'd remorse, 
 That now lies tugging at this heart of mine. 
 Engendering thoughts that stop the lifted 
 
 hand. 
 Have I not heard John Knox pour forth 
 
 his thunders 
 Against the oppressor and the man of 
 
 blood 
 In accents of a minister of vengeance? 
 Were not his fiery eyeballs turned on me, 
 As if he said expressly: "Thou'rt the 
 
 man ? ' ' 
 Yet did my solid purpose, as I listen 'd, 
 Remain unshaken as that massive rock. 
 Phi, Weil, then, I'll understand 'tis 
 
 not remorse, — 
 As 'tis a foible little known to thee, — 
 That interrupts thy purpose. What, 
 
 then, is it? 
 Is't scorn, or is't compassion? One 
 
 thing's certain, — 
 Either the feeling must have free indul- 
 gence. 
 Or fully be subjected to your reason — 
 There is no room for these same treach- 
 erous courses. 
 Which men call moderate measures. 
 We must confide in Quentin, or must 
 
 slay him. 
 AucH. In Ireland he might live afar 
 
 from us. 
 Phi. Among Queen Mary's faithful 
 
 partisans, 
 Your ancient enemies, the haughty Ham- 
 
 iltons. 
 The stern MacDonnells, and resentful 
 
 Graemes — 
 With these around him, and with Cassilis' 
 
 death 
 Exasperating them against you, think, my 
 
 father. 
 What chance of Quentin's silence. 
 
 AuCH. Too true — too true. He is 
 
 a silly youth, too^ 
 Who had not wit to shift for his own 
 
 living — 
 A bashful lover, whom his rivals laugh'd 
 
 at — 
 Of pliant temper, which companions 
 
 played on — 
 A moonlight waker, and a noontide 
 
 dreamer — 
 
 A torturer of phrases into sonnets. 
 Whom all might lead that chose to praise 
 
 his rhymes. 
 Phi. I marvel that your memory has 
 
 room 
 To hold so much on such a worthless 
 
 subject. 
 AuCH. Base in himself, and yet so 
 
 strangely link'd 
 With me and with my fortunes, that I've 
 
 studied 
 To read him thro' and thro', as I would 
 
 read 
 Some paltry rhyme of vulgar prophecy. 
 Said to contain the fortunes of my house; 
 And let me speak him truly: — He is 
 
 grateful. 
 Kind, tractable, oliedient — a child 
 Might lead him by a thread — He shall 
 
 not die ! 
 Phi. Indeed ! — then have we had our 
 
 midnight ride 
 To wondrous little purpose. 
 
 AucH. By the blue heaven. 
 Thou shalt not murder him, cold, selfish 
 
 sensualist ! 
 Yon pure vault speaks it — yonder sum- 
 mer moon. 
 With its ten million sparklers, cries. For- 
 bear ! 
 The deep earth sighs it forth — Thou shalt 
 
 not murder ! 
 Thou shalt not mar the image of thy 
 
 maker ! 
 Thou shalt not from thy brother take the 
 
 life. 
 The gracious gift which God alone can 
 
 give ! 
 Phi. Here is a worthy guerdon now, 
 
 for stuffing 
 His memory with old saws and holy 
 
 sayings ! 
 They come upon him in the very crisis. 
 And when his resolution should be firmest, 
 They shake it like a palsy. — I^t it be. 
 He'll end at last by yielding to temptation. 
 Consenting to the thing which must be 
 
 done, 
 With more remorse the more he hesi- 
 tates. — 
 ( To his Father, who has stood fixed after 
 
 his last speech^ — 
 Well, sir, 'tis fitting you resolve at last. 
 
644 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 How the young clerk should be disposed 
 
 upon; 
 Unless you would ride home to Auchin- 
 
 drane, 
 And bid them rear the Maiden in the 
 
 court-yard, 
 That when Dunbar comes, he have naught 
 
 to do 
 But bid us kiss the cushion and the heads- 
 man. 
 AucH. It is too true. — There is no 
 
 safety for us. 
 Consistent with the unhappy wretch's life ! 
 In Ireland he is sure to find my enemies. 
 Arran I've proved — the Netherlands 
 
 I've tried, 
 But wilds and wars return him on my 
 
 hands. 
 Phi. Vet fear not, father, we'll make 
 
 surer work; 
 The land has caves, the sea has whirlpools. 
 Where that which they suck in returns no 
 more. 
 AuCH. I will know naught of it, hard- 
 hearted boy ! 
 Phi. Hard-hearted! Why — my heart 
 
 is soft as yours; 
 But then they must not feel remorse at 
 
 once — 
 We can't afford such wasteful tenderness : 
 I can mouth forth remorse as well as you. 
 Be executioner, and I'll be chaplain. 
 And say as mild and moving things as 
 
 you can; 
 But one of us must keep his steely temper. 
 AucH. Do thou the deed — I cannot 
 
 look on it. 
 Phi. So be it. Walk with me — Mac- 
 
 Lellan brings him. 
 The boat lies moor'd within that reach of 
 
 rock, 
 And 'twill require our greatest strength 
 
 combined 
 Toiaunch it from the beach. Meantime, 
 
 MacLellan 
 Brings our man hither. — See the twink- 
 ling light 
 That glances in the tower. 
 
 AucH. Let us withdraw — for should 
 
 he spy us suddenly, 
 He may suspect us, and alarm the family. 
 Phi. Fear not — MacLellan has his 
 
 trust and confidence, 
 
 Bought with a few sweet words and wel- 
 comes home. 
 
 AucH. But think you that the Ranger 
 may be trusted? 
 
 Phi. I'll answer for him, — Let's go 
 float the shallop. 
 
 [ They go off, and as they leave the 
 Stage, NIacLkllan is seen de- 
 scending from the Tower with 
 QlJENTiN. The former bears a 
 dark lantern. They come upon 
 the Stage. 
 
 Mac. (^showi7ig the light), — 
 So — bravely done — that's the last ledge 
 
 of rocks, 
 And we are on the sands. — I have broke 
 
 your slumbers 
 Somewhat untimely. 
 
 Que. Do not think so, friend. 
 
 These six years past I have been used to 
 
 stir 
 When the reveille rung; and that, believe 
 
 me, 
 Chooses the hours for rousing mo- at ran- 
 dom. 
 And, having given it summons, yields no 
 
 license 
 To indulge a second slumber. Nay more, 
 
 I'll tell thee. 
 That, like a pleased child, I was e'en too 
 
 happy 
 For sound repose. 
 
 Mac. The greater fool were you. 
 
 Men should enjoy the moments given to 
 
 slumber; 
 For who can tell how soon may be the 
 
 waking, 
 Or where we shall have leave to sleep 
 
 again ? 
 Que. The God of Slumber comes not 
 
 at command. 
 Last night the blood danced merry thro' 
 
 my veins: 
 Instead of finding this our land of Carrick 
 The dreary waste my fears had appre- 
 hended, 
 I saw thy wife, Macl^ellan, and thy 
 
 daughter. 
 And had a brother's welcome; saw thee, 
 
 too, 
 Renew'd my early friendship with you 
 
 both, 
 
Scene I. 
 
 A UCHIiWDRANE. 
 
 645 
 
 And felt once more that I had friends and 
 country. 
 
 So keen the joy that tingled thro' my sys- 
 tem, 
 
 Join'd with the searching powers of yon- 
 der wine. 
 
 That I am glad to leave my feverish lair, 
 
 Altho' my hostess smooth'd my couch 
 herself. 
 
 To cool my brow upon this moonlight 
 beach, 
 
 Gaze on the moonlight dancing on the 
 waves. 
 
 Such scenes are wont to soothe me into 
 melancholy; 
 
 But such the hurry of my spirits now. 
 
 That everything I look on makes me 
 laugh. 
 Mac. I've seen but few so gamesome, 
 Master Quentin, 
 
 Being roused from sleep so suddenly as 
 you were. 
 Que. Why, there's the jest on't. Your 
 old castle's haunted. 
 
 In vain the host — in vain the lovely 
 hostess, 
 
 In kind addition to all means of rest, 
 
 Add their best wishes for our sound re- 
 pose. 
 
 When some hobgoblia brings a pressing 
 message : — 
 
 Montgomery presently must see his ser- 
 geant, 
 
 And up gets Hildcbrand, and off he 
 trudges. 
 
 I can't but laugh to think upon the grin 
 
 With which he doff 'd the kerchief he had 
 twisted 
 
 Around his brows, and put his morion 
 on — 
 
 Ha! ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Mac. I'm glad to see you merry, 
 
 Quentin. 
 Que. Why, faith, my spirits are but 
 transitory, 
 
 And you may live with me a month or 
 more. 
 
 And never see me smile. Then some 
 such trifle 
 
 As yonder little maid of yours would 
 laugh at, 
 
 Will serve me for a theme of merriment — 
 
 Even now, I scarce can keep my gravity; 
 
 We were so snugly settled in our quarters. 
 With full intent to let the sun be high 
 Ere we should leave our beds — and first 
 
 the one 
 And then the other's summon'd briefly 
 
 forth 
 To the old tune, " Black Bandsmen, up 
 
 and march ! " 
 Mac. Well, you shall sleep anon — 
 
 rely upon it — 
 And make up time misspent. Meantime, 
 
 methinks. 
 You are so merry on your broken slum- 
 bers. 
 You ask'd not why I call'd you. 
 
 Que. I can guess. 
 
 You lack my aid to search the weir for 
 
 seals. 
 You lack my company to stalk a deer. 
 Think you I have forgot your sylvan tasks, 
 Which ofl you have permitted me to 
 
 share. 
 Till days that we were rivals? 
 
 Mac. You have memory 
 
 Of that too ! — 
 
 Que. Like the memory of a dream, 
 Delusion far too exquisite to last. 
 
 Mac. You guess not then for what I 
 
 call you forth ! 
 It was to meet a friend — 
 
 Que. What friend? Thyself excepted, 
 The good old man who's gone to see 
 
 Montgomery, 
 And one to whom I once gave dearer title, 
 I know not in wide Scotland man or 
 
 woman 
 Whom I could name a friend. 
 
 Mac. Thou art mistaken. 
 
 There is a Baron, and a powerful one — 
 
 Que. There flies my fit of mirth. You 
 
 have a grave 
 And alter'd man before you. 
 
 Mac. Compose yourself, there is no 
 
 cause for fear, — 
 He will and must speak with you. 
 
 Que. Spare me the meeting, Niel, — 
 
 I cannot see him. 
 Say, I'm just landed on my native earth; 
 Say, that I will not cumber it a day; 
 Say, that my wretched thread of poor ex- 
 istence 
 Shall be drawn out in solitude and exile. 
 Where never memory of so mean a thing 
 
646 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Again shall cross his path — but do not 
 
 ask nie 
 To seek or speak again with that dark 
 man ! 
 Mac. Your fears are now as foolish as 
 your mirth — 
 What should the powerful knight of 
 
 Auchindrane 
 In common have with such a man as thou ? 
 Que. No matter what — Enough, I will 
 
 not see him. 
 Mac. He is thy master, and he claims 
 
 obedience. 
 Que. My master? Ay, my task-mas- 
 ter — Ever since 
 I couKl write man, his hantl hath been 
 
 upon me; 
 No step I've made but cumber'd with his 
 
 chain. 
 And I am weary on't — I will not see him. 
 Mac. You must and shall — there is 
 
 no remeily. 
 Que. Take heed that you compel me 
 not to find one. 
 I've seen the wars since we had strife to- 
 gether; 
 To put my late experience to the test 
 Were something dangerous — lla! I am 
 betray'd ! 
 
 [ While the latter part of this dia- 
 logue is passim^, Auchindrane 
 andVnw.W enter on the Stage 
 from behind and suddenly pre- 
 sent themselves. 
 
 AuCH. What says the runagate? 
 Que. {laying aside all appearance of 
 resistance^. — 
 Nothing. You are my fate; 
 And in a shape more fearfully resistless 
 My evil angel could not stand before me. 
 AuCH. And so you scruple, slave, at 
 my command, 
 To meet me when I deign to ask thy pres- 
 ence? 
 Que. No, sir; I had forgot — I am 
 your bond-slave; 
 But sure a passing thought of indepen- 
 dence, 
 For which I've seen whole nations doing 
 
 battle. 
 Was not, in one who has so long enjoyed 
 it. 
 
 A crime beyond forgiveness. 
 
 AuCH. We shall see: 
 
 Thou wert my vassal, born upon my land. 
 Bred by my Ixjunty. — It concern'd me 
 
 highly, 
 Thou know'st it did — and yet, against 
 
 my charge, 
 Again I find thy worthlessness in Scotland. 
 Que. Alas ! the wealthy and the power- 
 ful know not 
 How very dear to those who have least 
 
 share in't 
 Is that sweet word of country ! The poor 
 
 exile 
 Feels, in each action of the varied day, 
 Ilis doom of banishment. The very air 
 Cools not his brow as in his native land; 
 The scene is strange, the food is loathly 
 
 to him; 
 The language — nay, the music jars his 
 
 ear. 
 Why should I, guiltless of the slightest 
 
 crime. 
 Suffer a punishment which, sparing life. 
 Deprives that life of all which men hold 
 
 dear ? 
 AucH. Hear ye the serf I bred begin 
 
 to reckon 
 Upon his rights and pleasures ! Who 
 
 am I — 
 Thou abject, who am I, whose will thou 
 
 thwartest? 
 Phi. Well spoke, my pious sire. There 
 
 goes remorse ! 
 Let once thy precious pride take fire, and 
 
 then, 
 Macl^llan, you and I may have small 
 
 trouble. 
 Que. Your words are deadly, and your 
 
 power resistless; 
 I'm in your hands — but, surely, less than 
 
 life 
 May give you the security you seek. 
 Without commission of a mortal crime. 
 AucH. Who is't would deign to think 
 
 upon thy life? 
 I but require of thee to speed to Ireland, 
 Where thou may'st sojourn for some little 
 
 space. 
 Having due means of living dealt to thee. 
 And, when it suits the changes of the 
 
 times. 
 Permission to return. 
 
SCENIi I. 
 
 A VCHINDRANE. 
 
 647 
 
 Que. Noble my lord, 
 
 I am too weak to combat with your pleas- 
 ure; 
 Yet O, for mercy's sake, and for the sake 
 Of that dear land which is our common 
 
 mother. 
 Let me not part in darkness from my 
 
 country ! 
 I'nss but an hour or two, and every cape. 
 Headland, and bay, shall gleam with new- 
 born light, 
 And I'll take boat as gayly as the bird 
 That soars to meet the morning. 
 Grant me but this — to show no darker 
 
 thoughts 
 Are on your heart than those your speech 
 
 expresses ! 
 Phi. a modest favor, friend, is this you 
 
 ask ! 
 Are we to pace the beach like watermen. 
 Waiting your worship's pleasure to take 
 
 boat? ' 
 No, l>y my faith ! you go upon the instant. 
 The boat lies ready, and the ship receives 
 
 you 
 Near to the Point of Turnberry. — Q>me, 
 
 we wait you; 
 Bestir you ! 
 
 Que. I olHjy. Then farewell, Scotland! 
 And Heaven forgive my sins, and grant 
 
 that mercy 
 Which mortal man deserves not ! 
 
 AUCH. {^spi-aks aside to his Son). — 
 
 What signal 
 Shall let me know 'tis done? 
 
 Phi. When the light is quench'd, 
 
 Your fears for Quentin Blane are at an 
 
 end — 
 {To Que.) Come, comrade, come, we 
 
 must begin our voyage. 
 Que. But when — O when to end it ! 
 
 [//? s^oes off reluctantly -with Ph 1 i.r P 
 and MacLellan. Auchin- 
 DRANE stands looking after 
 them. The Moon becomes over- 
 clouded, and the Stai^e dark. 
 AUCHINDRANE, who has gazed 
 txedlv and eagerly after those 
 who have left the Stage, becomes 
 animated, and speaks. 
 
 AuCH. It is no fallacy ! — The night is 
 dark. 
 
 The moon has sunk before the deepening 
 
 clouds; 
 I cannot on the murky beach distinguish 
 The shallop from the rocks which lie be- 
 side it; 
 I cannot see tall Philip's floating plume. 
 Nor trace the sullen brow of Niel Mac- 
 Lellan; 
 Yet still that caitiff 's visage is before me. 
 With chattering teeth, mazed look, and 
 
 bristling hair, 
 As he stood here this moment ! — Have I 
 
 changed 
 My human eyes for those of some night 
 
 prowler. 
 The wolf's, the tiger-cat's, or the hoarse 
 
 bird's 
 That spies its prey at midnight ? I can 
 
 see him — 
 Yes, I can see him, seeing no one else, — 
 And well it is I do so. In his absence, 
 Strange thoughts of pity mingled with my 
 
 purpose. 
 And moved remorse within me. — But 
 
 they vanish 'd 
 Whene'er he stood a living man before 
 
 me; 
 Then my antipathy awaked within me. 
 Seeing its object close within my reach. 
 Till I could scarce forbear him. — How 
 
 they linger ! 
 The boat's not yet to sea ! — I ask myself, 
 What has the poor wretch done to wake 
 
 my hatred — 
 Docile, obedient, and in sufferance pa- 
 tient ! — 
 As well demand what evil has the hare 
 Done to the hound that courses her in 
 
 sport. 
 Instinct infallible supplies the reason — 
 And that must plead my cause. — The 
 
 vision's gone ! 
 Their boat now walks the waves; a single 
 
 gleam. 
 Now seen, now lost, is all that marks her 
 
 course ; 
 That soon shall vanish too — then all is 
 
 over ! — 
 Would it were over, for in this moment lies 
 The agony of ages; — Now, 'tis gone — 
 And all is acted ! No — she l>reasts again 
 The opposing wave, and bears the tiny 
 sparkle 
 
648 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 An- III. 
 
 Upon her crest — {^A faitit cry heard as 
 
 from seaward.') 
 
 Ah ! there was fatal evidence. 
 All's over now, indeed! — The light is 
 
 quench 'd — 
 And Quentin, source of all my fear, exists 
 
 not. 
 The morning tide shall sweep his corpse 
 
 to sea, 
 And hide all memory of this stern night's 
 
 work. 
 
 \^He walks iu a slinv and deeply 
 meditative maimer tenuards the 
 side of the Stage, and suddenly 
 meets Marion, the wife of Mac- 
 Lellan, who has deseended front 
 the Castle. 
 
 Now, how to meet Dunbar — Heaven 
 
 guard my senses ! 
 Stand ! who goes there ? — Do spirits walk 
 
 the earth 
 Ere yet they've left the body? 
 
 Mar. Is it you. 
 
 My lord, on this wild beach at such an 
 
 hour? 
 AucH. It is MacLellan's wife, in search 
 
 of him, 
 Or of her lover — of the murderer. 
 Or of the murder'd man. — Go to, Dame 
 
 Marion; 
 Men have their hunting-gear to give an 
 
 eye to, 
 Their snares and trackings for their game. 
 
 But women 
 Should shun the night air. A young wife 
 
 also, 
 Still more a handsome one, should keep 
 
 her pillow 
 Till the sun gives example for her waken- 
 ing. 
 Come, Dame, go back — back to your 
 
 bed again. 
 Mar. Hear me, my lord ! there have 
 
 been sights and sounds 
 That terrified my child and me — Groans, 
 
 screams, 
 As if of dying seamen, came from ocean — 
 A corpse-light danced upon the crested 
 
 waves 
 For several minutes' space, then sunk at 
 
 once. 
 When we retired to rest we had two guests, 
 
 Besides my husband Niel — I'll tell your 
 
 lordship 
 
 Who the men were 
 
 AuCH. Pshaw, woman, can you think 
 That I have any interest in your gossips? 
 Please your own husband, and that you 
 
 may please him, 
 Get thee to bed, and shut up doors, good 
 
 dame. 
 Were I MacLellnn, I should scarce be 
 
 satisfied 
 To find thee wandering here in mist and 
 
 moonlight, 
 When silence should l)e in thy haV)ilation, 
 And sleep upon thy pillow. 
 
 Mar. Good my lord, 
 
 This is a holyday. — By an ancient custom 
 Our children seek the shore at break of 
 
 clay, 
 And gather shells, and dance, and play, 
 
 and sport them 
 In honor of the Ocean. Old men say 
 The custom is derived from heathen times. 
 
 Our Isabel 
 Is mistress of the feast, and you may 
 
 think 
 She is awake already, and impatient 
 To be the first shall stand upon the beach, 
 And bid the sun good-morrow. 
 
 AuCH. Ay, indeed? 
 
 Linger such dregs of heathendom among 
 
 you? 
 And hath Knox preach'd, and Wishart 
 
 died, in vain? 
 Take notice, I forbid these sinful prac- 
 tices. 
 And will not have my followers mingle 
 
 in them. 
 Mar. If such your honor's pleasure, 
 
 I must go 
 And lock the door on Isabel ; she is wilful. 
 And voice of mine will have small force to 
 
 keep her 
 From the amusement she so long has 
 
 dream'd of. 
 But I must tell your honor, the old people. 
 That were survivors of the former race, 
 Prophesied evil if this day should jiass 
 Without due homage to tlie mighty Ocean. 
 AucH. Folly and Papistry. — Perhaps 
 
 the Ocean 
 Hath had his morning sacrifice already; 
 Or can you think the dreadful element, 
 
Scene I. 
 
 A UCHINDRANE. 
 
 649 
 
 Whose frown is death, whose roar the 
 
 dirge of navies. 
 Will miss the idle pageant you prepare? 
 Tve business for you, too — the dawn ad- 
 vances — 
 I'd have thee lock thy little child in 
 
 safety. 
 And get to Auchindrane before the sun 
 
 rise; 
 Tell them to get a royal banquet ready, 
 As if a king were coming there to feast 
 
 him. 
 Mar. I will olicy your pleasure. But 
 
 my husband — 
 AucH. I wait him on the beach, and 
 
 bring him in 
 To share the banquet. 
 
 Mar. But he has a friend. 
 
 Whom it would ill liecome him to intrude 
 Upon your hospitality. 
 
 AucH. Fear not; his friend shall be 
 
 made welcome too. 
 Should he return with Niel. 
 
 Mar. He must- — he will return — he 
 
 has no option. 
 AucH. {ii/'iirt). Thus rashly do wc 
 
 deem of other's destiny — 
 lie has indeed no option ^ — ^but he comes 
 
 not. 
 Begone on thy commission — I go this 
 
 way 
 To meet thy husband. 
 
 [Marion ^;^^« to her J'o-wer, and 
 after entering it, is seen to come 
 out, lock the door, and leave the 
 stage, as if to cxectUe AUCHIN- 
 DRANE's commission. He, ap- 
 parently going off in a different 
 direction, has zvatched her from 
 the side of the stage, and on her 
 departure speaks. 
 
 Aucn. Fare thee well, fond woman. 
 Most dangerous of spies — thou prying, 
 
 prating. 
 Spying and telling woman ! I've cut short 
 Thy dangerous testimony — Hated word ! 
 What other evidence have we cut short. 
 And by what fated means, this dreary 
 
 morning ! — 
 Bright lances here and helmets ! — I must 
 
 shift 
 To join the others. [Exit. 
 
 Enter from the other side the SERGEANT, 
 
 accompanied -with an Officer and tivo 
 
 Pikemen. 
 Ser. 'Twas in good time you came; a 
 
 minute later 
 The knaves had ta'en my dollars and my 
 
 life. 
 Off. You fought most stoutly. Two 
 
 of them were down 
 Ere we came to your aid. 
 
 Ser. Gramcrcy; halberd ! 
 
 And well it happens, since your leader 
 
 seeks 
 This Quentin Blane, that you have fall'n 
 
 on me; 
 None else can surely tell you where he 
 
 hides. 
 Being in some fear, and bent to quit this 
 
 province. 
 Off. Twill do our Earl good service. 
 
 He has sent 
 Despatches into Holland for this Quentin. 
 Ser. I left him two hours since in yon- 
 der tower. 
 Under the guard of one who smoothly 
 
 spoke, 
 Altho' he look'd but roughly — I wiJl 
 
 chide him 
 For bidding me go forth with yonder trai- 
 tor. 
 Off. Assure yourself 'twas a concerted 
 
 stratagem. 
 Montgomery's been at Holyrood for 
 
 months. 
 And can have sent no letter — 'twas a plan 
 On you and on your dollars, and a base 
 
 one. 
 To which this Ranger was most likely 
 
 privy. 
 Such men as he hang on our fiercer barons. 
 The ready agents of their lawless will; 
 Boys of the belt, who aid their master's 
 
 pleasures. 
 And in his moods ne'er scruple his in- 
 junctions. 
 But haste, for now we must unkennel 
 
 Quentin; 
 I've strictest charge concerning him. 
 
 Ser. Go up, then, to the tower. 
 You've younger limbs than mine; there 
 
 shall you find him 
 Lounging and snoring, like a lazy cur 
 Before a stable door; it is his practice. 
 
650 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 [ Tlu Officer goes up to the Tower, 
 and after knocking without re- 
 ceiving an anstvcr, turns the key 
 which Marion had left in the 
 lock, and enters ; ISABEL, dressed 
 as if for her dance, runs out and 
 descends to the Stage ; the OFFI- 
 CER follows. 
 Off. There's no one in the house, this 
 little maid 
 Excepted — 
 
 IsA. And for me, I'm ther; no longer, 
 And will not be again for three hours 
 
 good ; ' 
 
 I'm going to join my playmates on the 
 sands. 
 Off. (^detaining her) . You shall, when 
 you have told to me distinctly 
 Where are the guests who slept up there 
 last night. 
 ISA. Why, there is the old man, he 
 stands beside you. 
 The merry old man with the glistening 
 
 hair; 
 He left the tower at midnight, for my 
 
 father 
 Brought him a letter. 
 
 Sek. In ill hour I left you. 
 
 I wish to Heaven that I had stay'd with 
 
 you! 
 There is a nameless horror that comes 
 
 o'er me. — 
 Speak, pretty maiden, tell us what 
 
 chanced next. 
 And thou shalt have thy freedom. 
 
 IsA. After you went last night, my 
 father 
 Grew moody, and refused to doff his 
 
 clothes, 
 Or go to bed, as sometimes he will do 
 When there is aught lo chafe him. Until 
 
 past midnight. 
 He wander'd to and fro, then call'd the 
 
 stranger, 
 The gay young man, that sung such m^^rry 
 
 songs, 
 Yet ever look'd most sadly whilst he sung 
 
 them; 
 And forth they went together. 
 
 Off. And you've seen 
 
 Or heard naught of them since? 
 
 ISA. Seen surely nothing, and I cannot 
 think 
 
 That they have lot or share in what I 
 heard. 
 
 I heard my mother praying, for the corpse- 
 lights 
 
 Were dancing on the waves; and at one 
 o'clock. 
 
 Just as the Abbey steeple toll'd the knell. 
 
 There was a heavy plunge upon the 
 waters. 
 
 And some one cried aloud for mercy ! — 
 mercy ! 
 
 It was the water-spirit, sure, which prom- 
 ised 
 
 Mercy to boat and fishermen, if we 
 
 Perform'd to-day's rites duly. Let me 
 go — 
 
 I am to lead the ring. 
 
 Off. (/t; Ser.). Detain her not. She 
 cannot tell us more; 
 
 To give her liberty is the sure way 
 
 To lure her parents homeward. — 
 Strahan, take two men, 
 
 And should the father or the mother come. 
 
 Arrest them l)oth, or either. Auchindrane 
 
 May come upon the beach; arrest him 
 also. 
 
 But do not state a cause. I'll back again, 
 
 And take directions from my Lord Dun- 
 bar. 
 
 Keep you upon the beach, and have an 
 eye 
 
 To all that passes there. 
 
 [ Exeunt separately. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Scene changes to a remote and rocky part 
 of the Seabeach. 
 
 Enter AucHiNDRANE, meeting Philip. 
 AucH. The devil's brought his legions 
 
 to this beach, 
 That wont to be so lonely ; morions, 
 
 lances, 
 Show in the morning beam as thick as 
 
 glowworms 
 At summer midnight. 
 
 Phi. I'm right glad to see them, 
 
 Be they whoe'er they may, so they are 
 
 mortal ; 
 For I've contended with a lifeless foe, 
 And I have lost the battle. I would give 
 A thousand crowns to hear a mortal steel 
 Ring on a mortal harness. 
 
Scene II. 
 
 A UCHINDRANE. 
 
 65 1 
 
 AUCH. How now! art mad? or hast 
 
 thou done the turn — 
 The turn we came for, and must live or 
 
 die by? 
 Phi. 'Tis done, if man can do it; but 
 
 I doubt 
 If this unhappy wretch have Heaven's 
 
 permission 
 To die by mortal hands. 
 
 AucH. Where is he? — where's Mac- 
 
 Lellan? 
 Phi. In the deep — 
 
 Both in the deep, and what's immortal 
 
 of them 
 Gone to the judgment seat, where we 
 
 must meet them. 
 
 UCH. MacLellan dead, and Quentin 
 
 too ? — So be it 
 To all that menace ill to Auchindrane, 
 Or iiave the power to injure ! — ^Thy words 
 Are full of comfort, but thine eye and 
 
 look 
 Have in this pallid gloom a ghastliness, 
 Which contradicts the tidings of thy 
 
 tongue. 
 Phi. Hear me, old man — There is a 
 
 heaven alx)ve us. 
 As you have heard old Knox and Wishart 
 
 preach, 
 Tho' little to your boot. The dreaded 
 
 witness 
 Is slain, and silent. But his misused body 
 Comes right ashore as if to cry for ven- 
 geance ; 
 It rides the waters like a living thing. 
 Erect, as if he trode the waves which bear 
 
 him. 
 AuCH. Thou speakest frenzy, when 
 
 sense is most required. 
 Phi. Hear me yet more! — I say I 
 
 did the deed 
 With all the coolness of a practiced hunter 
 When dealing with a stag. I struck him 
 
 overlxiard, 
 And with MacLellan's aid I held his head 
 Under the waters, while the Ranger tied 
 The weights we had provided to his feet. 
 We cast him loose when life and body 
 
 parted, 
 And bade him speed for Ireland. But even 
 
 then. 
 As in defiance of the words we spoke. 
 The body rose upright behind our stern, 
 
 One half in ocean, and one half in air, 
 And tided after as in chase of us. 
 
 Auch. It was enchantment ! — Did 
 
 you strike at it? 
 Phi. Once and again. But blows 
 
 avail'd no more 
 Than on a wreath of smoke, where they 
 
 may break 
 The column for a moment, which unites 
 And is entire again. Thus the dead body 
 Sunk down before my oar, but rose un- 
 
 harm'd. 
 And dogg'd us closer still, as in defiance. 
 AucH. 'Twas Hell's own work ! — 
 Phi. MacLellan then grew restive. 
 And, desperate in his fear, blasphemed 
 
 aloud, 
 Cursing us both as authors of his ruin. 
 Myself was well-nigh frantic while per- 
 
 sucd 
 By this dread shape, upon whose ghastly 
 
 features 
 The changeful moonbeam spread a grisly 
 
 light. 
 And, baited thus, I took the nearest way 
 To ensure his silence, and to quell his 
 
 noise; 
 I used my dagger, and I flung him over- 
 board, 
 And half-expected his dead carcass also 
 Would join the chase — but he sank down 
 
 at once. 
 Auch. He had enough of mortal sin 
 
 about him 
 To sink an argosy. 
 
 Phi. But now resolve you what defence 
 
 to make, 
 If Quentin's body shall be recognized; 
 For 'tis ashore already; and he bears 
 Marks of my handiwork — so does Mac- 
 Lellan. 
 Auch. The concourse thickens still — 
 
 Away, awayl 
 We must avoid the multitude. 
 
 [ They rush ot4t. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Scene changes to another part of the 
 Beach, Children are seen dancing, and 
 Villagers looking on. ISABEL seems 
 to take the management of the Dance. 
 ViL. WOM. How well she queens it, 
 the brave little maiden ! 
 
65- 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. Scene III. 
 
 ViL. Ay, they ail queen it from their 
 very cradle, 
 These willing slaves of haughty Auchin- 
 
 drane. 
 But now I hear the old man's reign is 
 
 ended; — • 
 ' ris well — he has been tyrant long 
 enough. 
 Second Vil. Finlay, speak low — you 
 
 interrupt the sports. 
 Third Vii,. Look out to sea! — ■ 
 There's something coming yonder, 
 Hound for the beach, will scare us from 
 our mirth. 
 Fourth Vil. Pshaw ! it is but a sea- 
 gull on the wing, 
 [jet ween the wave and sky. 
 
 Third Vil. Thou art a fool, 
 
 Standing on solid land — 'tis a dead 
 
 body. 
 
 Second Vil. And if it be, he bears him 
 
 like a live one, 
 
 Not prone and weltering, like a drowned 
 
 corpse, 
 But bolt erect, as if he trode the waters. 
 And used them as his path. 
 
 Fourth Vil. It is a merman, 
 
 And nothing of this earth, alive or dead. 
 
 [ By degrees all the Dancers break off 
 from their sport, and stand gaz- 
 ing to seaioard, ivhile an object, 
 imperfectly seen, drifts towards 
 the Beach, and at length arrives 
 among the rocks which border 
 the tide. 
 
 Third Vil. Perhaps it is some wretch 
 who needs assistance; 
 Jasper, make in and see. 
 
 Second Vil. Not I, my friend; 
 E'en take the risk yourself, you'd put on 
 others. 
 
 [HlLDEBRAND/irtj entered, and heard 
 the tiuo last words. 
 Ser. What, are you men? 
 Fear ye to look on what you must be one 
 
 day? 
 I, who have seen a thousand dead and 
 
 dying 
 Within a flight-shot square, will teach you 
 
 how in war 
 We look upon the corpse when life has 
 left it. 
 
 \^Ile goes to the back scene, and seems 
 attempting to turn the body, 
 which has come ashore witJi its 
 face down-ward. 
 
 Will none of you come aid to turn the 
 body ? 
 ISA. You're cowards all. — I'll help 
 thee, good old man. 
 
 \^She goes to aid the Sergeant tc//// 
 the body, and presently gives a 
 cry, and faints. Hildebrand 
 comes forzuard. All croxvd 
 round him ; he speaks with an 
 expression of horror. 
 
 Ser. 'TisQuentin Plane ! Poor youth, 
 his gloomy bodings 
 
 Have been the prologue to an act of dark- 
 ness; 
 
 His feet arc manacled, his bosom stabb'd, 
 
 And he is fijully murder'd. The proud 
 Knight 
 
 And his dark Ranger must have done this 
 deed , 
 
 For which no conmion ruffian could have 
 motive. 
 A Peasant. Caution were best, old 
 man — Thou art a stranger, 
 
 The Knight is great and powerful. 
 Ser. Let it he so. 
 
 Call'd on by Heaven to stand forth an 
 avenger, 
 
 I will not blench for fear of mortal man. 
 
 Have I not seen that when that innocent 
 
 Had placed her hands upon the murder'd 
 body. 
 
 His gaping wounds, that erst were soak'd 
 with brine, 
 
 Burst forth with blood as ruddy as the 
 cloud 
 
 Which now the sun does rise on ! 
 
 Peasant. What of that ? 
 
 Ser. Nothing that can affect the inno- 
 cent child; 
 
 But murder's guilt attaching to her father, 
 
 Since the blood musters in the victim's 
 veins 
 
 At the approach of what holds lease from 
 him 
 
 Of all that parents can transmit to chil- 
 dren. 
 
 And here comes one to whom I'll vouch 
 the circumstance. 
 
THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 653 
 
 The Earl of Dunbar etiters with Sol- 
 diers and others, having AUCHIN- 
 DRANE and I'Hll.l¥ frisoners. 
 
 Dun. Fetter the young ruffian and his 
 trait'rous father ! 
 
 [ They' are made secure. 
 AUCH. Twas a lord spoke it — I have 
 
 known a knight, 
 Sir George of Home, who had not dared 
 
 to say so. 
 Dun. "J'is Heaven, not I, derides upon 
 
 your guilt. 
 A harmless youth is traced within your 
 
 power, 
 Sleeps in your Ranger's house — his friend 
 
 at midnight 
 K spirited away. Then lights are seen. 
 And groans are heard, and corpses come 
 
 ashore 
 Mangled with daggers, while (/<? Phi.) 
 
 your dagger wears 
 The sanguine livery of recent slaughter: 
 Here, too, the body of a murder'd victim 
 
 (Whom none but you had interest to re- 
 move) 
 Bleeds on a child's approach, because 
 
 the daughter 
 Of one the abettor of the wicked deed; — 
 All this, and other proofs corroborative, 
 Call on us briefly to pronounce the doom 
 We have in charge to utter. 
 
 AucH. If my house perish. Heaven's 
 
 will be done ! 
 I wish not to survive it; but, O Philip, 
 Would one could pay the ransom for us 
 
 both! 
 Phi. Father, 'tis fitter that we both 
 
 should die. 
 Leaving no heir behind. — The piety 
 Of a bless'd saint, the morals of an 
 
 anchorite, 
 Could not atone thy dark hypocrisy. 
 Or the wild profligacy I have practised. 
 Ruin'd our house, and shattered be our 
 
 towers. 
 And with them end the curse our sins 
 
 have merited ! 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ADVERTLSEMENT. 
 
 This attempt at dramatic composition was executed nearly thirty years since, when the 
 magnificent works of Goethe and Schiller were for the first time made known to the British 
 public, and received, as many now alive must remember, with universal enthusiasm. What 
 we admire we usually attempt to imitate ; and the author, not trusting to his own efforts, 
 borrowed tlie substance of the story and a part of the diction from a dramatic romance 
 called " Der heilige Vehnie " (The Secret Tribunal), which fills the sixth volume of the 
 " Sagen der \'orzeit'' (Tales of Antiquity), by Ueit Weber. The drama must be termed 
 rather a rifacimento of the original than a translation, since the whole is compressed, and 
 the incidents and dialogue are occasionally much varied. The imitator is ignorant of the 
 real name of his ingenious contemporary, and has been informed that of Beit Weber is 
 fictitious.* 
 
 The late ^fr. John Kenible at one time had some desire to bring out the play at Drury- 
 Lane, then adorned by himself and his matchless sister, who were to have supported the 
 characters of the unhappy son and mother: but great objections appeared to this proposal. 
 There was danger that the mainspring of the stor>-. — the binding engagements formed by 
 members of the secret tribunal. — might not be sufficiently felt by an English audience, to 
 whom the nature of that singularly mysterious institution was unknown from early associa- 
 tion. There was also, according to Mr. Kemble's experienced opinion, too much blood, too 
 
 * Oeore:e Wachter, who published various works under the pseudonym of Veit Weber, was lx>m 
 in 1763, and died in 1837. — Ed. 
 
6S4 DRAMATIC PIECES. Act I. 
 
 much of the dire catastrophe of Tom Thumb, when all die on the stage. It was, besides, 
 esteemed perilous to place the fifth act and the parade and show of the secret conclave at 
 the mercy of underlings and scene-shifters, who, by a ridiculous motion, gesture, or accent, 
 might turn what should be grave into farce. 
 
 The author, or rather the translator, willingly acquiesced in this reasoning, and never 
 afterwards made any attempt to gain the honor of the buskin. The German taste, also, 
 caricatured by a number of imitators, who, incapable of copying the sublimity of the great 
 masters of the school, supplied its place by extravagance and bombast, fell into disrepute, 
 and received a coup de grace from the joint efforts of the late lamented Mr. Canning and 
 Mr. Frere. The effect of their singularly happy piece of ridicule called " The Rovers," a 
 mock play which appeared in The Anti-Jacobin, was, that the German school, with its 
 beauties and its defects, passed completely out of fashion, and the following scenes were 
 consigned to neglect and obscurity. Very lately, however, the writer chanced to look them 
 over with feelings very different from those of tlie adventurous period of his literary life 
 during which they had been written, and yet with such as perhaps a reformed libertine 
 might regard the illegitimate production of an early amour. There is something to be 
 ashamed of, certainly ; but, after all, paternal vanity whispers that the child has a resem- 
 blance to the father. 
 
 To this it need only be added, that there are in existence so many manuscript copies of 
 the following play, that if it should not find its way to the public sooner, it is certain to 
 do so when the author can no more have any opportunity of correcting the press, and con- 
 sequently at greater disadvantage than at present. Being of too small a size or conse- 
 quence for a separate publication, the piece is sent as a contribution to The Keepsake., 
 where the demerits may be hidden amid the beauties of more valuable articles. 
 Abbotsford, ist Afiril, 1829. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 RUDIGER, Baron of Aspen, an old German warrior. 
 
 George of .Aspen, | ,, ^ r> /• 
 „ , 'J i>oi!S to Kttdteer. 
 
 Henry of Aspen, ) * 
 
 RoDERiC, Count of Maltingen, chief of a department of the Itivisible Tribunal, and 
 
 the hereditary enemy of the family of Aspen. 
 William, Baron of Wolfstcin, ally of Count Koderic. 
 Bertram of Ebersdorf, brother to the fortner husband of the Baroness of Aspen, 
 
 disguised as a Minstrel. 
 Duke of, Bavaria. 
 
 WiCKERD, I pf,iif„„ers of the House of Aspen. 
 Reynold, ) ■' ■' * 
 
 Conrad, Page of Honor to Henry of Aspen. 
 Martin, Squire to George of Aspen. 
 Hugo, Squire to Count Roderic. 
 Peter, an ancient domestic of Rudiger. 
 Father Ludovic, Chaplain to Rudiger. 
 
 women. 
 Isabella, /(Jrw^r/v married to Arnolf of Ebersdorf, no7v wife of Rudiger. 
 Gertrudk, Isabella's niece, betrothed to Henry. 
 Soldiers, Judges of the Invisible Tribunal, etc. 
 
 Scene. — The Castle of Ebersdorf in Bavaria, the ruins of Griefenhaus, and the 
 adjacent country. 
 
 ACT I. —Scene I. 
 An ancient Gothic chamber in the castle 
 of Ebersdorf. .Spears, crossboros, and 
 arms, with the horns of buffaloes and 
 of deer, are hung round the wall. An 
 antique buffet with beakers and stone 
 bottles. 
 
 Rudiger, Baron of Aspen, and his lady, 
 Isabella, are disco7<ered sitting at a 
 large oaken table. 
 
 RUD. A plague upon that roan horse ! 
 II:id he not stumbled with me at the ford 
 after our last skirmish, I had been now 
 with my sons. And yonder the boys are, 
 
Scene I. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 655 
 
 hardly three miles off, battling with Count 
 Roderic, and their father must lie here 
 like a worm-eaten manuscript in a con- 
 vent library ! Out upon it ! Out upon 
 it ! Is it not hard that a warrior, who 
 has travelled so many leagues to display 
 the cross on the walls of Zion, should be 
 now unable to lift a spear before his own 
 castle gate? 
 
 ISA. Dear husband, your anxiety re- 
 tards your recovery. 
 
 Ruu. Mayl>e so; but not less than 
 your silence and melancholy ! Here have 
 I sat this month, and more, since that 
 cursed fall ! Neither hunting nor feast- 
 ing, nor lance-breaking for me ! And 
 my sons — George enters cold and re- 
 served, as if he had the weight of the 
 empire on his shoulders, utters Vjy sylla- 
 
 bles a cold " How is it with 
 
 you.' 
 
 and 
 
 shuts himself up for days in his solitary 
 chamber — Henry, my cheerful Henry — 
 
 IsA. Surely, he at least — 
 
 RUD. Even he forsakes me, and skips 
 up the tower staircase like lightning to 
 join your fair ward, Gertrude, on the 
 battlements. I cannot blame him : for, 
 by my knightly faith, were I in his place, 
 I think even these bruised bones would 
 hardly keep me from her side. Still, 
 however, here I must sit alone. 
 
 ISA. Not alone, dear husband. Heaven 
 knows what I would do to soften your 
 confinement. 
 
 Rui). Tell me not of that, lady. When 
 I first knew thee, Isabella, the fair maid 
 of Arnheim w^as the joy of her compan- 
 ions, and breathed life wherever she 
 came. Thy father married thee to Arnolf 
 of Ebcrsdorf — not much with thy will, 
 'tis true — (^Shc hides her face S) Nay — 
 forgive me, Isabella — but that is over — 
 he died, and the ties between us, which 
 thy marriage had broken, were renewed 
 — but the sunshine of my Isabella's light 
 heart returned no more. 
 
 ISA. (^weepitig') . Beloved Rudiger, you 
 search my very soul ! Why will you re- 
 call past times — days of spring that can 
 never return? Do I not love thee more 
 than ever wife loved husband ? 
 
 RtTD. (^stretches out his arms — she em- 
 braces him'). And therefore art thou 
 
 ever my beloved Isabella. But still, is 
 it not true? Has not thy cheerfulness 
 vanished since thou hast become Lady 
 of Aspen ? Dost thou repent of thy love 
 to Rudiger? 
 
 ISA. Alas ! no ! never ! never ! 
 
 Ruu. Then why dost thou herd with 
 monks and priests, and leave thy old 
 knight alone, when, for the first time in 
 his stormy life, he has rested for weeks 
 within the walls of his castle? Hast 
 thou committed a crime from which 
 Rudiger's love cannot aljsolve thee? 
 
 ISA. O many ! many ! 
 
 Ri;d. 'ITien be this kiss thy penance. 
 And tell me, Isabella, hast thou not 
 founded a convent, and endowetl it with 
 the best of thy late husband's lands? Ay, 
 and with a vineyard which I could have 
 prized as well as the sleek monks. Dost 
 thou not daily distribute alms to twenty 
 pilgrims? Dost thou not cause ten masses 
 to be sung each night for the repose of 
 thy late husband's soul? 
 
 IsA. It will not know repose. 
 
 RuD. Well, well — God's peace be 
 with Arnolf of Ebersdorf; the mention 
 of him makes thee ever sad, though so 
 many years have passed since his death. 
 
 ISA. But at present, dear husband, 
 have I not the most just cause for anx- 
 iety? Are not Henry and George — our 
 beloved sons, at this very moment per- 
 haps engaged in doubtful contest with 
 our hereditary foe, Count Roderic of 
 Maltingen? 
 
 RuD. Now, there lies the difference; 
 you sorrow that they are in danger. I 
 that I cannot share it with them — 
 Hark ! I hear horses' feet on the draw- 
 bridge. Go to the window, Isabella. 
 
 IsA. («/ tlu ■wiudow). It is Wickerd, 
 your squire. 
 
 RUD. Then shall we have tidings of 
 George and Henry. {Enter WiCKKRD. ) 
 How now, Wickerd? Have you come 
 to blows yet ? 
 
 Wic. Not yet, noble sir. 
 
 RuD. Not yet? — shame on the boys' 
 dallying — what wait they for? 
 
 WiC. The foe is strongly posted, sir 
 knight, upon the Wolfshill, near the ruins 
 of Griefenhaus: therefore your noble 
 
656 
 
 DRAMA riC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 son, George of Aspen, greets you well, 
 and requests twenty more men-at-arms, 
 and, after they have joined him, he hopes, 
 with the aid of St. Theodore, to send 
 you news of victory. 
 
 RUD. (^attempts to rise hastily'). Saddle 
 my black barb; I will head them myself. 
 (5//5 dtntm.) A murrain on that stum- 
 bling roan ! I had forgot my dislocated 
 bones. Call Reynold, Wickerd, and bid 
 him take all whom he can spare from de- 
 fence of the castle — (Wickerd isgoing') 
 — and ho! Wickerd, carry with you my 
 black barb, and bid George charge upon 
 him. {Exit Wickerd.) Now see, Isa- 
 bella, if I disregard the boy's safety; I 
 send him the best horse ever knight be- 
 strode. When we lay before Ascalon, 
 indeed, I had a bright bay Persian — 
 Thou dost not heed me. 
 
 ISA. Forgive me, dear husband: are 
 not our sons in danger? Will not our 
 sins be visited upon them? Is not their 
 present situation — 
 
 Ri;d. Situation? I know it well: as 
 fair a field for open fight as I ever hunted 
 over : see here — (makes lines on the 
 table) — here is the ancient castle of 
 Griefenhaus in ruins, here the Wolfshill; 
 and here the marsh on the right. 
 
 IsA. The marsh of Griefenhaus? 
 
 RuD. Yes; by that the boys must pass. 
 
 ISA. Pass there ! {Apart.) Avenging 
 Heaven ! thy hand is upon us ! 
 
 [ Exit hastily, 
 
 Rud. Whither now? Whither now? 
 She is gone. Thus it goes. Peter ! 
 Peter! {Enter Peter.) Help me to 
 the gallery, that I may see them on 
 horseback. 
 
 [Exit, leaning on Peter. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 The inner court of the castle of Ebersdorf ; 
 a quadrangle, surrounded with Gothic 
 buildings ; troopers, followers ofl^VDl- 
 GER, pass and re-pass in haste, as if 
 preparing for an excursion. 
 
 Wickerd comes for^vard. 
 
 Wic. What, ho! Reynold! Reynold! 
 By our Lady, the spirit of the Seven 
 
 Sleepers is upon him — So ho ! not 
 mounted yet ! Reynold !^ 
 
 Enter Reynold. 
 
 Rey. Here ! Here ! A devil choke 
 thy bawling ! thinkst thou old Reynold 
 is not as ready for a skirmish as thou ? 
 
 WiC. Nay, nay: I did but jest; but, 
 by my sooth, it were a shame should our 
 youngsters have yoked with Count Rod- 
 eric before we graybeards come. 
 
 Rey. Heaven forfend ! Our troopers 
 are but saddling their horses; five min- 
 utes more, and we are in our stirrups, 
 and then let Count Roderic sit fast. 
 
 Wic. A plague on him ! he has ever 
 lain hard on the skirts of our noble 
 master. 
 
 Rey. Especially since he was refused 
 the hand of our Lady's niece, the pretty 
 Lady Gertrude. 
 
 WiC. Ay, marry ! would nothing less 
 serve the fox of Maltingen than the 
 lovely lamb of our young Baron Henry ! 
 By my sooth, Reynold, when I look 
 upon these two lovers, they make me 
 full twenty years younger; and when I 
 meet the man that would divide them ^- 
 I say nothing — but let him look to it. 
 
 Rey. And how fare our young lords? 
 
 Wic. Each well in his humor — Baron 
 George stern and cold, according to his 
 wont, and his brother as cheerful as ever. 
 
 Rey. Well ! — Baron Henry for me. 
 
 Wic. Yet George saved thy life. 
 
 Rey. True — with as nnich indifference 
 as if he had been snatching a chestnut 
 out of the fire. Now, Baron Henry wept 
 for my danger and my wounds. There- 
 fore George shall ever command my life, 
 but Henry my love. 
 
 Wic. Nay, Baron George shows his 
 gloomy spirit even by the choice of a 
 favorite. 
 
 Rey. Ay — Martin, formerly the squire 
 of Arnolf of Ebersdorf, his mother's first 
 husband. — I marvel he could not have 
 fitted himself with an attendant from 
 among the faithful followers of his worthy 
 father, whom Arnolf and his adherents 
 used to hate as the Devil hates holy water. 
 But Martin is a good soldier, and has 
 
Scene III. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 657 
 
 stood toughly by George in many a hard 
 brunt. 
 
 Wic. The knave is sturdy enough, but 
 so sulky withal. — I have seen, brother 
 Reynold, that when Martin showed his 
 moody visage at the banquet, our noble 
 mistress has dropped the wine she was 
 raising to her lips, and exchanged her 
 smiles for a ghastly frown, as if sorrow 
 went by sympathy, as kissing goes by 
 favor. 
 
 Rey. His appearance reminds her of 
 her first husband, and thou hast well 
 seen that makes her ever sad. 
 
 Wic. Dost thou marvel at that? She 
 was married to Arnolf by a species of 
 force, and they say that before his death 
 he compelled her to swear never to es- 
 pouse Rudiger. The priests will not 
 absolve her for the breach of that vow, 
 and therefore she is troubled in mind. 
 
 For, d'ye mark me, Reynold 
 
 [fitigle sounds. 
 
 Rey. a truce to your preaching ! To 
 horse ! and a blessing on your arms ! 
 
 Wic. St. George grant it ! [ Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 The gallery of the castle, terminating in 
 a large balcony commanding a distant 
 prospect. — Voices, bugle-horns, kettle- 
 drums, trampling of horses, etc., are 
 heard without. 
 
 Rudiger, leaning on Peter, looks from 
 the balcony. Gertrude and Isa- 
 bella are near him. 
 
 RuD. There they go at length — look, 
 Isabella! look, my pretty Gertrude — 
 these are the iron-handed warriors who 
 shall tell Roderic what it will cost him to 
 force thee from my protection — {Flour- 
 ish without. Rudiger stretches his arms 
 from the balcony.^ Go, my children, 
 and God's blessing with you. Look at 
 my black barb, Gertrude. That horse 
 shall let daylight in through a phalanx, 
 were it twenty pikes deep. Shame on it 
 that I cannot mount him ! Seest thou 
 how fierce old Reynold looks? 
 
 Ger. I can hardly know my friends in 
 their armor. 
 
 [ Tlu bugles and kettle-drums are 
 heard as at a greater distance. 
 
 RuD. Now I could tell every one of 
 their names, even at this distance; ay, 
 and were they covered, as I have seen 
 them, with dust and blood. He on 
 the dapple gray is Wickerd — a hardy 
 fellow, but somewhat given to prating. 
 That is young Conrad who gallops so 
 fast, page to thy Henry, my girl. 
 
 [Bugles, etc., at a greater distance 
 still. 
 
 Ger. Heaven guard them ! Alas ! the 
 voice of war that calls the blood into 
 your cheeks, chills and freezes mine. 
 
 RuD. Say not so. It is glorious, my 
 girl, glorious! See how their armor 
 glistens as they wind round yon hill ! 
 how their spears glimmer amid the long 
 train of dust. Hark ! you can still hear 
 the faint notes of their trumpets — 
 ( Bugles very faint. ) — And Rudiger, 
 old Rudiger with the iron arm, as the 
 crusaders used to call me, must remain 
 behind with the priests and the women. 
 Well! well!— (5-/«^.) 
 
 " It was a knight to battle rode, 
 
 And as his war-horse he bestrode" — 
 
 Fill me a bowl of wine, Gertrude; and 
 do thou, Peter, call the minstrel who 
 came last night. — {Sings.) 
 
 " Off rode the horseman, dash, sa, sa I 
 And stroked his whiskers, tra, la la." — 
 
 (Peter goes out. — Rudiger sits dotim, 
 and Gertrude helps him with 7vine.) 
 Thanks, my love. It tastes ever best 
 from thy hand. Isal)ella, here is glory 
 and victory to our boys — {Drinks.) — 
 Wilt thou not pledge me? 
 
 ISA. To their safety, and God grant 
 it ! — ( Drinks. ) 
 
 Enter BERTRAM as a minstrel, with a 
 boy bearing his harp. — Also Petkr. 
 
 RuD. Thy name, minstrel? 
 
 Ber. Minhold, so please you. 
 
 RuD. Art thou a German? 
 
 Ber. Yes, noble sir; and of this prov- 
 
658 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 RuD. Sing me a song of battle. 
 
 [Bertram sings to the harp. 
 
 RuD. Thanks, minstrel : well sung, 
 and lustily. What sayst thou, Isabella? 
 
 IsA. I marked him not. 
 
 RuD. Nay, in sooth you are too anx- 
 ious. Cheer up. Anil thou, too, my 
 lovely Gertrude: in a few hours thy 
 Henry shall return, and twine his laurels 
 into a garland for thy hair. He fights 
 for thee, and he must conquer. 
 
 Ger. Alas! must blood be spilled for 
 a silly maiden? 
 
 RuD. Surely; for what should knights 
 break lances Ijut for honor and ladies' 
 love • — ha, minstrel ? 
 
 Ber. So please you — also to punish 
 crimes. 
 
 RuD. Out upon it ! wouldst have us ex- 
 ecutioners, minstrel? Such work would 
 disgrace our blades. We leave male- 
 factors to the Secret Tribunal. 
 
 IsA. Merciful God ! Tliou hast spoken 
 a word, Rudiger, of dreadful import. 
 
 Ger. They say, that unknown and in- 
 visible themselves, these awful judges are 
 ever present with the guilty; that the past 
 and the present misdeeds, the secrets of 
 the confessional, nay, the very thoughts 
 of the heart, are before them; that their 
 doom is as sure as that of fate, the means 
 and executioners unknown. 
 
 RuD. They say true ^ the secrets of 
 that association, and the names of those 
 who compose it, are as inscrutable as the 
 grave: we only know that it has taken 
 deep root, and spread its branches wide. 
 I sit down each day in my hall, nor know 
 how many of these secret judges may 
 surround me, all bountl by the most 
 solemn vow to avenge guilt. Once, and 
 but once, a knight, at the earnest request 
 and inquiries of the emperor, hinted that 
 he belonged to the society: the next 
 morning he was found slain in a forest: 
 the poniard was left in the wound, and 
 bore this label — " Thus do the invisible 
 judges punish treachery." 
 
 Ger. Gracious! aunt, you grow pale. 
 
 ISA. A slight indisposition only. 
 
 Rui). And what of it all? We know 
 our hearts are open to our Creator : shall 
 we fear any earthly inspection? Come 
 
 to the battlements; there we shall soonest 
 descry the return of our warriors. 
 
 [Exit Rudiger, with Gertrude ami 
 Peter. 
 
 IsA. Minstrel, send the chaplain hither. 
 (^Exit Bertram.) Gracious Heaven! 
 the guileless innocence of my niece, the 
 manly honesty of my upright-hearted 
 Rudiger, become daily tortures to me. 
 While he was engaged in active and 
 stormy exploits, fear for his safety, joy 
 when he returned to his castle, enabled 
 me to disguise my inward anguish from 
 others. But from myself — Judges of 
 blood, that lie concealed in noontide as 
 in midnight, who boast to avenge the 
 hidden guilt, and to penetrate the re- 
 cesses of the human breast, how blind is 
 your penetration, how vain your dagger, 
 and your cord, compared to the con- 
 science of the sinner ! 
 
 Enter Father Lunovic. 
 
 IvUn. Peace be with you, lady ! 
 
 Isa. It is not with me: it is thy office 
 to bring it. 
 
 LuD. And the cause is the absence of 
 the young knights? 
 
 Isa. Their absence and their danger. 
 
 LuD. Daughter, thy hand has been 
 stretched out in bounty to the sick and 
 to the needy. Thou hast not denied a 
 shelter to the weary, nor a tear to the 
 afflicted. Trust in their prayers, and in 
 those of the holy convent thou hast 
 founded: peradventure they will bring 
 back thy children to thy bosom. 
 
 Isa. Thy brethren cannot pray for mc 
 or mine. Their vow binds them to pray 
 night and day for another — to suppli- 
 cate, without ceasing, the Eternal Mercy 
 for the soul of one who — Oh, only 
 Heaven knows how much he needs their 
 prayer ! 
 
 LuD. Unbounded is the mercy of 
 Heaven. The soul of thy former hus- 
 band 
 
 Isa. I charge thee, priest, mention 
 not the word. {Apart.) Wretch that 
 I am, the meanest menial in my train 
 has power to goad me to madness ! 
 
 LuD. Hearken to me, daughter; thy 
 crime against Arnolf of Ebersdorf can- 
 
Scene III, 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 659 
 
 not bear in the eye of Heaven so deep a 
 dye of guilt. 
 
 IsA. Repeat that once more; say once 
 again that it cannot — cannot bear so 
 deep a dye. Prove to me that ages of 
 the bitterest penance, that tears of the 
 dearest blood, can erase such guilt. 
 Prove but that to mo, and I will build 
 thee an abbey which shall put to shame 
 the fairest fane in Christendom. 
 
 LuD. Nay, nay, daughter, your con- 
 science is over tender. Supposing that, 
 under dread of the stern Arnolf, you 
 swore never to marry your present hus- 
 band, still the exacting such an oath was 
 unlawful, and the Ijreach of it venial. 
 
 ISA. (^resuming her composure). Be 
 it so, good father: I yield to thy l>etter 
 reasons. And now tell me, has thy 
 pious care achieved the task I intrusted 
 to thee? 
 
 LuD. Of superintending the erection 
 of the new hospital for pilgrims ? I have, 
 noble lady: and last night the minstrel 
 now in the castle lodged there. 
 
 IsA. Wherefore came he then to the 
 castle? 
 
 Lun. Reynold brought the commands 
 of the Baron. 
 
 ISA. Whence comes he, and what is 
 his tale? When he sung before Rudiger, 
 I thought that long liefore I had heard 
 such tones — seen such a face. 
 
 LuD. It is possible you may have seen 
 him, lady, for he boasts to have l>een 
 known to Arnolf of ElxTsdorf, and to 
 have lived formerly in this castle. He 
 inquires much after Martin, Arnolf's 
 squire. 
 
 IsA. Go, Ludovic — go quick, good 
 father, seek him out, give him this purse, 
 and bid him leave the castle, and speed 
 him on his way. 
 
 LuD. May I ask why, noble lady? 
 
 ISA. Thou art inquisitive, priest; I 
 honor the servants of God, but I foster 
 not the pr^-ing spirit of a monk. Begone ! 
 
 LuD. But the Baron, lady, will expect 
 a reason why I dismiss his guest? 
 
 ISA. True, true {recollecting /lerself): 
 pardon my wnrnilh, good father, I was 
 thinking of the cuckoo that grows too 
 big for the nest of the sparrow, and 
 
 strangles its foster-mother. Do no such 
 birds roost in convent-walls? 
 
 LuD. Lady, I understand you not. 
 
 ISA. Well, then, say to the Baron, that 
 I have dismissed long ago all the attend- 
 ants of the man of whom thou hast 
 spoken, and that I wish to have none of 
 them beneath my roof. 
 
 LuD. {inquisitively). Except Martin? 
 
 ISA. (sliarply). Except Martin ! who 
 saved the life of my son George! Do as 
 I command thee. [Exit. 
 
 Manet LuDOVlC. 
 
 LuD. Ever the same — stern and per- 
 emptory to others as rigorous to herself; 
 haughty even to me, to whom, in another 
 mood, she has knelt for absolution, and 
 whose knees she has bathed in tears. I 
 cannot fathom her. The unnatural zeal 
 with which she performs her dreadful 
 penances cannot be religion, for shrewdly 
 I guess she l^elieves not in their blessed 
 efficacy. Well for her that she is the 
 foundress of our convent, otherwise we 
 might not have erred in denouncing her 
 as a heretic! \Exit. 
 
 ACT II.— Scene I. 
 
 A ii]oodland prospect. — Through a long 
 avenue, half-gro7V)t tip by brambles, are 
 discerned in the background the ruins 
 of the ancient Castle of Grief euhaus. — 
 The distant noise of battle is heard dur- 
 ing this scene. 
 
 Enter George of Aspen, armed -unth a 
 battle-axe in his hand, as from horse- 
 back. He supports Martin, and brings 
 him forward. 
 
 Geo. Lay thee down here, old friend. 
 The enemy's horsemen will hardly take 
 their way among these branches, through 
 which I have dragged thee. 
 
 Mar. Oh, do not leave me! leave me 
 not an instant ! My moments are now 
 but few, and I would profit by them. 
 
 Geo. Martin, you forget yourself and 
 me — I must back to the field. 
 
 Mar. {attempts to rise). Then drag rne 
 back thither also; I cannot die but in 
 your presence — I dare not be alone. 
 Stay, to give peace to my parting soul. 
 
66o 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Geo. I am no priest, Martin. {Going.) 
 
 Mar. (^raising himself luith great 
 pain). Baron George of Aspen, I saved 
 thy life in battle : for that good deed, 
 hear me but one moment. 
 
 Geo. I hear thee, my poor friend. 
 (Returning.) 
 
 Mar. But come close — very close. 
 See'st thou, sir knight — this wound I 
 bore for thee — and this — and this — 
 dost thou not remember? 
 
 Geo. I do. 
 
 Mar. I have served thee since thou 
 wast a child ; served thee faithfully — 
 was never from thy side. 
 
 Geo. Thou hast. 
 
 Mar. And now I die in thy service. 
 
 Geo. Thou may'st recover. 
 
 Mar. I cannot. By my long service 
 — by my scars — by this mortal gash, 
 and by the death that I am to die — oh, 
 do not hate me for what I am now to 
 unfold ! 
 
 Geo. Be assured I can never hate 
 thee. 
 
 Mar. Ah, thou little knowest. — Swear 
 to me thou wilt speak a word of comfort 
 to my parting soul. 
 
 Geo. (fakes his hand). I swear I will. 
 (Alarum anJ shouting.) But be brief — 
 thou knowest my haste. 
 
 Mar. Hear me, then. I was the 
 squire, the beloved and favorite attend- 
 ant, of Arnolf of Ebersdorf. Arnolf was 
 savage as the mountain bear. He loved 
 the Lady Isabel, liut she requited not his 
 passion. She loved thy father; but her 
 sire, old Arnheim, was the friend of 
 Arnolf, and she was forced to marry 
 him. By midnight, in the chapel of 
 Ebersdorf, the ill-omened rites were per- 
 formed; her resistance, her screams were 
 in vain. These arms detained htr at the 
 altar till the nuptial lienediction was pro- 
 nounced. Canst thou forgive me? 
 
 Geo. I do forgive thee. Thy obedi- 
 ence to thy savage master has ])een ol>- 
 literated by a long train of service to his 
 widow. 
 
 Mar. Services ! ay, bloody services ! 
 for they commenced — do not quit my 
 hand — they commenced with the murder 
 of my master. (George ijuits his hand. 
 
 and stands aghast in speechless horror.) 
 Trample on me ! pursue me with your 
 dagger ! I aided your mother to poison 
 her first husband ! I thank Heaven, it is 
 said. 
 
 Geo. My mother ? Sacred Heaven ! 
 Martin, thou ravest — the fever of thy 
 wound has distracted thee. 
 
 Mar. No ! I am not mad ! Would to ' 
 God I were ! Try me ! Yonder is the 
 Wolfshill — yonder the old castle of 
 Griefenhaus — and yonder is the hemlock 
 marsh (in a whisper) where I gathered 
 the deadly plant that drugged Arnolf's 
 cup of death. (George traverses the 
 stage in the ntniost agitatio7i, atid some- 
 times stands over Martin with his hands 
 clasped together.^ Oh, had you seen him 
 when the potion look effect ! Had you 
 heard his ravings, and seen th.; contor- 
 tions of his ghastly visage ! — He died 
 furious and impenitent, as he lived; and 
 went — where [ am shortly to go. You 
 do not speak? 
 
 Geo. {juith exertion). Miserable 
 wretch ! how can I ? 
 
 Mar. Can you not forgive me? 
 
 Geo. May God pardon thee — I can- 
 not ! 
 
 M/ .1. I saved thy life — 
 
 Geo. For that, take my curse! (He 
 snatches up his battle-axe, and rushes out 
 to the side from which the 7ioise is heard.) 
 
 Mar. Hear me ! yet more — more 
 horror ! (Attempts to rise, and falls heav- 
 ily. A Icntd alarum.) 
 
 Enter WlCKERD, hastily. 
 
 Wic. In the name of God, Martin, 
 lend me thy brand ! 
 
 Mar. Take it. 
 
 Wic. Where is it ? 
 
 Mar. (looks wildlv at him). In the 
 cha]iel at Ebersdorf, or buried in the 
 hemlock marsh. 
 
 Wic. The old grumbler is crazy with 
 his wounds. Mnrtin, if thou hast a 
 spark of reason in thee, give me thy 
 sword. The dny goes sore against us. 
 
 Mar. There it lies. Bury it in the 
 heart of thy master George, thdu wilt do 
 him a good office — the office of a faith- 
 ful servant. 
 
SCKN'E I 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 66i 
 
 Enter CoNRAD. 
 Con. Away, Wicktrd ! to horse, and 
 pursue ! Baron George has turned the 
 day; he fights more like a fiend than a 
 man: he has unhorsed Roderic, and 
 slain six of his troopers — they are in 
 headlong fight — the hemlock marsh is 
 red with their gore ! (Martin gives a 
 deep groan, and faints.') Away! away! 
 ( 'I'/iey hurry off, as to the pursuit.) 
 
 Enter Roderic ok Maltingen, -without 
 his helmet, his arms disordered and 
 broken, holding the truncheon of a spear 
 in his hand ; with him. Baron Wolf- 
 
 STEIN. 
 
 Rod. a curse on fortune, and a double 
 curse upon George of Aspen ! Never, 
 never will I forgive him my disgrace — 
 overthrown like a rotten trunk before a 
 whirlwind ! 
 
 Wolf. Be comforted. Count Roderic; 
 it is well we have escaped being prison- 
 ers. See how the troopers of Aspen 
 pour along the plain, like the billows of 
 the Rhine ! It is good we are shrouded 
 by the thicket. 
 
 Rod. Why took he not my life, when 
 he robbed me of my honor and my love? 
 Why did his spear not pierce my heart, 
 when mine shivered on his arms like a 
 frail bulrush ? (7 hrows do7vn the broken 
 spear.) Bear witness, heaven and earth, 
 I outlive this disgrace only to avenge ! 
 
 Woi.F. Be comforted; the knights of 
 Aspen have not gained a bloodless vic- 
 tory. And see, there lies one of George's 
 followers — ( Seeing Martin. ) 
 
 Rod. His squire Martin; if he be not 
 dead, we will secure him: he is the de- 
 pository of the secrets of his master. 
 Arouse thee, trusty follower of the house 
 of Aspen ! 
 
 Mar. (reviving.) Leave me not ! leave 
 me not ! Baron George ! my eyes are 
 darkened with agony ! I have not yet 
 told all. 
 
 Wolf. The old man takes you for his 
 master. 
 
 Rod. What wouldst thou tell? 
 
 Mar. Oh, I would tell all the tempta- 
 tions by which I was urged to the mur- 
 der of Ebersdorf ! 
 
 Rod. Murder ! — this is worth mark- 
 ing. Proceed. 
 
 Mar. I loved a maiden, daughter of 
 Arnolf's steward; my master seduced her 
 ^she became an outcast, and died in 
 misery — I vowed vengeance — and I 
 did avenge her. 
 
 Rod. Iladst thou accomplices? 
 
 Mar. None, but thy mother. 
 
 Rod. The Lady Isabella! 
 
 Mar. Ay; she hated her husband : he 
 knew her love to Rudiger, and when she 
 heard that thy father was returned from 
 Palestine, her life was endangered by the 
 transports of his jealousy — thus prepared 
 for evil, the fiend tempted us, and we fell. 
 
 Rod. {breaks into a transport). For- 
 tune ! thou hast repaid me all ! Love 
 and vengeance are my own ! — Wolf- 
 stein, recall our followers! quick, sound 
 thy bugle — (WCLFSFEIN sounds.) 
 
 Mar. (stares wildly round). That 
 was no note of Aspen— Count Roderic 
 of Maltingen — Heavens ! what have I 
 said ! 
 
 Rod. What thou canst not recall. 
 
 Mar. Then is my fate decreed ! 'Tis 
 as it should be ! in this very place was 
 the poison gather 'd — 'tis retribution ! 
 
 Enter three or four soldiers of Rod ERIC. 
 
 Rod. Secure this wounded trooper; 
 bind bis wounds and guard him well: 
 carry him to the ruins of Griefenhaus, 
 and conceal him till the troopers of Aspen 
 have retired from the pursuit; — look to 
 him, as you love your lives. 
 
 Mar. {led off ly soldiers). Ministers 
 of vengeance ! my hour is come ! \F.xeunt. 
 
 Rod. Hope, joy, and triumph, once 
 again are ye mine ! Welcome to my heart, 
 long-absent visitants ! One lucky chance 
 has thrown dominion into the scale of the 
 house of Maltingen, and Aspen kicks the 
 beam. 
 
 Wolf. I foresee, indeed, dishonor to 
 the family of Aspen, should this wounded 
 squire make good his tale. 
 
 Rod. And how thinkest thou this dis- 
 grace will fall on them? 
 
 Wolf. Surely by the public ptinisb- 
 ment of Lady Isabella. 
 
 Rod, And is that all? 
 
662 
 
 DRAMA TIC PIECES. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Wolf. What more? 
 
 Rod. Shortsighted that thou art, is not 
 George of Aspen, as well as thou, a mem- 
 ber of the holy and invisible circle, over 
 which I preside. 
 
 Wolf. Speak lower, for God's sake ! 
 these are things not to be mentioned be- 
 fore the sun. 
 
 Rod. True; but stands he not bound by 
 the most solemn oath religion can devise, 
 to discover to the tribunal whatever con- 
 cealed iniquity shall come to his knowl- 
 edge, be the Perpetrator whom he may — 
 ay, were that perpetrator his own father 
 — or mother; and can you doubt that he 
 has heard Martin's confession? 
 
 Wolf. True; but, blessed Virgin ! do 
 you think he will accuse his own mother 
 before the invisible judges? 
 
 Rod. If not, he becomes foresworn, 
 and, by our law, must die. Either way 
 my vengeance is complete — perjured or 
 parricide, I care not; but, as the one or 
 the other shall I crush the haughty George 
 of Aspen. 
 
 Wolf. Thy vengeance strikes deep. 
 
 Rod. Deep as the wounds I have borne 
 from this proud family. Rudiger slew my 
 father in battle — George has twice baffled 
 and dishonored my arms, and Henry has 
 stolen the heart of my beloved : but no 
 longer can Gertrude now remain under 
 the care of the murderous dam of this 
 brood of wolves; far less can she wed the 
 smooth-cheeked boy, when this scene of 
 villany shall be disclosed. [Bii^/e. 
 
 Wolf. Hark ! they sound a retreat : 
 let us go deeper into the wood. 
 
 Rod. The victors approach ! I shall 
 dash their triumph ! — Issue the private 
 summons for convoking the niemliers this 
 very evening; I will direct the other 
 measures. 
 
 Wolf. What place? 
 
 Rod. The old chapel in the ruins of 
 Griefenhaus, as usual. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Enter George of Aspen, as from the 
 pursuit. 
 
 Geo. (comes slowly forwariC). How 
 many wretches have sunk under my arm 
 
 this day, to whom life was sweet, though 
 the wretched bondsmen of Count Rod- 
 eric ! And I — I who sought death be- 
 neath every lifted battle-axe, and offered 
 my breast to every arrow — I am cursed 
 with victory and safety. Here I left the 
 
 wretch Martin ! — Martin ! — what, 
 
 ho ! Martin ! — Mother of God ! he is 
 gone! — Should he repeat the dreadful 
 tale to any other — Martin ! — He answers 
 not. Perhaps he has crept into the 
 thicket, and died there — were it so, the 
 horrible secret is only mine. 
 
 Enter Henry of Aspen, -with Wickerd, 
 Reynold, and followers. 
 
 Hen. Joy to thee, brother! though, 
 by St. Francis, I would not gain another 
 field at the price of seeing thee fight 
 with such reckless desperation. I'hy 
 safety is little less than miraculous. 
 
 Rkv. By'r Lady, when Baron Cieorge 
 struck, I think he must have forgot that 
 his foes were God's creatures. Such 
 furious doings I never saw, and I have 
 been a trooper these forty-two years 
 come St. Barnaby — 
 
 Geo. Peace! Sawany of you Martin? 
 
 Wic. Noble sir, I left him here not 
 long since. 
 
 Geo. Alive or dead ? 
 
 WiC. Alive, noble sir, but sorely 
 wounded. I think he must be prisoner, 
 for he could not have budged else from 
 hence. 
 
 Geo. Heedless slave ! Why didst thou 
 leave him? 
 
 Hen. Dear brother, Wickerd acted 
 for the best; he came to our assistance 
 and the aid of his companions. 
 
 Geo. I tell thee, Henry, Martin's 
 safety was of more importance than the 
 lives of any ten that stand here. 
 
 WiC. (muttering). Here's much to 
 do about an old crazy trencher-shifter. 
 
 Geo. What mutterest thou? 
 
 Wic. Only, sir knight, that Martin 
 seemed out of his senses when I left him, 
 and has perhaps wandered into the marsh, 
 and perished there. 
 
 Geo. How — out of his senses? Did 
 he speak to thee ? — (Apprehensively. ) 
 
 Wic, Yes, noble sir. 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 663 
 
 Geo. Dear Henry, step for an instant 
 to yon tree — thou wilt see from thence 
 if the foe rally upon the Wolfshill. 
 (Henry retires.') And do you stand 
 back (lo the soldiers). 
 
 [He brings WlCKKKU /onvari/. 
 
 Geo. {jxiitk marked apprehension). 
 What did Martin say to thee, Wickerd? 
 — tell me, on thy allegiance. 
 
 Wic. Mere ravings, sir knight — 
 offered me his sword to kill you. 
 
 Geo. Said he aught of killing any one 
 else? 
 
 Wic. No; the pain of his wound 
 seemed to have brought on a fever. 
 
 Geo. (^clasps his hands together). I 
 breathe again — I spy comfort. Why 
 could I not see as well as this fellow, that 
 the wounded wretch may have been dis- 
 tracted? Let me at least think so till 
 proof shall show the truth. {Aside.) 
 Wickerd, think not on what I said — 
 the heat of the battle had chafed my 
 blood. Thou hast wished for the Nether- 
 farm at Ebersdorf — it shall be thine. 
 
 Wic. Thanks, my noble lord. 
 
 Re-enter Henry. 
 
 Hen. No — they do not rally — they 
 have had enough of it — but Wickerd 
 and Conrad shall remain, with twenty 
 troopers and a score of crosslxjwmen, 
 and scour the woods towards Griefenhaus, 
 to prevent the fugitives from making head. 
 We will, with the rest, to Ebersdorf. 
 What say you, brother? 
 
 Geo. Well ordered. Wickerd, look 
 thou search everywhere for Martin; 
 bring him to mc dead or alive; leave 
 not a nook of the wood unsought. 
 
 Wic. I warrant you, noble sir, I shall 
 find him, could he clew himself up like 
 a dormouse. 
 
 Hen. I think he must be prisoner. 
 
 Geo. Heaven forfend ! Take a trum- 
 pet, Eustace (/<' an attendant), ride to 
 the castle of Maltingen, and demand a 
 parley. If Martin is prisoner, offer any 
 ransom; offer ten — twenty — all our 
 prisoners in exchange. 
 
 Eus. It shall be done, sir knight. 
 
 Hen. Ere we go, sound trumpets — 
 strike up the song of victory. 
 
 Joy to the victors ! the sons of old Aspen ! 
 
 Joy to the race of the battle and scar ! 
 
 Glory's proud garland triumphantly 
 
 grasping; 
 
 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 
 retiring. 
 Yields in wild rout the fair oalm to his 
 foe. 
 
 Joy to each warrior, true follower of 
 Aspen ! 
 Joy to the heroes that gain'd 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 eyeballs 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 stain? 
 of the fray. 
 
 Listening the prancing 
 Of horses advancing; 
 E'en now on the turrets our maidens 
 appear. 
 
 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 ! 
 
664 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Hen. Now spread our banners, and to 
 Ebersdorf in triumph. We carry relief to 
 the anxious, joy to the heart of the aged, 
 brother George. (^Goi/igoff.^ 
 
 Geo. Or treble misery and death. 
 
 [Afart, andjollmving slowly. The 
 music sounds, and the follo^vers 
 of Aspen begin to file across the 
 stage. The curtain falls. 
 
 ACT III. — Scene I. 
 
 Castle of Ebersdorf 
 
 RuDiGER, Isabella, «m^/ Gertrude. 
 
 RUD. I prithee, dear wife, be merry. 
 It must be over by this time, and happily, 
 otherwise the bad news had reached us. 
 
 IsA. Should we not, then, have heard 
 the tidings of the good? 
 
 RuD. Oh ! these fly slower by half. Be- 
 sides, I warrant all of them engaged in the 
 pursuit. Oh ! not a page would leave the 
 skirts of the fugitives till they were fairly 
 beaten into their holds; but had the boys 
 lost the day, the stragglers had made for 
 the castle. Go to the window, Gertrude: 
 seest thou anything? 
 
 Ger. I think I seea horseman. 
 
 ISA. A single rider? then 1 fear nie 
 much. 
 
 Ger. It is only Father Ludovic. 
 
 RuD. A plague on thee ! didst thou take 
 a fat friar on a mule for a trooper of the 
 house of Aspen? 
 
 Ger. But yonder is a cloud of dust. 
 
 RuD. (^eagerly^. Indeed! 
 
 Ger. It is only the wine sledges going 
 to my aunt's convent. 
 
 RUD. The devil confound the wine 
 sledges, and the mules, and the monks ! 
 Come from the window, and torment me 
 no longer, thou seer of strange sights. 
 
 Ger. Dear uncle, what can I do to 
 amuse you? Shall I tell you what I 
 dreamed this morning? 
 
 RUD. Nonsense: but say on; anything 
 is better than silence. 
 
 Ger. I thought I was in the chapel, and 
 they were burying my Aunt Isabella alive. 
 And who do you think, aunt, were the 
 gravediggers who shovelled in the earth 
 upon you? Even Baron George and old 
 Martin. 
 
 ISA. (^appears shocked.^ Heaven ! what 
 an idea ! 
 
 Ger. Do but think of my terror — and 
 Minhold the minstrel played all the while 
 to drown your screams. 
 
 RuD. And old Father Ludovic danced 
 a saraband, with the steeple of the new 
 convent upon his thick skull by way of 
 mitre. A truce to this nonsense. Give 
 us a song, my love, and leave thy dreams 
 and visions. 
 
 Ger. What shall I sing to you ? 
 
 RuD. Sing to me of war. 
 
 Ger, I cannot sing of battle; but I will 
 sing you the Lament of Eleanor of Toro, 
 when her lover was slain in the war. 
 
 ISA. Oh, no laments, Gertrude. 
 
 RuD. Then sing a song of mirth 
 
 ISA. Dear husband, is this a time for 
 mirth? 
 
 RUD. Is it neither a time to sing of 
 mirth nor of sorrow? Isabella would 
 rather hear Father Ludovic chant the 
 " De profundis." 
 
 Ger. Dear uncle, be not angry. At 
 present, I can only sing the lay of poor 
 Eleanor. It comes to my heart at this 
 moment as if the sorrowful mourner had 
 been my own sister. 
 
 SONG.* 
 
 Sweet shone the sun on the fair lake of 
 Toro, 
 Weak were the whisp-irs that waved the 
 dark wood, 
 As a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow, 
 Sigh'd to the breezes anl 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 breeze? they rise, with the 
 breezes they fail, 
 
 * Compare with "The Maid of Toro," ante, 
 p. 429. 
 
Scene I. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 665 
 
 Till the shout, and the groan, and the 
 conflict'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 el)bing 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 
 
 lying. 
 Fast thro' the woodland approaches 
 the foe." 
 
 [ I'he voice of Gertrude sinks by 
 degrees^ till she bursts into tears. 
 
 Rltd. How now, Gertrude? 
 
 Ger. Alas ! may not the fate of poor 
 Eleanor at this moment be mine? 
 
 Rui). Never, my girl, never ! {Military 
 music is heard). Hark! hark! to the 
 sounds that tell thee so. 
 
 [All rise and run to the 7vindo7v. 
 
 RuD. Joy ! joy ! they come, and come 
 victorious. ( I'he chorus of the ivar-song 
 is heard without.) Welcome ! welcome ! 
 once more have my old eyes seen the 
 banners of the house of Maltingen 
 trampled in the dust. —Isabella, broach 
 our oldest casks; wine is sweet after 
 war. 
 
 Enter Henry, followed by Reynold 
 and troopers. 
 
 Run. Joy to thee, my lx»y, lei me press 
 thee to this old heart. 
 
 ISA. Bless thee, my son — (^Embraces 
 him.) Oh, how many hours of bitter- 
 ness are compensated by this embrace ! 
 Bless thee, my Henry ! where hast thou 
 left thy brother? 
 
 Hen. Hard at hand : by this he is cross- 
 ing the drawbridge. Hast thou no greet- 
 ings for me, Gertrude? {Goes to her.) 
 
 Ger. I joy not in battles. 
 
 Rud. But she had tears for thy danger. 
 
 Hen. Thanks, my gentle Gertrude. 
 See, I have brought back thy scarf from 
 no inglorious field. 
 
 Ger. It is bloody! — {Shocked.) 
 
 Rud. Dost start at that, my girl? 
 VVere it his own blood, as it is that of 
 his foes, thou shouldst glory in it. — Go, 
 Reynold, make good cheer with thy 
 fellows. 
 
 [Exit Reynold and Soldiers. 
 Enter George, pensively. 
 
 Geo. {goes straight to Rudiger). 
 Father, thy blessing. 
 
 Rud. Thou hast it, boy. 
 
 Is A. {rushes to embrace him — he 
 avoids her). How? art thou wounded? 
 
 Geo. No. 
 
 Rud. Thou lookest deadly pale. 
 
 Geo. It is nothing. 
 
 IsA. Heaven's blessings on my gallant 
 George. 
 
 Geo. {aside). Dares she bestow a 
 blessing? Oh, Martin's tale was frenzy ! 
 
 ISA. Smile upon us for once, my son; 
 darken not thy brow on this day of 
 gladness • — few are our moments of joy 
 — should not my sons share in them ? 
 
 Geo. {aside). She has moments of 
 joy — it was frenzy, then ! 
 
 IsA. Gertrude, my love, assist me to 
 disarm the knight. {She loosens and 
 takes off his casque.) 
 
 Ger. There is one, two, three hacks, 
 and none has pierced the steel. 
 
 Rud. Let me see. Let me see. A 
 trusty casque ! 
 
 Ger. Else hadst thou gone. 
 
 ISA. I will reward the armorer with 
 its weight in gold. 
 
 Geo. {aside). She »/»«/ lie innocent. 
 
 Ger. And Henry's shield is hacked, 
 too. Let me show it to you, uncle. 
 {She carries Henry's to Rudiger.) 
 
 Rud. Do, my love; and come hither, 
 Henry, thou shalt tell me how the day 
 went. 
 
 [Henry and Gertrude converse 
 apart with Rudiger; George 
 comes forward ; ISABELLA r«»i« 
 to him. 
 
 IsA. Surely, George, some evil has 
 
666 
 
 DRAMA TIC PIECES. 
 
 Act hi. 
 
 befallea thee. Grave thou art ever, but 
 so dreadfully gloomy — 
 
 Geo. Evil, indeed. — (^Aside.') Now 
 for the trial. 
 
 IsA. Has your loss been great? 
 
 Geo. No ! — Yes ! — {Apart. ) I can- 
 not do it. 
 
 ISA. Perhaps some friend lost? 
 
 Geo. It must be. — Martin is dead. 
 
 — (//f regards her with apprehension, 
 but steadily, as he pronounces these 
 words. ) 
 
 ISA. {starts, then shoivs a ghastly ex- 
 pression of joy). Dead! 
 
 Geo. {almost overcome hy his feelings). 
 Guilty ! Guilty ! — ( Apart. ) 
 
 ISA. {without observing his emotion^. 
 Didst thou say dead? 
 
 Geo. Did I — no — I only said mor- 
 tally wounded. 
 
 ISA. Wounded ? only wounded? Where 
 is he? Let me fly to him. — ( Going.) 
 
 Geo. {sternly). Hold, lady ! — Speak 
 not so loud ! — Thou canst not see him ! 
 
 — He is a prisoner. 
 
 ISA. A prisoner and wounded? Fly 
 to his deliverance ! — Offer wealth, lands, 
 castles, — all our possessions for his ran- 
 som. Never shall I know peace till 
 these walls, or till the grave secures 
 him. 
 
 Geo. {apart). Guilty! Guilty! 
 
 Enter Peter. 
 
 Pet. Hugo, squire to the Count of 
 Maltingen, has arrived with a message. 
 
 RUD. I will receive hini in the hall. 
 
 [Exit, leaning on Gertrude and 
 Henry. 
 
 ISA. Go, George — see after Martin. 
 
 Geo. {firmly). No, I have a task to per- 
 form; and though the earth should open 
 and devour me alive — I will accomplish 
 it. But first — but first — Nature, take 
 thy tribute. — {//e falls on his mothcr''s 
 neck, and -iveeps bitterly. ) 
 
 ISA. George ! my son ! for Heaven's 
 sake, what dreadful frenzy ! 
 
 Geo. {loali's two turns across the stage 
 and composes himself). Listen, mother 
 
 — I knew a knight in Hungary, gallant 
 in battle, hospitable and generous in 
 peace. The king gave him his friend- 
 
 ship, and the administration of a prov- 
 ince; that province was infested by 
 thieves and murderers. You mark me? — 
 
 ISA. Most heedfully. 
 
 Geo. The knight was sworn — h)ound 
 by an oath the most dreadful that can be 
 taken by man — to deal among offenders, 
 evenhanded, stern and impartial justice. 
 Was it not a dreadful vow ? 
 
 ISA. {with an affectation of composure). 
 Solemn, doubtless, as the oath of every 
 magistrate. 
 
 Geo. And inviolable? 
 
 ISA. Surely — inviolable. 
 
 Geo. Well! it happened, that when 
 he rode out against the banditti, he made 
 a prisoner. And who, think you, that 
 prisoner was? 
 
 IsA. I know not {with increasing ter- 
 ror). 
 
 Geo. {trembling, hut proceeding rap- 
 idly. ) H is own twin-brother, who sucked 
 the same breasts with him, and lay in 
 the bosom of the same mother — his 
 brother, whom he loved as his own soul 
 — what should that knight have done 
 unto his brother? 
 
 IsA. {almost speechless). Alas ! what 
 did he do? 
 
 Geo. He did {turning his head from 
 her., and with clasped hands) what I can 
 never do: — he did his duty. 
 
 ISA. My son ! my .son ! — Mercy J 
 Mercy ! ( ( 'lings to him. ) 
 
 Geo. Is it then true? 
 
 ISA. What? 
 
 Geo. What Martin said. (Isabella 
 hides her face.) It is true ! 
 
 ISA. {looks up 'with an air of dignity.) 
 Hear, Kramer of the laws of Nature ! the 
 mother is judge<l by the child — ( 7'urns 
 tcnvards him. ) ^'es, it is true — true that,, 
 fearful of my own life, I secured it by 
 the murder of my tyrant. Mistaken 
 coward ! I little knew on what terrors I 
 ran, to avoid one moment's agony. — 
 Thou hast the secret ! 
 
 Geo. Knowest thou to whom thou 
 hast told it? 
 
 IsA. To my son. 
 
 Geo. No ! No ! To an executioner ! 
 
 ISA. Be it so — go, proclaim my crime, 
 and forget not my punishment. Forget 
 
Scene I. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 667 
 
 not that the murderess of her husband 
 has dragged out years of hidden remorse, 
 to be brought at last to the scaffold 
 by her own cherished son — thou art 
 silent. 
 
 Geo. The language of Nature is no 
 more. How shall I learn another? 
 
 IsA. Look upon me, George. Should 
 the executioner be abashed before the 
 criminal — -look upon me, my son. From 
 my soul do I forgive thee. 
 
 Geo. Forgive m« what? 
 
 IsA. What thou dost meditate — be 
 vengeance heavy, but let it be secret — 
 add not the death of a father to that of 
 the sinner I Oh ! Rudiger ! Rudiger ! in- 
 nocent cause of all my guilt and all my 
 woe, how wilt thou tear thy silver locks 
 when thou shalt hear her guilt whom 
 thou hast so often clasped to thy bosom 
 — hear her infamy proclaimed by the 
 son of thy fondest hopes — ( Weeps.^ 
 
 Geo. (^strugglin^ for breath^. Nature 
 will have utterance, mother, dearest 
 mother, I will save you or perish ! 
 ( Thrincs himself into her arins.^ Thus 
 fall my vows. 
 
 IsA. Man thyself ! I ask not safety 
 from thee. Never shall it be said that 
 Isabella of Aspen turned her son from 
 the path of duty, though his fot)tsteps 
 must pass over her mangled corpse. 
 Man thyself. 
 
 Geo. No ! No ! The tics of Nature 
 were knit by God himself. Cursed be 
 the stoic pride that would rend them 
 asunder, and call it virtue ! 
 
 ISA. My son ! My son ! How shall I 
 behold thee hereafter? 
 
 [ Three knocks are heard upon the 
 door of the apartment.'^ 
 
 Geo. Hark ! One — two — three. 
 Roderic, thou art speedy! (^ Apart.) 
 
 ISA. {opens the door). A parchment 
 stuck to the door with a poniard ! ( Opens 
 it.) Heaven and earth! — a summons 
 from the invisible judges ! — (Drops the 
 parchment. ) 
 
 Geo. (reads -vith emotion.) "Isabella 
 of Aspen, accused of murder by poison, 
 we conjure thee, by the cord and by the 
 steel, to appear this night before the 
 
 avengers of blood, who judge in secrd 
 and avenge in secret, like the Deit) . 
 As thou art innocent or guilty, so be thy 
 deliverance." — Martin, Martin, thou 
 hast played false ! 
 
 IsA. Alas! whither shall I fly? 
 
 Geo. Thou canst not fly; instant death 
 would follow the attempt : a hundred 
 thousand arms would be raised against 
 thy life; every morsel thou didst taste, 
 every drop which thou didst drink, the 
 very breeze of heaven that fanned thee, 
 would come loaded with destruction. 
 One chance of safety is open, — obey 
 the summons. 
 
 IsA. And perish? Yet why should I 
 still fear death? Be it so. 
 
 Geo. No — I have sworn to save you. 
 I will not do the work by halves. Does 
 any one save Martin know of the dread- 
 ful deed ? 
 
 IsA. None. 
 
 Geo. Then go — assert your innocence, 
 and leave the rest to me. 
 
 ISA. Wretch that I am ! How can I 
 support the task you would impose? 
 
 Geo. Think on my father. Live for 
 him; he will need all the comfort thou 
 canst bestow. Let the thought that his 
 destruction is involved in thine, carry 
 thee through the dreadful trial. 
 
 IsA. Be it so. — For Rudiger I have 
 lived, for him I will continue to bear the 
 burden of existence; but the instant that 
 my guilt comes to his knowledge shall 
 be the last of my life. Ere I would bear 
 from him one glance of hatred or of 
 scorn, this dagger should drink my blood. 
 (Puts the poniard into her bosom. ) 
 
 Geo. Fear not. He can never know. 
 No evidence shall appear against you. 
 
 ISA. How shall I obey the summons, 
 and where find the terrible judgment 
 seat ? 
 
 Geo. Leave that to the judges. Re- 
 solve but to obey, and a conductor will 
 be found. Go to the chapel; there pray 
 for your sins and for mine. (J/e leads her 
 out and returns. ) — Sins, indeed ! I 
 break a dreadful vow, but I save the life 
 of a parent; and the penance I will do 
 for my perjury shall appal even the 
 judges of blood. 
 
6o8 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Enter Reynold. 
 
 Rey. Sir knight, the messenger of 
 Count Rodcric desires to speak with you. 
 Geo. Admit him. 
 
 Enter HuGO. 
 
 Hug. Count Roderic of Maltingen 
 greets you. He says he will this night 
 hear the bat flutter and the owlet scream, 
 and he bids me ask if thou also wilt hsten 
 to the music. 
 
 Geo. I understand him. I will he 
 there. 
 
 Hug. And the count says to you, that 
 he will not ransom your wounded squire, 
 though you would downweigh his best 
 horse with gold. But you may send him 
 a confessor, for the count says he will 
 need one. 
 
 Geo. Is he so near death? 
 
 Hug. Not as it seems to me. He is 
 weak through loss of blood; but since 
 his wound was dressed he can both stand 
 and walk. Our count has a notable 
 balsam, which has recruited him much. 
 
 Geo. Enough — I will send a priest. 
 (/•U// Hugo.) I fathom his plot. He 
 would add another witness to the tale of 
 Martin's guilt. But no priest shall ap- 
 proach him. Reynold, thinkest thou not 
 we could send one of the troopers, dis- 
 guised as a monk, to aid Martin in mak- 
 ing his escape? 
 
 Rby. Nol)le sir, the followers of your 
 house are so well known to those of 
 Maltingen, that I fear it is impossible. 
 
 Geo. Knowest thou of no stranger 
 who might be emjiloyed? His reward 
 shall exceed even his hopes. 
 
 Rey. So please you — I think the min- 
 strel could well execute such a commis- 
 sion; he is shrewd and cunning, and can 
 write and read like a priest. 
 
 Geo. Call him. — (A'xzV Reynold.) 
 If this fails, I must employ open force. 
 Were Martin removed, no tongue can 
 assert the bloody truth. 
 
 Enter Minstrel. 
 
 Geo. Come hither, Minhold. Hast 
 thou courage to undertake a dangerous 
 enterprise ? 
 
 Bkr. My life, sir knight, has been 
 
 one scene of danger and of dread. I 
 have forgotten liow to fear. 
 
 Geo. Thy speech is above thy seem- 
 ing. Who art thou? 
 
 Ber. An unfortunate knight, obliged 
 to shroud myself under this disguise. 
 
 Geo. What is the cause of thy mis- 
 fortune ? 
 
 Ber. I slew, at a tournament, a prince, 
 and was laid under the ban of the empire. 
 Geo. I have interest with the emperor. 
 Swear to perform what task I shall impose 
 on thee, and I will procure the recall of 
 the ban. 
 
 Ber. I swear. 
 
 Geo. Then take the disguise of a monk, 
 and go with the follower of Count Rod- 
 eric, as if to confess my wounded squire 
 Martin, Give him thy dress, and remain 
 in prison in his stead. Thy captivity shall 
 be short, and I pledge my knightly word I 
 will labor to execute my promise, when 
 thou shall have leisure to unfold thy 
 history. 
 
 Ber. I will do as you direct. Is the 
 life of your squire in danger? 
 
 Geo. It is, unless thou canst accom- 
 plish his release. 
 
 Ber. I will essay it. {^Exit. 
 
 Geo. Such are the mean expedients to 
 which George of Aspen must now resort. 
 No longer can I debate with Roderic in 
 the field. The depraved — the perjured 
 knight must contend with him only in the 
 arts of dissimulation and treachery. Oh, 
 mother ! mother ! the most bitter conse- 
 quence of thy crime has been the birth 
 of thy first-born ! But I must warn my 
 brother of the impending storm. Poor 
 Henry, how little can thy gay temper 
 anticipate evil ! What, ho there ! {Enter 
 an Attendant.^ Where is Baron Henry? 
 Att. NoV)le sir, he rode forth, after a 
 slight refreshment, to visit the party in 
 the field. 
 
 Geo. Saddle my steed; I will follow 
 him. 
 
 Att. So please you, your noble father 
 has twice demanded your presence at the 
 banquet. 
 
 Geo. It matters not — say that I have 
 ridden forth to the Wolfshill. Where is 
 thy lady? 
 
Scene I. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 669 
 
 Att. In the chapel, sir knight. 
 Geo. 'Tis well — saddle my bay-horse 
 — i^apart^ for the last time. \^Exit. 
 
 ACT IV. — Scene I. 
 
 The wood of Griefenhaus, with the ruins 
 of the Castle. A nearer vierv of the 
 Castle than in Act Second, but still at 
 some distance. 
 
 Enter RoDERiC, WOLFSTEIN, and Sol- 
 diers, as from a reconnoitring party. 
 
 Wolf. They mean to improve their 
 success, and will push their advantage 
 far. We must retreat betimes, Count 
 Roderic. 
 
 Rod. We are safe here for the present. 
 They make no immediate motion of ad- 
 vance. I fancy neither George nor 
 Henry are with their party in the wood. 
 Enter Hugo. 
 
 Hug. Noble sir, how shall I tell what 
 has happened? 
 
 Rod. What? 
 
 Hug. Martin has escaped. 
 
 Rod. Villain, thy life shall pay it ! 
 {Strikes at Hugo — is held by WoLF- 
 stein.) 
 
 Wolf. Hold, hold. Count Roderic ! 
 Hugo may be blameless. 
 
 Rod. Reckless slave ! how came he to 
 escape? 
 
 Hug. Under the disguise of a monk's 
 hal)it, whom by your orders, we brought 
 to confess him. 
 
 Rod. Has he been long gone? 
 
 Hug. An hour and more since he 
 passed our sentinels, disguised as the 
 chaplain of Aspen; but he walked so 
 slowly and feebly, I think he cannot yet 
 have reached the posts of the enemy. 
 
 Rod. Where is the treacherous priest? 
 
 Hug. He awaits his doom not far 
 from hence. {Exit Hugo. 
 
 Rod. Drag him hither. The mis- 
 creant that snatched the morsel of ven- 
 geance from the lion of Maltingen shall 
 expire under torture. 
 Ee-enter YlvsGO, zuith Bertram and At- 
 tendants. 
 
 Rod. Villain ! what tempted thee, 
 under the garb of a minister of religion, 
 
 to steal a criminal from the hand of jus- 
 tice ! 
 
 Ber. I am no villain. Count Roderic; 
 and I only aided the escape of one 
 wounded wretch whom thou didst mean 
 to kill basely. 
 
 Rod. Liar and slave ! thou hast as- 
 sisted a murderer, upon whom justice 
 had sacred claims. 
 
 Ber. I warn thee again, Count, that 
 I am neither liar nor slave. Shortly I 
 hope to tell thee I am once more thy 
 equal. 
 
 Rod. Thou! Thou ! — 
 
 Ber. Yes ! the name of Bertram of 
 Ebersdorf was once not unknown to 
 thee. 
 
 Rod. {astonished). Thou Bertram ! the 
 brother of Arnolf of Ebersdorf, first hus- 
 band of the Baroness Isabella of Aspen? 
 
 Ber. The same. 
 
 Rod. Who, in a quarrel at a tourna- 
 ment, many years since, slew a blood- 
 relation of the emperor, and was laid 
 under the ban? 
 
 Ber. The same. 
 
 Rod. And who has now, in the dis- 
 guise of a priest, aided the escape of 
 Martin, squire to George of Aspen? 
 
 Ber. The same — the same. 
 
 Rod. Then, by the holy cross of 
 Cologne, thou hast set at liberty the 
 murderer of thy brother Arnolf ! 
 
 Ber. How! What! I understand 
 thee not I 
 
 Rod. Miserable plotter ! — Martin, by 
 his own confession, as Wolfstein heard, 
 avowed having aided Isabella in the 
 murder of her husband. I had laid such 
 a plan of vengeance as should have made 
 all Germany shudder. And thou hast 
 counteracted it — thou, the brother of 
 the murdered Arnolf ! 
 
 Ber. Can this be so, Wolfstein? 
 
 Wolf. I heard Martin confess the 
 murder. 
 
 Ber. Then I am indeed unfortunate I 
 
 Ron. What, in the name of evil, 
 brought thee here? 
 
 Ber. I am the last of my race. When 
 I was outlawed, as thou knowest, the 
 lands of Ebersdorf, my rightful inherit- 
 ance, were declared forfeited, and the 
 
670 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 emperor bestowed them upon Rudiger 
 when he married Isabella. I attempted 
 to defend my domain, but Rudiger — 
 Hell thank him for it — enforced the 
 ban against me at the head of his vassals, 
 and I was constrained to fly. Since then 
 I have warred against the Saracens in 
 Spain and Palestine. 
 
 Rod. But why didst thou return to a 
 land where death attends thy being dis- 
 covered? 
 
 Ber. Impatience urged me to see once 
 more the land of my nativity, and the 
 towers of Ebersdorf. I came there yes- 
 terday, under the name of the minstrel 
 Minhold. 
 
 Rod. And what prevailed on thee to 
 undertake to deliver Martin? 
 
 Ber. George, though I told not my 
 name, engaged to procure the recall of 
 the ban; besides, he told me Martin's life 
 was in danger, and I accountetl the old 
 villain to be the last remaining follower 
 of our house. But, as God shall judge 
 me, the tale of horror thou hast men- 
 tioned I could not have even suspected. 
 Report ran, that my brother died of the 
 plague. 
 
 Wolf. Raised for the purpose, doubt- 
 less, of preventing attendance upon his 
 sick-bed, and an inspection of his body. 
 
 Ber. My vengeance shall be dreadful 
 as its cause ! The usurpers of my in- 
 heritance, the robbers of my honor, the 
 murderers of my brother, shall be cut 
 off, root and branch ! 
 
 Rod. Thou art, then, welcome here; 
 especially if thou art still a true brother 
 to our invisible order. 
 
 Ber. I am. 
 
 Rod. There is a meeting this night 
 on the business of thy brother's death. 
 Some are now come. I must despatch 
 them in pursuit of Martin, 
 
 Enter Hugo. 
 
 Hug. The foes advance, sir knight. 
 Rod. Back ! I^ack to the ruins ! Come 
 with us, Bertram; on the road thou shalt 
 hear the dreadful history. [Exeutt/. 
 
 From the opposite side enter George, 
 Henry, Wickerd, Conrad, and Sol- 
 diers. 
 
 Geo. No news of Martin yet? 
 
 VVic. None, sir knight 
 
 Geo. Nor the minstrel? 
 
 Wic. None. 
 
 Geo. Then he has betrayea me, or is 
 prisoner — misery either way. Begone 
 and search the wood, Wickerd. 
 
 [Exeunt WiCKERD and followers. 
 
 Hen. Still this dreadful gloom on thy 
 brow, brother? 
 
 Geo. Ay! what else? 
 
 Hen. Once thou thoughtest me worthy 
 of thy friendship. 
 
 Geo. Henry, thou art young — 
 
 Hen. Shall I therefore betray thy con- 
 fidence? 
 
 Geo. No ! but thou art gentle and 
 well-natured. Thy mind cannot even 
 support the burden which mine must 
 bear, far less wilt thou approve the 
 means I shall use to throw it off. 
 
 Hen. Try me. 
 
 Geo. I may not. 
 
 Hen. Then thou dost no longer love, 
 me. 
 
 Geo. I love thee, and because I love 
 thee, I will not involve thee in my dis- 
 tress. 
 
 Hen. I will bear it with thee. 
 
 Geo. Shouldst thou share it, it would 
 be doubled tp me ! 
 
 Hen. Fear not, I will find a remedy. 
 
 Geo. It would cost thee peace of 
 mind, here, and hereafter. 
 
 Hen. I take the risk. 
 
 Geo. It may not be, Henry. Thou 
 wouldst become the confidant of crimes 
 past — the accomplice of others to come. 
 
 Hen. Shall I guess? 
 
 Geo. I charge thee, no! 
 
 Hen. I must. Thou art one of the 
 secret judges. 
 
 Geo. Unhajipy boy! what hast thou 
 said ? 
 
 Hen. Is it not so? 
 
 Geo. Dost thou know what the dis- 
 covery has cost thee? 
 
 Hen. I care not. 
 
 Geo. He who discovers any part of 
 our mystery must himself become one 
 of our number. 
 
 Hen. How so? 
 
 Geo. If he does not consent, his se- 
 
Scene II. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 671 
 
 crecy will be speedily ensured by his 
 death. To that we are sworn — take thy 
 choice ! 
 
 Hen. Well, are you not banded in 
 secret to punish those offenders whom 
 the sword of justice cannot reach, or 
 who are shielded from its stroke by the 
 buckler of power? 
 
 Geo. Such is indeed the purpose of 
 our fraternity; but the end is pursued 
 through patlis dark, intricate, and slip- 
 pery with blood. Who is he that shall 
 tread them with safety? Accursed be 
 the hour in which I entered the laby- 
 rinth, and doubly accursed that in which 
 thou too must lose the cheerful sunshine 
 of a soul without a mystery ! 
 
 Hen. Yet for thy sake will I be a 
 memljer. 
 
 Geo. Henry, thou didst rise this morn- 
 ing .1 free man. No one could say to 
 thee, " Why dost thou so? " Thou lay- 
 est thee down to-night the veriest slave 
 that ever tugged at an oar — the slave of 
 men whose actions will appear to thee 
 savage and incomprehensible, and whom 
 thou must aid against the world, upon 
 peril of thy throat. 
 
 Hen. Be it so. I will share your lot. 
 Geo. Alas, Henry! Heaven forbid! 
 But since thou hast by a hasty word fet- 
 tered thyself, I will avail myself of thy 
 bondage. Mount thy fleetest steed, and 
 hie thee this very night to the Duke of 
 Bavaria. He is chief and paramount 
 of our chapter. Show him this signet 
 and this letter; tell him that matters will 
 be this night discussed concerning the 
 house of Aspen. Bid him speed him to 
 the assembly, for he well knows the 
 president is our deadly foe. He will 
 admit thee a member of our holy tody. 
 Hen. Who is the foe whom you dread? 
 Geo. Young man, the first duty thou 
 must learn is implicit and blind obedience. 
 Hen. W^ell I shall soon return and see 
 thee again. 
 
 Geo. Return, indeed, thou wilt; but 
 
 for the rest — well ! that matters not. 
 
 Hen. I go : thou wilt set a watch here ? 
 
 Geo. I will. ( Henry ,^<'/«<,'-.) Return, 
 
 my dear Henry; let me embrace thee, 
 
 shouldst thou not see me again. 
 
 Hen. Heaven! what mean you? 
 
 Geo. Nothing. The life of mortals is 
 precarious; and, should we not meet 
 again, take my blessing and this embrace 
 — and this — (^Embraces him warmly.') 
 And now haste to the duke. {^Exit 
 Henry.) Poor youth, thou little know- 
 est what thou hast undertaken. But if 
 Martin has escaped, and if the duke 
 arrives, they will not dare to proceed 
 without proof. 
 
 Ke-enter WiCKERD and followers. 
 
 Wic. We have made a follower of 
 Maltingen prisoner, Baron George, who 
 reports that Martin has escaped. 
 
 Geo. Joy ! joy ! such joy as I can now 
 feel ! Set him free for the good news — 
 and, Wickerd, keep a good watch in this 
 spot all night. Send out scouts to find 
 Martin, least he should not be able to 
 reach Ebersdorf. 
 
 W^IC. I shall, noble sir. 
 
 [ The kettle -drutiis and trumpets 
 flourish as for setting the watch : 
 the scene closes. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 The Chapel at Ebersdorf, an ancient 
 
 Gothic building. 
 
 Isabella is discovered rising from before 
 
 the altar, on which burn two tapers. 
 
 IsA. I cannot pray. Terror and guilt 
 have stifled devotion. The heart must 
 be at ease — the hands must l>e pure 
 when they are lifted to Heaven. Mid- 
 night is the hour of summons : it is now 
 near. How can I pray, when I go re- 
 solved to deny a crime which every drop 
 of my blood could not wash away ! And 
 my son ' Oh ! he will fall the victnn of 
 my crime ! Arnolf ! Arnolf ! thou art dread- 
 fully avenged ! ( 7'"p at the door. ) The 
 footstep of my dreadful guide. ( A?/ 
 again.-) My courage is no more. (-£«- 
 ter Gertrude by the door.) Gertrude ! 
 it only thou? {Embraces her.) 
 
 Ger. Dear aunt, leave this awful 
 place; it chills my very blood. My 
 uncle sent me to call you to the hall. 
 
 ISA. Who is in the hall? 
 
 Ger. Only Reynold and the family, 
 with whom my uncle is making merry. 
 
672 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act IV, 
 
 ISA. Sawest thou no strange faces? 
 
 Ger. No; none but friends. 
 
 IsA. Art thou sure of that ? Is George 
 there ? 
 
 Ger. No, nor Henry; both have rid- 
 den out. I think they might have stayed 
 one day at least. But come, aunt, I 
 hate this place; it reminds me of my 
 dream. See, yonder was the spot where 
 methought they were burying you alive, 
 below yon monument (^pointing). 
 
 ISA. (^s(arHng). The monument of 
 my first husband. Leave me, leave me, 
 Gertrude. I follow in a moment. ( Kxii 
 Gertrude. ) Ay, here he lies ! forgetful 
 alike of his crimes and injuries ! Insen- 
 sil)le, as if this chapel had never rung 
 with my shrieks, or the castle resounded 
 to his parting groans ! When shall I 
 sleep so soundly? (^As she gazes on the 
 tnomimeitt, a figure muffled in black 
 appears from behind if.) Merciful God ! 
 is it a vision, such as has haunted my 
 couch ? (// approaches : she goes on zvith 
 mingled terror and resolution. ) Ghastly 
 phantom, art thou the restless spirit of 
 one who died in agony, or art thou the 
 mysterious being that must guide me to 
 the presence of the avengers of blood? 
 (^Figure bends its head and beckons.) — 
 To-morrow ! To-morrow ! I cannot fol- 
 low thee now ! (^Figure shows a dagi^er 
 from beneath its cloak. ) Compulsion ! I 
 understand thee: I will follow. (^She 
 follo7US the figure a little luay ; he turns 
 and luraps a black veil round her head, 
 and takes her hand : then both exeunt 
 behind the monument.) 
 
 Scene III. 
 The Wood of Griefenhaus. — A watch- 
 fire, round which sit Wickerd, (Zo'<i- 
 'RXD, and others, in their watch-cloaks. 
 Wic. The night is bitter cold. 
 Con. Ay, but thou hast lined thy doub- 
 let well with old Rhenish. 
 
 Wic. True; and I'll give you warrant 
 for it. (^Siftgs.) 
 
 (rheinwein 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'll freeze without what warms our 
 hearts within sirs, 
 When the night-frost crusts the fen. 
 
 But on the Rhine, but on the Rhine they 
 cluster, 
 Tlie grapes of juice divine. 
 That make our troopers' frozen courage 
 muster; 
 Oh, blessed be the Rhine ! 
 
 Con. Well sung, Wickerd; thou wert 
 ever a jovial soul. 
 
 Enter a trooper or tiuo more. 
 
 Wic. Hast thou made the rounds, 
 Frank ? 
 
 Frank. Yes, up to the hemlock marsh. 
 It is a stormy night; the moon shone on 
 the Wolfshill, and on the dead bodies 
 with which to-day's work has covered it. 
 We heard the spirit of the house of Mal- 
 tingen wailing over the slaughter of its 
 adherents: I durst go no farther. 
 
 Wic. Hen-hearted rascal ! The spirit 
 of some old raven, who was picking their 
 bones. 
 
 Con. Nay, Wickerd; the churchmen 
 say there are such things. 
 
 Frank. Ay; and Father Ludovic told 
 us last sermon, how the devil twisted the 
 neck of ten farmers at Kletterbach, who 
 refused to pay Peter's pence. 
 
 Wic. Yes, some church devil, no ' 
 doubt. 
 
 Frank. Nay, old Reynold says, that 
 in passing, by midnight, near the old 
 chapel at our castle, he saw it all lighted 
 up, and heard a chorus of voices sing the 
 funeral service. 
 
 Another Soldier. Father Ludovic 
 heard the same. - 
 
 Wic. Hear me, ye hare-livered boys ! ■ 
 Can you look death in the face in battle, j| 
 and dread such nursery bugbears? Old 
 Reynold saw his vision in the strength oi 
 
Scene III. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 673 
 
 the grape. As for the chaplain, far be 
 it from me to name the spirit which visits 
 him; but I know what I know, when I 
 found him confessing Bertrand's pretty 
 Agnes in the chestnut grove. 
 
 Con. But, Wickerd, though I have 
 often heard of strange tales, which I 
 could not credit, yet there is one in our 
 family so well attested, that I almost be- 
 lieve it. Shall I tell it you? 
 
 All Soldiers. Do ! do tell it, gentle 
 Conrad. 
 
 Wic. And I will take t'other sup of 
 Rhenish to fence against the horrors of 
 the tale. 
 
 Con. It is about my own uncle and 
 god-father, Albert of Horsheim. 
 
 Wic. I have seen him — he was a gal- 
 lant warrior. 
 
 Con. Well ! He was long absent in 
 the Bohemian wars. In an expedition 
 he was benighted, and came to a lone 
 house on the edge of a forest. He and 
 his followers knocked repeatedly for en- 
 trance in vain. They forced the door, 
 but found no inhabitants. 
 
 Frank. And they made good their 
 quarters ? 
 
 Con. They did, and Albert retired to 
 rest in an upper chamber. Opposite to 
 the bed on which he threw himself was 
 a large mirror. At midnight he was 
 awaked by deep groans, he cast his eyes 
 upon the mirror, and saw — ■ 
 
 Frank. Sacred Heaven ! Heard you 
 nothing? 
 
 Wic. Ay, the wind among the withered 
 leaves. Go on, Conrad. Your uncle 
 was a wise man. 
 
 Con, That's more than gray hairs can 
 make other folks. 
 
 Wic. Ha ! stripling, art thou so mala- 
 pert? Though thou art Lord Henry's 
 page, I shall teach thee who commands 
 this party. 
 
 All Soldiers. Peace, peace, good 
 Wickerd, let Conrad proceed. 
 
 Con. Where was I? 
 
 Frank. About the mirror. 
 
 Con. True. My uncle beheld in the 
 mirror the reflection of a human face, 
 distorted and covered with blood. A 
 voice pronounced articulately, "It is yet 
 
 time." As the words were spoken, my 
 uncle discerned in the ghastly visage the 
 features of his own father. 
 
 Soldier. Hush! By St. Francis I 
 heard a groan. ( They start up all but 
 Wickerd.) 
 
 Wic. The croaking of a frog, who has 
 caught cold in this bitter night, and sings 
 rather more hoarsely than usual. 
 
 Frank. Wickerd, thou art surely no 
 Christian. ( They sit dozon, and close 
 round the fire.) 
 
 Con. Well — my uncle called up his 
 attendants, and they searched every nook 
 of the chamber, but found nothing. So 
 they covered the mirror with a cloth, and 
 Albert was left alone; but hardly had he 
 closed his eyes when the same voice pro- 
 claimed. "It is now too late:" the 
 covering was drawn aside, and he saw 
 the figure — 
 
 Frank. Merciful Virgin! It comes. 
 (^Allrise.) 
 
 Wic. Where? what? 
 
 Con. See yon figure coming from the 
 thicket ! 
 
 Enter Martin, in the monk^s dress, 
 much disordered : his face is very pale 
 and his steps slow. 
 
 Wic. (^levelling his pike). Man or 
 devil, which thou wilt, thou shall feel 
 cold iron if thou budgest a foot nearer. 
 ( Martin stops. ) Who art thou ? What 
 dost thou seek? 
 
 Mar. To warm myself at your fire. It 
 is deadly cold. 
 
 Wic. See there, ye cravens, your ap- 
 parition is a poor benighted monk: sit 
 down, father. ( 'J'hty place Martin by 
 the fire.) By heaven, it is Martin — our 
 Martin ! Martin, how fares it with thee? 
 We have sought thee this whole night. 
 
 Mar. So have many others (^vacantly). 
 
 Con. Yes, thy master. 
 
 Mar. Did you see him too? 
 
 Con. Whom? Baron George? 
 
 Mar. No I my first master, Arnolf of 
 Ebersdorf. 
 
 Wic. He raves. 
 
 Mar. He passed me but now in the 
 wood, mounted upon his old black steed; 
 its nostrils breathed smoke and flame; 
 
674 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 neither tree nor rock stopped him. He 
 said, " Martin, thou wilt return this night 
 to my service ! " 
 
 Wic. Wrap thy cloak around him, 
 Francis, he is distracted with cold and 
 pain. Dost thou not recollect me, old 
 friend? 
 
 Mar. Yes, you are the butler at Ebers- 
 dorf: you have the charge of the large 
 gilded cup, embossed with the figures of 
 the twelve apostles. It was the favorite 
 goblet of my old master. 
 
 Con. Hy our Lady, Martin, thou must 
 be distracted indeed, to think our master 
 would intrust Wickerd with the care of 
 the cellar. 
 
 Mar. I know a face so like the Apos- 
 tle Judas on that cup. I have seen the 
 likeness when I gazed on a mirror. 
 
 VVic. Try to go to sleep, dear Martin; 
 it will relieve thy brain. (^Footsteps are 
 heard in tht 70i):>t/.) To your arms. 
 ( TAey take their arms. ) 
 
 /?«/«'/- /.i/i? Members of the Invisible Tri- 
 bunals, mnfftett in their cloaks. 
 
 Con. Stand ! Who are you ? 
 
 I Mem. Travellers benighted in the 
 wood. 
 
 WiC. Are ye friends to Aspen or Mal- 
 tingen? 
 
 1 Mem. We enter not into their quar- 
 rel. We are friends to the right. 
 
 WiC. Then ye are friends to us, and 
 welcome to pass the night l)y our fire. 
 
 2 Mem. Thanks. ( They approach the 
 fire, and regard Maktin very earnestly.) 
 
 Con. Hear ye any news abroad? 
 2 Mem. None; but that oppression 
 and villany are rife and rank as ever. 
 WiC. The old complaint. 
 
 1 Mem. No! 'nevsr did former age 
 equal this in wickedness; and yet, as if 
 the daily commission of enormities were 
 not enough to blot the sun, every hour 
 discovers crimes which have lain con- 
 cealed for years. 
 
 Con. Pity the Holy Tribunal should 
 slumber in its ofifice. 
 
 2 Mem. Young man, it slumbers not. 
 When criminals are ripe for its vengeance, 
 it falls like the lx>lt of Heaven. 
 
 Mar. (^attempting to rise). Let me be 
 gone. 
 
 Con. (detaining him). Whither now, 
 Martin? 
 
 Mar. To mass. 
 
 1 Mem. Even now, we heard a tale of 
 a villain, who, ungrateful as the frozen 
 adder, stung the bosom that had warmed 
 him into life. 
 
 Mar. Conrad, bear me off, I would 
 be away from these men. 
 
 Con. Be at ease, and strive to sleep. 
 
 Mak. Too well I know — I shall never 
 sleep again. 
 
 2 Mem. The wretch of whom we speak 
 became, from revenge and lust of gain, 
 the murderer of the master whose bread 
 he did eat. 
 
 WiC. Out upon the monster ! 
 
 I Mem. For nearly thirty years was he 
 ptMinitted to cumber the ground. Th» 
 miscreant thought his crime was con- 
 cealed; but the earth which groanedj 
 under his footsteps — the winds which 
 passed over his unhallowed head ^ — the 
 stream which he polluted by his lips — ■ 
 the fire at which he warmed his blood- 
 stained hands —every element bore wit- 
 ness to his guilt. 
 
 Mar. Conrad, good youth — lead me 
 from hence, and 1 will show thee where, 
 thirty years since, I deposited a mighty 
 bribe. [Rises. 
 
 Con. Be patient, good Martin. 
 
 Wic. And where was the miscreant 
 seized. 
 
 [ The tiuo A f embers suddenly lay 
 hands on Martin, and draw , 
 their daggers ; the soldiers spring 
 to their arms. 
 
 I Mem. On this very spot. 
 
 Wic. Traitors, unloose your hold. 
 
 I Mem. In the name of the Invisible 
 Judges, I charge ye, impede us not in 
 our duty. 
 
 [All sink their weapons and stand 
 motionless. 
 
 Mar. Help! help! 
 
 I Mem. Help him with your prayers. 
 
 [ He is dragged off. The scene 
 shuts. 
 
Scene I 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEAT 
 
 675 
 
 ACT v. — Scene I. 
 The suhlerranean chapel of the Castle of 
 Griefenhaus. It seems deserted, and 
 iti decay. There are four entrances, 
 each defended by an iron portal. At 
 each door stands a warder clothed in 
 black, and masked, armed with a 
 naked szuord. During the whole scene 
 they remain motionless on their posts. 
 In the centre of the chapel is the ruin- 
 ous altar, half sunk in the ground, on 
 which lie a large book, a dagger, and 
 a coil of ropes, beside two lighted tapers. 
 Antique stone benches of different 
 heights around the chapel. In the back 
 scene is seen a dilapidated entrance 
 into the sacristy, which is quite dark. 
 
 Various Members of the hwisible Tribu- 
 nal enter by the foiir different doors of 
 the chapel. Each whispers something 
 as he passes the Warder, -which is 
 answered by an inclination of the head. 
 The costume of the members is a long 
 black robe, capable of muffling the face ; 
 some wear it in this manner ; others 
 have their faces uncovered, unless on 
 the entrance of a stranger ; they place 
 themselves in profound silence upon the 
 stone benches. 
 
 Enter Count Roderic, dressed in a 
 scarlet cloak of the same form with those 
 of the other members. He takes his 
 place on the most elevated bench. 
 
 Rod. Warders, secure the doors ! 
 ( The doors are barred with great care.) 
 Herald, do thy duty ! 
 
 [Members all rise — Herald stands 
 by the altar. 
 Her. Members of the Invisible Tribu- 
 nal, who judge in secret, and avenge in 
 secret, like the Deity, are your hearts 
 free from malice, and your hands from 
 blood-guiltiness ? 
 
 {All the Members ituline their 
 heads. 
 Rod. God pardon our sins of ignor- 
 ance, and preserve us from those of pre- 
 sumption. 
 
 [Again the Members solemnly in- 
 cline their heads. 
 Her. To the east, and to the west, 
 and to the north, and to the south, I raise 
 
 my voice; wherever there is treason, 
 wherever there is blood -guiltiness, wher- 
 ever there is sacrilege, sorcery, robbery, 
 or perjury, there let this curse alight, 
 and pierce the marrow and the bone. 
 Raise, then, your voices, and say with 
 me, woe ! woe unto offenders ! 
 
 All. Woe ! woe ! [M embers sit doivn. 
 
 Her. He who knoweth of an unpun- 
 ished crime, let him stand forth as bound 
 by his oath when his hand was laid upon 
 the dagger and upon the cord, and call 
 to the assembly for vengeance ! 
 
 Mem. (rises, his face covered). Ven- 
 geance ! vengeance ! vengeance ! 
 
 Rod. Upon whom dost thou invoke 
 vengeance? 
 
 Accuser. Upon a brother of this 
 order, who is forsworn and perjured to 
 its laws. 
 
 Rod. Relate his crime. 
 
 Accu. This perjured brother was 
 sworn, upon the steel and upon the 
 cord, to denounce malefactors to the 
 judgment-seat, from the four quarters of 
 heaven, though it were the spouse of his 
 heart, or the son whom he loved as the 
 apple of his eye; yet did he conceal the 
 guilt of one who was dear unto him; he 
 folded up the crime from the knowledge 
 of the tribunal; he removed the evidence 
 of guilt, and withdrew the criminal from 
 justice. What does his perjury deserve? 
 
 Rod. Accuser, come before the altar; 
 lay thy hand upon the dagger and the 
 cord, and swear to the truth of thy accu- 
 sation. 
 
 Accu. {his hand on the altar). I 
 swear ! 
 
 Rod. Wilt thou take upon thyself the 
 penalty of perjury, should it be found 
 false? 
 
 Accu. I will. 
 
 Rod. Brethren, what is your sentence? 
 [ The Members confer a moment in 
 luhispers — a silence. 
 
 Eldest Mem. Our voice is, that the 
 perjured brother merits death. 
 
 Rod. Accuser, thou hast heard the 
 voice of the assembly ; name the 
 criminal. 
 
 Accu. George, Baron of Aspen. 
 
 \A murmur in the assembly. 
 
676 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 A Mem. (^suddenly rising'). I am 
 ready, according to our holy laws, to 
 swear, by the steel and the cord, that 
 George of Aspen merits not this accusa- 
 tion, and that it is a foul calumny. 
 
 Accu. Rash man ! gagest thou an 
 oath so lightly? 
 
 Mem. I gage it not lightly. I proffer 
 it in the cause of innocence and virtue. 
 
 Accu. What if George of Aspen should 
 not himself deny the charge? 
 
 Mem. Then would I never trust man 
 again. 
 
 Accu. Hear him, then, bear witness 
 against himself. ( Thrmos back liii 
 ma II lie. ) 
 
 Rod. Baron George of Aspen ? 
 
 Geo. 'I'he same — prepared to do 
 penance for the crime of which he 
 stands self-accused. 
 
 Rod. Still, canst thou disclose the 
 name of the criminal whom thou hast 
 rescued from justice; on that condition 
 alone, thy brethren may spare thy life. 
 
 Geo. Thinkest thou I would betray 
 for the safety of my life, a secret I have 
 preserved at the l)reach of my word? 
 — No! I have weighed the value of 
 my obligation — I will not discharge it 
 ■ — but most willingly will I pay the 
 penalty ! 
 
 Rod. Retire, George of Aspen, till 
 the assembly pronounce judgment. 
 
 Geo. Welcome be your sentence — I 
 am weary of your yoke of iron. A light 
 beams on my soul. Woe to those who 
 seek justice in the dark haunts of mys- 
 tery and of cruelty ! She dwells in the 
 broad blaze of the sun, and Mercy is 
 ever by her side. Woe to those who 
 would advance the general weal by 
 trampling upon the social affections ! 
 they aspire to be more than men — they 
 shall become worse than tigers. I go: 
 better for me your altars should be stained 
 with my blood, than my soul l>lackened 
 with your crimes. 
 
 \Exit George, by the ruinous door 
 in the hack scene, into the sac- 
 risty. 
 
 Rod. Brethren, sworn upon the steel 
 and upon the cord, to judge and to 
 avenge in secret, without favor and with- 
 
 out pity, what is your judgment upon 
 George of Aspen, self-accused of perjury, 
 and resistance to the laws of our frater- 
 nity. 
 
 YLong and earnest tnurtmtrs in the 
 assembly. 
 Rod. Speak your doom. 
 Eldest Mem. George of Aspen has 
 declared himself perjured; — the penalty 
 of perjury is death. 
 
 Rod. Father of the secret judges — 
 Eldest among those who avenge in secret 
 — take to thee the steel and the cord; — 
 let the guilty no longer cumber the land. 
 Eldest Mem. I am fourscore and 
 eight years old. My eyes are <lim, and 
 my hand is feeble; soon shall I be called 
 before the throne of my Creator; • — how 
 shall I stand there, stained with the 
 blood of such a man? 
 
 Rod. How will thou stand before that 
 throne, loaded with the guilt of a Vjroken 
 oath ? The blood of the criminal be upon 
 us and ours ! 
 
 Eldest Mem. So be it, in the name 
 of God ! 
 
 \^He takes the dagger from the altar, 
 
 goes slo7oly towards the back 
 
 scene, and reluctantly enters the 
 
 sacristy. 
 
 Eldest Judge, {from behind the 
 
 scene). Dost thou forgive me? 
 
 Gko, (^behind). I do ! (lie is heard 
 to fall heavily. ) 
 
 [Re-enter the old Judge from the 
 sacristy. He lays on the altar 
 the bloody dagger. 
 Rod. Hast thou done thy duty? 
 Eldest Mem. 1 have. (lie faints.) 
 Rod. He swoons. Remove him. 
 
 \^He is assisted off the stage. Dur- 
 ing this, four members enter the 
 sac7-isty and bring out a bier 
 covered with a pall, which they 
 place on the steps of the altar. 
 A deep silence. 
 Rod. Judges of evil, dooming in 
 secret, and avenging in secret, like the 
 Deity : God keep your thoughts from evil, 
 and your hands from guilt. 
 
 Ber. I raise my voice in this assembly, 
 and cry, vengeance ! vengeance ! ven- 
 "Teance ! 
 
Scene I. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 677 
 
 Rod. Enough has this night been done 
 
 — i^He rises and brings Bertram for- 
 ivard. ) Think what thou doest — 
 George has fallen — it were murder to 
 slay both mother and son. 
 
 Ber. George of Aspen was thy victim 
 
 — a sacrifice to thy hatred and envy. I 
 claim mine, sacred to justice and to my 
 murdered brother. Resume thy place ! 
 
 — thou canst not stop the rock thou hast 
 put in motion. 
 
 Rod. (^resumes his Scat). Upon whom 
 callest thou for vengeance? 
 
 Ber. Upon Isabella of Aspen. 
 
 Rod. She has been summoned. 
 
 Herald. Isabella of Aspen, accused 
 of murder by poison, I charge thee to 
 appear, and stand upon thy defence. 
 
 [ Thrtie knocks are /ward at one of 
 the doors — it is opened by the 
 warder. 
 Enter Isabella, the veil still wrapped 
 
 around her head, led by her conductor. 
 
 All the members muffle their faces. 
 
 Rod. Uncover her eyes. 
 
 \^7yte veil is removed. Isabella 
 looks wildly round. 
 
 Rod. Knowest thou, lady, where thou 
 art? 
 
 ISA. I guess. 
 
 Rod. Say thy guess. 
 
 ISA. Before the avengers of blood. 
 
 Rod. Knowest thou why thou art 
 called to their presence? 
 
 ISA. No. 
 
 Rod. Speak, accuser. 
 
 Ber. I impeach thee, Isabella of 
 Aspen, before this awful assembly, of 
 having murdered, privily and by poison, 
 Arnolf of Ebersdorf, thy first husband. 
 
 Rod. Canst thou swear to the accusa- 
 tion? 
 
 Ber. {his hand on the altar). I lay 
 my hand on the steel and the cord, and 
 swear. 
 
 Rod. Isabella of Aspen, thou hast 
 heard thy accusation. What canst thou 
 answer ? 
 
 ISA. That the oath of an accuser is no 
 proof of guilt ! 
 
 Rod. Hast thou more to say? 
 ISA. I have. 
 Rod. Speak on, 
 
 ISA. Judges invisible to the sun, and 
 seen only by the stars of midnight ! I 
 stand before you, accused of an enor- 
 mous, daring, and premeditated crime. 
 I was married to Arnolf when I was only 
 eighteen years old. Arnold was wary 
 and jealous; ever suspecting me without 
 a cause, unless it was because he had 
 injured me. How then should I plan 
 and perpetrate such a deed? The lamb 
 turns not against the wolf, .though a 
 prisoner in his den. 
 
 Rod. Have you finished? 
 ISA. A moment. Years after years 
 have elapsed without a whisper of this 
 foul suspicion. Arnolf left a brother ! 
 though common fame had been silent, 
 natural affection would have been heard 
 against me — why spoke he not my ac- 
 cusation? Or has my conduct justified 
 this horrible charge ? No ! awful judges, 
 I may answer, I have fomided cloisters, 
 I have endowed hospitals. The goods 
 that Heaven bestowed on me I have not 
 held back from the needy. 1 appeal to 
 you, judges of evil, can these proofs of 
 innocence be downweighed by the asser- 
 tion of an unknown and disguised, per- 
 chance a malignant accuser. 
 
 Ber. No longer will I wear that dis- 
 guise. {Throws back his mantle.) Dost 
 thou know me now? 
 
 ISA. Yes; I know thee for a wander- 
 ing minstrel, relieved by the charity of 
 my husljand. 
 
 Ber. No, traitress! know me for Ber- 
 tram of Ebersdorf, brother to him thou 
 didst murder. Call her accomplice, Mar- 
 tin. Ha ! turnest thou pale ! 
 
 ISA. May I have some water? — 
 {Apart.) Sacred Heaven! his vindic- 
 tive look is so like. — [ // a/er is brouf^lit. 
 A Mem. Martin died in the hands of 
 our brethren. 
 
 Rod. Dost thou know the accuser, 
 
 lady? ^ _ 
 
 ISA. {reassuming fortitude). Let not 
 the sinking of nature under this dreadful 
 trial be imputed to the cpnsciousness of 
 guilt. I do know the accuser— know 
 him to be outlawed for homicide, and 
 under the ban of the empire : his tesU- 
 mony cannot be received. 
 
678 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 Eldest Judge. She says truly. 
 
 Ber. (/(5 RoDERic). Then I call upon 
 thee and William of Wolfstein to bear 
 witness to what you know. 
 
 Rod. Wolfstein is not in the assembly, 
 and my place prevents me from being a 
 witness. 
 
 Ber. Then I will call another: mean- 
 while let the accused be removed. 
 
 Rod. Retire, lady. [Isabella is led 
 to the sacristy. 
 
 ISA. {in going off). The ground is 
 slippery. — Heavens ! it is floated with 
 blood ! 
 
 [ Exit into the sacristy. 
 
 Rod. {apart to Bertram). W^hom 
 dost thou mean to call? [Bertram 
 whispers. 
 
 Rod. This goes beyond me. {After 
 a moment's thought.) But be it so. 
 Maltingen shall behold Aspen humbled 
 in the dust. {Aloud.') Brethren, the 
 accuser calls for a witness who remains 
 without: admit him. 
 
 \_All muffle their faces. 
 
 Enter Rudiger, his eyes bound or covered, 
 leaning upon two members ; they place 
 a stool for him, and unbind his eyes. 
 
 Rod. Knowest thou where thou art, 
 and before whom? 
 
 RuD. I know not, and I care not. 
 Two strangers summoned me from my 
 castle to assist, they said, at a great act 
 of justice. I ascended the litter they 
 brought, and I am here. 
 
 Rod. It regards the punishment of 
 perjury and the discovery of murder. 
 Art thou willing to assist us? 
 
 Rud. Most willing, as is my duty. 
 
 Rod. What if the crime regard thy 
 friend? 
 
 Rud. I will hold him no longer so. 
 
 Rod. What if thine own blood? 
 
 Rud. I would let it out with my 
 poniard. 
 
 Rod. Then canst thou not blame us 
 for this deed of justice. Remove the 
 pall. 
 
 [ The pall is lifted, beneath which 
 is discovered the body d/GEORGE, 
 pale and bloody . RuDlGER 5/(2^''- 
 gers towards it. 
 
 RuD. My George ! my George ! Not 
 slain manly in battle, but murdered by 
 legal assassins. Much, much may I 
 mourn thee, my beloved boy; but not 5 
 now, not now : never will I shed a tear for 
 thy death till I have cleared thy fame. 
 Hear me, ye midnight murderers, he was 
 innocent {raising his voice) - — upright as ■ 
 the truth itself. Let the man who dares 
 gainsay me lift that gage. If the Almighty 
 does not strengthen these frail limbs, to 
 make good a father's quarrel, I have a 
 son left, who will vindicate the honor of 
 Aspen, or lay his bloody body beside his 
 brother's. 
 
 Rod. Rash and insensible ! Hear first 
 the cause. Hear the dishonor of thy 
 house. 
 
 Isa. {from the sacristy). Never shall 
 he hear it till the author is no more ! 
 
 [Rudiger attempts to rush towards 
 the sacristy, but is prevented. 
 Isabella cfiters wounded, and 
 throws herself on George's 
 body. 
 
 Isa. Murdered for me — for me ! my 
 dear, dear son ! 
 
 Rud. {still held). Cowardly villains, 
 let in J loose! Maltingen, this is thy 
 doing ! Thy face thou wouldst disguise, 
 thy deeds, thou canst not ! I defy thee 
 to instant and mortal combat ! 
 
 Isa. {lookittg up). No! no! endan- 
 ger not thy life ! Myself ! myself ! I 
 
 could not bear thou shouldst know 
 
 Oh! {Dies.) 
 
 Rud. Oh ! let me go — let me but try 
 to stop her blood, and I will forgive all. 
 
 Rod. Drag him off and detain him. 
 The voice of lamentation must not dis- 
 turb the stern deliberation of justice. 
 
 Rud. Bloodhound of Maltingen ! 
 Well beseems thee thy base revenge ! 
 The marks of my son's lance are still on 
 thy craven crest ! Vengeance on the 
 band of ye ! 
 [ Rudiger is dragged off to the sacristy. 
 
 Rod. Brethren, we stand discovered ! 
 What is to be done to him who shall 
 descry our mystery. 
 
 Eldest Judge. He must become a 
 brother of our order, or die ! 
 
Scene I. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF ASPEN. 
 
 679 
 
 Rod, This man will never join us ! 
 He cannot put his hand into ours, which 
 are stained with the blood of his wife and 
 son: he must therefore die ! (^Murmurs 
 in the assembly S) Brethren ! I wonder 
 not at your reluctance; but the man is 
 powerful, has friends and allies to buck- 
 ler his cause. It is over with us, and 
 with our order, unless the laws are 
 obeyed. (^Fainter murmurs.') Besides, 
 have we not sworn a deadly oath to exe- 
 cute these statutes? (^A dead silence.') 
 Take to thee the steel and the cord (Jo 
 the eldest judge). 
 
 Eldest Judge. He has done no evil 
 — he was the companion of my battle — 
 I will not ! 
 
 Rod. {^lo another). Do thou — and 
 succeed to the rank of him who has dis- 
 obeyed. Remember your oath ! {^.Mem- 
 ber takes the dagger, and goes irresolutely 
 forward : looks into the sacristy, and 
 conies back. ) 
 
 Mem. He has fainted — fainted in an- 
 guish for his wife and his son : the bloody 
 ground is strewn with his white hairs, 
 torn by those hands that have fought for 
 Christendom. I will not be your butcher. 
 ( Throivs dcnon the dagger.) 
 
 Ber. Irresolute and perjured ! the rob- 
 ber of my inheritance, the author of my 
 exile, shall die ! 
 
 Rod. Thanks, Bertram, Execute the 
 doom — secure the safety of the holy 
 tribunal ! 
 
 [Bertram seizes the dagger, and 
 is about to rush into the sacristy, 
 when three loud knocks are heard 
 at the door. 
 
 All. Hold ! hold ! 
 
 [ The Duke of Bavaria, attended 
 by many members of the Invisible 
 Tribunal, enters, dressed in a 
 scarlet mantle trimmed 7uith 
 ermine, and wearing a ducal 
 crown. — He carries a rod in 
 his hand. — All rise. — A mur- 
 mur among the members, who 
 whisper to each other, " The 
 Duke," " The Chief,"//^. 
 
 Rod. The Duke of Bavaria! T am 
 lost. 
 
 DuKE. {sees the bodies.) I am too 
 late — the victims have fallen. 
 
 Hen. {-who enters with the Duke). 
 Gracious Heaven ! O George ! 
 
 RUD. {from the sacristy). Henry, it 
 is thy voice — save me ! 
 
 [Henry rushes into the sacristy. 
 
 DuKE. Roderic of Maltingen, descend 
 from the seat which thou hast dishonored. 
 (Roderic leaves his place, which the 
 Duke occupies. ) — Thou standest accused 
 of having perverted the laws of our order; 
 for that being a mortal enemy to the 
 House of Aspen, thou hast abused thy 
 sacred authority to pander to thy private 
 revenge; and to this Wolfstein has been 
 witness. 
 
 Rod. Chief among our circles, I have 
 but acted according to our laws. 
 
 DlTKE. Thou hast indeed observed the 
 letter of our statutes, and woe am I 
 that they do warrant this night's bloody 
 work ! I cannot do unto thee as I would, 
 but what I can I will. Thou hast not 
 indeed transgressed our law, but thou 
 hast wrested and abused it: kneel down, 
 therefore, and place thy hands l)etwixt 
 mine. (Roderic kneels as directed.) 
 I degrade thee from thy sacred office. 
 {Spreads his hands as pushing RoDERiC 
 from him.) If after two days thou dar- 
 est to pollute Bavarian ground by thy 
 footsteps, be it at the peril of the steel 
 and the cord. (Roderic rw.f.) I dis- 
 solve this meeting. {All rise.) Judges 
 and condemners of others, God teach 
 you knowledge of yourselves ! {All bend 
 their beads — DuKE breaks his rod and 
 comes forruard. ) 
 
 Rod. Lord Duke, thou hast charged 
 me with treachery — thou art my liege 
 lord — but who else dares maintain the 
 accusation, lies in his throat. 
 
 Hen. {rushing from the sacristy). 
 Villain ! I accept thy challenge ! 
 
 Rod. \^\n boy ! my lance shall chas- 
 tise thee in the lists — there lies my gngo. 
 
 Duke. Henry, on thy allegiance, touch 
 it not. ( To Roderic. ) Lists shall thou 
 never more enter; lance shalt thou never 
 more wield. {Draws his sword.) With 
 this sword wast thou dubbed a knight; 
 
68o 
 
 DRAMATIC PIECES. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 and with this sword I dishonor thee — I 
 thy prince — (^strikes him slightly -with tlu- 
 flat of the sword ^ — I take from thee the 
 degree of knight, the dignity of chivalry. 
 Thou art no longer a free German noble ; 
 thou art honorless and rightless; the 
 funeral obsequies shall be performed for 
 thee as for one dead to knightly honor 
 and to fair fame; thy spurs shall be 
 hacked from thy heels; thy arms baffled 
 and reversed by the common executioner. 
 
 Go, fraudful and dishonored, hide thy 
 shame in a foreign land! (RoDERiC 
 shows a dumb expression of rage. ) Lay 
 hands on Bertram of Ebersdorf : as I live, 
 he shall pay the forfeiture of his out- 
 lawry. Henry, aid us to remove thy 
 father from this charnel-house. Never 
 shall he know the dreadful secret. Be it 
 mine to soothe the sorrows, and to re- 
 store the honor of the House of Aspen. 
 ( Curtain slowly falls. ) 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Note i. 
 The feast was over in Branksotnc tower. — 
 
 P. lo. 
 In the reign of James I., Sir William 
 Scott of Buccleuch, chief of the clan bearing 
 that name, exchanged, with Sir Thomas 
 Inglis of Manor, the estate of Murdiestone, 
 in Lanarkshire, for one-half of the barony 
 of Branksome, or Brankholm, lying upon 
 the Teviot, about three miles above Hawick. 
 He was probably induced to this transaction 
 from the vicinity of Branksome to the exten- 
 sive domain which he possessed in Ettrick 
 Forest, and in Teviotdale. In the former 
 district he held by occupancy tlie estate of 
 Buccleuch, and much of the forest land on 
 the river Ettrick. In Teviotdale, he enjoyed 
 the barony of Eckford, by a grant from 
 Robert II. to his ancestor, Walter Scott of 
 Kirkurd, for the apprehending of Gilbert 
 Kidderford, confirmed by Robert III., 3d 
 May, 1424. Tradition imputes the ex- 
 change betwixt Scott and Inglis to a conver- 
 sation, in which the latter — a man, it 
 would apf)ear, of a mild and forbearing 
 nature — complained much of the injuries 
 to which he was exposed from the English 
 Borderers, who frequently plundered his 
 lands of Branksome. Sir William Scott 
 instantly offered him the estate of Murdie- 
 stone, in exchange for that which was sub- 
 ject to such egregious inconvenience. When 
 the bargain was completed, he dryly re- 
 marked, that the cattle in Cumberland were 
 as good as those of Teviotdale ; and pro- 
 ceeded to commence a system of reprisals 
 upon the English, which was regularly pur- 
 sued by his successors. In the next reign, 
 James II. granted to .Sir Walter Scott of 
 Branksome, and to Sir David, his son, the 
 remaining half of the barony of Branksome, I 
 to be held in blanche for the payment of a j 
 red rose. The cause assigned for the grant I 
 is, their brave and faithful exertions in favor I 
 of the King against the house of Douglas, I 
 
 68 
 
 with whom James had been recently tugging 
 for the throne of Scotland. This chart.r 1 , 
 dated the 2nd February, 1443 ; and, in tiie 
 same month, part of the barony of Lang- 
 holm, and many lands in Lanarkshire, weie 
 conferred upon Sir Walter and his son by 
 the same monarch. 
 
 Note 2. 
 Nine-and-twenty knigJUs of fame 
 
 Hung their shields in Branksome Hall. — 
 
 P. 10. 
 
 The ancient barons of Buccleuch, lx)tli 
 from feudal splendor and from their frontier 
 situation, retained in their household at 
 Branksome, a number of gentlemen of their 
 own name, who held lands from their chief, 
 for the military service of watching and 
 warding his castle. 
 
 Note 3. 
 
 with Jcdwood-axe at saddlebow. — P. 10. 
 
 " Of a truth," says Froissart, " the Scottish 
 cannot boast great skill with the bow, but 
 ratiiier bear axes, with which, in time of need, 
 they give heavy strokes." The Jedwood-axe 
 was a sort of partisan, used by horsemen, as 
 appears from the arms of Jedburgh, which 
 bear a cavalier mounted and armed with this 
 weapon. It is also called a Jedwood or 
 Jeddart staff. 
 
 Note 4. 
 Tliey watch, against Southern force atri 
 guile, 
 Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy s 
 
 powers. 
 Threaten Branksome'' s lordly towers, 
 From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry 
 Carlisle. — P. 11. 
 Branksome Castle was continually exposed 
 to the attacks of the English, both from its 
 situation and the restless military disjxjsi- 
 tion of its inhabitants, who were seldom on 
 good terms with their neighbors. 
 
6o2 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note 5. 
 Bards long shall tell, 
 How Lord Walter fell! — P. 1 1. 
 Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch succeeded 
 to his grandfather, Sir David, in 1492. He 
 was a brave and powerful baron, and War- 
 den of the West Marches of Scotland. His 
 death was tiie consequence of the feud be- 
 twixt the Scotts and Kerrs. 
 
 Note 6. 
 
 While Cessford owns the rule of Carr, 
 While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, 
 
 The slaughter'' d chiefs, the mortal jar, 
 
 The havock of the feudal war, 
 Shall never, ttever be forgot .' — P. 1 1. 
 
 Among other expedients resorted to for 
 stanching the feud betwixt the Scotts and 
 the Kerrs, there was a bond executed in 1529, 
 between the heads of each clan, binding 
 themselves to perform reciprocally the four 
 principal pilgrimages of Scotland, for the 
 Jxinelit of the souls of those of the opposite 
 name who had fallen in the quarrel. But 
 either this indenture never took effect, or 
 else the feud was renewed shortly afterwards. 
 
 Note 7. 
 
 With Carr in arms had stood. — P. 11. 
 
 The family of Ker, Kerr, or Carr, * was 
 very powerful on the Border. Their in- 
 fluence extended from the village of Preston- 
 Grange, in Lothian, to the limits of England. 
 Cessford Castle, now in ruins, the ancient 
 baronial residence of the family, is situated 
 near the village of Morebattle, within two 
 or three miles of the Cheviot Hills. Tradi- 
 tion affirms that it was founded by Halbert, 
 or Habby Kerr, a gigantic warrior, concern- 
 ing whom many stories are current in 
 Roxburghshire. The Duke of Roxburgh 
 represents Ker of Cessford. 
 
 Note 8. 
 Lord Cranstoitn. — P. 11. 
 The Cranstouns are an ancient Border 
 family, whose chief seat was in Crailing, in 
 'i'eviotdale. They were at this time at feud 
 with the clan of .Scott ; for it appears that 
 the Lady of Buccleuch, in 1557. beset the 
 Laird of Cranstoun, seeking his life. Never- 
 theless, the same Cranstoun, or perhaps his 
 son. was married to a daughter of the same 
 lady. 
 
 * The name is spelt differently by the various 
 families who bear it. Carr is selected, not as 
 the most correct, but as the most poetical read- 
 ing. 
 
 Note 9. 
 
 Of Bcthune's line of Picardic. — P. 11. 
 
 The Bethunes were of French origin, and 
 derived their name from a small town in 
 Artois. There were several distinguished 
 families of the Bethunes in the neighboring 
 province of Picardy ; they numbered among 
 their descendants the celebrated Due de 
 Sully, and the name was accounted among 
 the most noble in France, while aught noble 
 remained in that country .f The family of 
 Bethune, or Beatoun, in Fife, produced 
 three learned and dignified prelates : namely, 
 Cardinal Beaton, and two successive Arch- 
 bishops of Glasgow, all of whom flourished 
 about the date of the romance. Of this 
 family was descended Dame Janet Beaton, 
 Lady Buccleuch, widow of Sir Walter .Scott 
 of Branksome. She was a woman of mas- 
 culine spirit, as appeared from her riding at 
 the head of her son"s clan, after her hus- 
 band's murder. She was telieved by the 
 superstition of the vulgar to possess super- 
 natural knowledge. \\ ith this was mingled, 
 by faction, the foul accusation of her having 
 influenced Queen Mary to the murder of her 
 husband. One of the placards, preserved in 
 Buchanan's Detection, accuses of Darnley's 
 murder " the Erie of Bothwell, Mr, James 
 Balfour, the persoun of Fliske, Mr. David 
 Chalmers, black Mr. John Spens, who was 
 principal deviser of the murder ; and the 
 Queen assenting thairto, throw the persua- 
 sion of the F>le Bothwell, and the witchcraft 
 of Lady Bucklench." 
 
 Note 10. 
 
 He learn'd the art that none may name. 
 In Padua, far beyond the sea. — P. 11. 
 
 Padua was long supposed by the Scottish 
 peasants to be the principal school of necro- 
 mancy. The Earl of Gowrie, slain at Perth, 
 in 1600, pretended, during his studies in Italy, 
 to have acquired some knowledge of the 
 cabala. — See the examination of Wemyss 
 of Bogie, before the Privy Council, concern- 
 ing Gowrie's Conspiracy. 
 
 Note ii. 
 His form no darkening shadow traced 
 
 Upon the sunny wall.- — P. 11. 
 The shadow of a necromancer is independ- 
 ent of the sun. Glycas informs us that 
 Simon Magus caused his shadow to go be- 
 fore him, making people believe it was an 
 
 t This expression and sentime-it were dic- 
 tated by the situation of France, in the year 
 1803, when the poem was originally written. 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MLNSTREL. 
 
 683 
 
 attendant spirit. — Heywood's Hierarchic, 
 p. 475. A common superstition was that 
 when a class of students had made a certain 
 progress in their mystic studies, they were 
 obliged to run through a subterranean hall, 
 where the devil literally caught the hindmost 
 in the race, unless he crossed the hall so 
 speedily that the arch-enemy could only 
 grasp his shadow. Hence the old Scotch 
 proverb, " De'il take the hindmost." Sor- 
 cerers were often fabled to have given their 
 shadows to the fiend. 
 
 Note 12. 
 By wily turns, by desperate bounds, 
 Had baffled Percy'' s best blood-hounds. — 
 
 P. 13. 
 
 The kings and heroes of Scotland, as well 
 as the Border-riders, were sometimes obliged 
 to study how to evade the pursuit of blood- 
 hounds. Barbour informs us that Robert 
 Bruce was repeatedly tracked by sleuth-dogs. 
 On one occasion, he escaped by wading a 
 bow-shot down a brook, and ascending into 
 a tree by a branch which overhung the water ; 
 thus, leaving no trace on land of his foot- 
 steps, he baffled the scent. 
 
 .\ sure way of stopping the dog was to 
 spill blood upon the track, which destroyed 
 the discriminating fineness of his scent. .A. 
 captive was sometimes sacrificed on such 
 occasions. Henry the Minstrel tells a ro- 
 mantic story of Wallace, founded on this cir- 
 cumstance : — The hero's little band had 
 been joined by an Irishman, named Fawdoun, 
 or Fadzean, a dark, savage, and suspicious 
 character. After a sharp skirmish at Black- 
 Erne Side, Wallace was forced to retreat 
 with only sixteen followers, the English pur- 
 suing with a Border blood-hound. 
 
 In the retreat, Fawdoun, tired, or affect- 
 ing to be so. would go no farther, and Wal- 
 lace, having in vain argued with him, in 
 hasty anger, struck off his head, and contin- 
 ued the retreat. When the English came 
 up. their hound stayed upon the dead 
 body : — 
 " The sleuth stopped at Fawdon, still she stood, 
 
 Nor farther would, fra time she fund the 
 blood." 
 
 Note 13. 
 But when Melrose he reached, Hwas silence 
 
 all; 
 He meetly stabled his steed in stall. 
 And sousht the convent's lonely wall. — 
 
 P. 14. 
 
 The ancient and beautiful monastery of 
 Melrose was founded in 1 136 by King David 
 I. It was destroyed by the English in 1322, 
 
 rebuilt by David Bruce, and again injured 
 and effaced at the Reformation, Its ruins 
 afford the finest specimen of Gothic archi- 
 tecture and Gothic sculpture which Scotland 
 can boast. The stone of which it is built, 
 though it has resisted the weather for so 
 many ages, retains perfect sharpness, so that 
 even the most minute ornaments seem as 
 entire as when newly wrought. 
 
 Note 14. 
 When the buttress and buttress, alternately, 
 Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 
 When silver edges the imagery. 
 And the scrolls that teach thee to live and 
 die. 
 
 Then view Si. David'' s ruined pile. — P. 15. 
 
 The buttresses ranged along the sides of 
 the ruins of Melrose Abbey, are, according 
 to the Gothic style, richly carved and fretted, 
 containing niches for the statues of saints, 
 and labelled with scrolls, bearing appropri- 
 ate texts of Scripture. Most of these statues 
 have been demolished. 
 
 David I. of Scotland purchased the repu- 
 tation of sanctity, by founding, and liberally 
 endowing, not only the monastery of Mel- 
 rose, but those of Kelso, Jedburgh, and many 
 others ; which led to the well-known obser- 
 vation of his successor, that he was a sore 
 saint for the crown. 
 
 Note 15. 
 And there the dying lamps did burn. 
 Before thy loav and lonely urn, 
 O gallant Chief of Otterburne ! — P. 16. 
 The famous and desperate battle of Otter- 
 burne was fought 15th August, 1388, between 
 Henry Percy, called Hotspur, and James, 
 Earl of Douglas. Both these renowned rival 
 champions were at the head of a chosen body 
 of troops. Percy was made prisoner, and 
 the Scots won the day through their gallant 
 general. The Earl of Douglas was slain in 
 the action. He was buried at Melrose, 
 beneath the high altar. 
 
 Note 16. 
 
 dark Knight of Liddesdale .' — P. 16. 
 
 William Douglas, called the Knight of 
 Liddesdale. flourished during the reign of 
 David II., and was so distinguished by his 
 valor, that he was called the Flower of Chiv- 
 alry. Nevertheless, he tarnished his renown 
 by the cruel murder of Sir Alexander Ram- 
 say of Dalhousie, originally his friend and 
 brother in arms. The King had conferred 
 upon Ramsay the sheriffdom of Teviotdale, 
 
684 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 to which Douglas pretended some claim. 
 In revenge of this preference, the Knight 
 of Liddesdale came down upon Kamsay, 
 while he was administering justice at 
 Hawick, seized and carried him off to his 
 remote and inaccessible castle of Hermitiige, 
 where he threw his unfortunate prisoner, 
 horse and man, into a dungeon, leaving him 
 to perish of hunger. King David, though 
 incensed at such a high-handed outrage, was 
 compelled to appoint Douglas his victim's 
 successor. 
 
 Note 17. 
 the wondrous Michael Scolt. — P. 17. 
 
 Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie flourished 
 during the 13th century, and was one of the 
 ambassadors sent to bring the maid of Nor- 
 way to Scotland upon the death of Alexan- 
 der III. By a poetical anachronism, he is 
 here placed in a later era. He was a man of 
 much learning, chiefly acquired in foreign 
 countries. He wrote a commentary upon 
 Aristotle, printed at Venice in 1496 : and 
 several treatises upon natural philosophy, 
 from which he appears to have been addicted 
 to the abstruse studies of judicial astrology, 
 alchymy, physiognomy, and chiromancy. 
 Hence he passed among his contemporaries 
 for a skilful magician. Dempster informs 
 us that he remembers to have heard in his 
 youth that the magic books of Michael Scott 
 were still in existence, but could not be 
 opened without danger, on account of the 
 malignant fiends who were thereby invoked. 
 
 Tradition varies concerning the place of 
 his burial ; some contend for MomeColtrame, 
 in Cumberland ; others for Melrose Abbey. 
 But all agree that his books of magic were 
 interred in his grave, or preserved in the con- 
 vent where he died. 
 
 Note 18. 
 The words that cleft Eildon Hills in three. — 
 
 P. 17. 
 Michael Scott was, once upon a time, much 
 embarrassed by a spirit, for whom he was 
 under the necessity of finding constant em- 
 ployment. He commanded him to build a 
 eauld, or damhead, across the Tweed at 
 Kelso ; it was accomplished in one night, 
 and still does honor to the infernal architect. 
 Michael next ordered that Eildon Hill, which 
 was then a uniform cone, should be divided 
 into three, .\nother night was sufficient to 
 part its summit into the three picturesque 
 peaks which it now bears. .At length the 
 enchanter conquered this indefatigable de- 
 mon by employing him in the hopeless and 
 endless task of making ropes out of sea-sand. 
 
 Note 19. 
 The Baron s Dwarf his courser held. — 
 
 P. 19. 
 
 The idea of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page 
 
 is taken from a being called Gilpin Horner, 
 
 who appeared, and made some stay, at a 
 
 farm-house among the Border mountains. 
 
 Note 20. 
 All was delusion, naught was truth. — P. 22 
 
 Glamour, in the legends of Scottish super- 
 stition, means the magic power of imposing 
 on the eyesight of the spectators, so that tiie 
 apjjearance of an object shall be totally dif- 
 ferent from the reality. To such a charm 
 the ballad of Johnny Fa' imputes the f,iscina- 
 tion of the lovely Countess, who eloped with 
 that gipsy leader : — 
 
 " Sae soon as they saw her weel-far'd face, 
 They cast the glamcnir o'er her." 
 
 Note 21. 
 Until they came to a -woodland brook : 
 The running stream dissolved the sfcll. — 
 
 P. 22. 
 It is a firm article of popular faith, that 
 no enchantment can subsist in a living 
 stream. Nay, if you can interpose a brook 
 betwixt you and witches, spectres, or even 
 fiends, you are in jierfect safety. Burns's 
 inimitable Tarn ' Shanter turns entirely 
 upon such a superstition. 
 
 Note 22. 
 He nei'cr counted him a man, 
 
 Would strike below the knee. — P. 23. 
 To wound an antagonist in the thigh or 
 leg was reckoned contrary to the law of 
 arms. In a tilt betwixt Gawain Michael, an 
 English squire, and Joachim Cathore, a 
 Frenchman, " they met at the speare poyntes 
 rudely ; the French squyer justed right pleas- 
 antly : the Englishman ran too lowe, for he 
 strak the Frenchman depe into the thigh. 
 Wherewith the Erie of Buckingham was 
 right sore displeased, and so were all the 
 other lords, and sayde how it was shamefully 
 done." — Froissart, vol i., chap. 366, 
 
 Note 23. 
 On many a cairn's gray pyramid, 
 Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid. — P. 25. 
 The cairns, or piles of loose stones, which 
 crown the summit of most of our Scottish 
 hills, and are found in other remarkable sit- 
 uations, seem usually, though not universally, 
 to have been sepulchral monuments. Si.x 
 flat stones are commonly found in the centre, 
 forming a cavity of greater or smaller dinien- 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MLWSTREL. 
 
 «5 
 
 sions, in which an urn is often placed. The 
 author is possessed of one, discovered beneath 
 an immense cairn at Koughlee, in Liddes- 
 dale. It is of the most barbarous construc- 
 tion ; the middle of the substance alone hav- 
 ing been subjected to the fire, over which, 
 when hardened, the artist had laid an inner 
 and outer coat of unbaked clay, etched with 
 some very rude ornament, his skill appar- 
 ently teing inadequate to baking the vase 
 when completely finished. The contents 
 were bones and ashes, and a quantity of 
 beads made of coal. This seems to have 
 been a barbarous imitation of the Roman 
 fashion of sepulture. 
 
 Note 24. 
 
 For pathless nidrsh, and mountain cell. 
 The feasatit left his lowly shed. — F. 26. 
 
 The morasses were the usual refuge of the 
 Border herdsmen on the approach of an 
 English army. — {Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
 Border, vol. i., p. 303.) Caves, hewed in the 
 most dangerous and inaccessible places, also 
 afforded an occasional retreat, .'^uch caverns 
 may be seen in the precipitous banks of the 
 Teviot at ."^unlaws, upon the Ale at .^ncram, 
 upon the Jed at Hundalee. and in many 
 other places upon tiie Border. The banks 
 of the Eske, at Gorton and Hawthornden, 
 are hollowed into similar recesses. 
 
 Note 25. 
 Watt Tinlinn. — P. 26. 
 This person was, in my younger days, the 
 theme of many a fireside tale. He was a 
 retainer of the Buccleuch family, and held 
 for his Border service a small tower on the 
 frontiers of Liddesdale. Watt was by pro- 
 fession a sutor, but by inclination and prac- 
 tice an archer and warrior. Upon occasion, 
 the captain of Bowcastle, military governor 
 of that wild district of Cumberland, is said 
 to have made an incursion into Scotland, in 
 which he was defeated, and forced to fly. 
 Watt Tinlinn pursued him closely through 
 a dangerous morass ; the captain, however, 
 gained the firm ground: and, seeing Tinlinn 
 dismounted and floundering in the bog, used 
 these words of insult. — ".Sutor Watt, ye 
 cannot sew your boots ; the heels risp, and 
 the seams r/tr." *—'■ If 1 cannot sew," 
 retorted Tinlinn, discharging a shaft, which 
 nailed the captains thigh to his saddle, " if 
 1 cannot sew, I can yerk." t 
 
 * Risfi, creak. — Rive, tear, 
 t Verk, to twitch, as shoemakers do, in secur- 
 ing the stitches of their work. 
 
 Note 26. 
 Belted Will Howard.— P. 27. 
 Lord William Howard, third son of 
 Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, succeeded to 
 Naworth Castle, and a large domain annexed 
 to it, in right of his wife Elizabeth, sister of 
 George Lord Dacre, who died without heirs 
 male, in the nth of Queen Elizabeth. By a 
 poetical anachronism, he is introduced into 
 the romance a few years earlier than he 
 actually flourished. He was warden of the 
 Western Marches ; and, from the rigor with 
 which he repressed the Border excesses, the 
 name of Belted Will Howard is still famous 
 in our traditions. 
 
 Note 27. 
 
 Lord Dacre. — P. 27. 
 
 The well-known name of Dacre is derived 
 
 from the exploits of one of their ancestors 
 
 at the siege of Acre, or Ptolemais, under 
 
 Richard Cceur de Lion. 
 
 Note 28. 
 The German Hackbut-men. — P. 27. 
 In the wars with ."Scotland, Henry \'IH. 
 and his successors employed numerous bands 
 of mercenary troops, .^t the battle of Pinky 
 there were in the English army six hundred 
 ; hackbutters on foot, and two hundred on 
 horseback, composed chiefly of foreigners. 
 On the 27th of .September, 1549, the Duke 
 of Somerset, Lord Protector, writes thus 
 to the Lord Dacre, warden of the \\ est 
 Marches: — '-The Almains, in number two 
 thousand, very valiant soldiers, shall be sent 
 to }'ou shortly from Newcastle, together with 
 Sir Thomas Holcroft, and with the force of 
 your wardenry (which we would were ad- 
 vanced to the most strength of horsemen 
 that might be), shall make the attempt to 
 Loughmaben, being of no such strength but 
 that it may be skaiM with kidders, wliereof, 
 beforehand, we would you caused secretly 
 some numter to be provided ; or else under- 
 mined with the pvke-axe, and so taken: 
 either to be kept for the King's Majesty, 
 or otherwise to be defaced, and taken from 
 the profits of the enemy. And in like man- 
 ner the house of Carlaverock to be used." -- 
 History of Cumberland, vol. i., Introd., p. Ixi. 
 
 Note 29. 
 " Ready, aye ready,'' for the field. — W 27- 
 Sir John Scott of Thirlestane flourished 
 in the reign of James V., and possessed the 
 estates of Ihirlcstane, Gamcscleuch, etc., 
 lying upon the river of Ettrick, and e.xtend- 
 
686 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 ing to St. Mary's Loch, at the head of 
 Yarrow. It apjjears that when James had 
 assembled his nobility and their feudal fol- 
 lowers, at Fala, with the purpose of invading 
 England, and was, as is well-known, disap- 
 pointed by the obstinate refusal of his peers, 
 this baron alone declared himself ready to 
 follow the King wherever he should lead. 
 In memory of his fidelity, James granted to 
 his family a charter of arms, entitling them 
 to bear a border of fieurs-de-luce, similar to 
 the tressure in the royal arms, with a bundle 
 of spears for the crest : motto, Ready, aye 
 ready. 
 
 Note 30. 
 Their gathering word was Bellenden. — 
 
 P. 29. 
 Bellenden is situated near the head of 
 Borthwick water, and being in the centre of 
 the possessions of the Scotts, was frequently 
 used as their place of rendezvous and gath- 
 ering word. 
 
 Note 31. 
 That he may sttffer march-treason pain. — 
 
 P. 31. 
 Several species of offences, peculiar to the 
 Border, constituted what was called march- 
 treason. Among others, was the crime of 
 riding, or causing to ride, against the oppo- 
 site country during the time of truce. Tims, 
 in an indenture made on the 25th day of 
 March, 1334, betwixt noble lords Sirs Menry 
 Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and Archi- 
 bald Douglas, Lord of Galloway, a truce is 
 agreed upon until the ist day of July, and it 
 is expressly accorded, " Gif ony stellis authir 
 on the ta part, or on the tothyr, that he shall 
 be iianget or heofdit ; and gif ony company 
 stellis any gudes within the trieux before- 
 sayd, ane of tliat company sail be lianget or 
 heofdit, and the remanant sail restore tlie 
 gudys stolen in the dubble."' — History of 
 Westmoreland and Cumberland, Introd., p. 
 xxxix. 
 
 Note 32. 
 Knighthood he took of Douqlas'' sivord. — 
 
 P. 3.. 
 The dignity of knighthood, according to 
 the original institution, had this peculiarity, 
 that it did not flow from the monarch, but 
 could be conferred by one who himself pos- 
 sessed it, upon any squire who, after due j 
 probation, was found to merit the honor of j 
 chivalry. 'l-atterly, this power was confined i 
 to generals, who were wont to create knights I 
 bannerets after or before an engagement. | 
 
 Note 33. 
 When English blood swelPd Ancram's ford. 
 
 -P. 31. 
 The battle of Ancram Moor, or Peniel- 
 heuch, was fought a.d. 1545. The English, 
 commanded by Sir Ralph Evers and Sir 
 Brian Latoun, were totally routed, and both 
 their leaders slain in the action. The Scot- 
 tish army was commanded by Archibald 
 Douglas, Earl of Angus, assisted by the 
 Laird of Buccleuch and Norman Lesley. 
 
 Note 34. 
 
 For who, in field or foray slack, 
 Saw the blanche lion e'er fall back. — 
 
 P. 32. 
 
 This was the cognizance of the noble 
 
 house of Howard in all its branches. The 
 
 crest, or bearing of a warrior, was often 
 
 used as a nomme de guerre. 
 
 Note 35. 
 The Bloody Heart blazed in the van, 
 Annou?tcing Douglas, dreaded name. — 
 
 I'- 34. 
 The chief of this potent race of heroes, 
 about the date of the poem, was Archibald 
 Douglas, seventh Earl of .Angus, a man of 
 great courage and activity. The Bloody 
 Heart was the well-known cognizance of the 
 House of Douglas, assumed from the time 
 of good Lord James, to whose care Robert 
 Bruce committed his heart, to be carried to 
 the Holy Land. 
 
 Note 36. 
 And Swinton laid the lance in rest. 
 That tamed of yore the sparkling crest 
 Of Clarence's Plant ag^enet. — P. 34. 
 At the battle of Beauge, in France. 
 Thomas, Duke of Clarence, brother to 
 Henry V., was unhorsed by Sir John Swin- 
 ton, of .'^winton, who distinguished him by 
 a coronet set witli precious stones, which he 
 wore around his helmet. The family of 
 .Swinton is one of the most ancient in Scot- 
 land, and produced many celebrated war 
 riors. 
 
 Note 37. 
 And shoutine still, " A Home I a Home .' " 
 
 -P-34. 
 The Earls of Home, as descendants of the 
 Dunbars, ancient Earls of March, carried a 
 lion rampant, argent : but, as a difference, 
 clianged the color of the shield from gules 
 to vert, in allusion to Greenlaw, their an- 
 cient possession. The slogan or war-cry of 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 687 
 
 this powerful family was, " A Home ! a 
 Home!" It was anciently placed in an 
 esciol above the crest. The helmet is 
 armed with a lion's head erased gules, with 
 a cap of state gules, turned up ermine. 
 
 The Hepburns, a powerful family in East 
 Lothian, were usually in close alliance with 
 the Homes. Tlie chief of this clan was 
 Hepburn, Lord of Hailes: a family which 
 terminated in the too famous Earl of Both- 
 well. 
 
 Note 38. 
 ^Tivixt truce and war, such sudden change 
 Was not infrequent, nor held strange, 
 
 In the old Border-day. — P. 35. 
 
 Notwithstanding the constant wars upon 
 the Borders, and the occasional cruelties 
 wliich marked the mutual inroads, the in- 
 habitants on either side do not appear to 
 have regarded each other with that violent 
 and personal animosity which might have 
 been expected. On the contrary, like the 
 outposts of hostile armies, they often car- 
 ried on something resembling friendly inter- 
 course, even in the middle of hostilities ; 
 and it is evident, from various ordinances 
 against trade and intermarriages, between 
 English and Scottish Borderers, that tlie 
 governments of both countries were jealous 
 of their cherishing too intimate a connection. 
 
 Note 39. 
 
 on the darkening plain. 
 
 Loud hollo, whoop, or Tvhistle ran, 
 As bands, their stragglers to regain. 
 
 Give the shrill watchword of their clan. — 
 
 Patten remarks, with bitter censure, the 
 disorderly conduct of the Engiisli Borderers, 
 who attended the Protector Somerset on his 
 expedition against .Scotland. 
 
 Note 40 
 She wrought not by forbidden spell. — 
 
 P. 41. 
 
 Popular belief, though contrary to the 
 doctrines of the Church, made a favorable 
 distinction betwixt magicians and necro- 
 mancers, or wizards : the former were sup- 
 posed to command the evil spirits, and the 
 latter to serve, or at least to be in league 
 and compact with, those enemies of man- 
 kind. The arts of subjecting the demons 
 were manifold ; sometimes the fiends were 
 actually swindled by the magicians.* 
 
 * There are some amusing German and Irish 
 tones to that effect. 
 
 Note 41. 
 
 A merlin sat upon her wrtsi, 
 
 Held by a leash of silken twist. — P. 41 
 
 A merlin, or sparrow-hawk, was actually 
 carried by ladies of rank, as a falcon was, in 
 time of peace, the constant attendant of a 
 knight or baron. See L.ath am on Falconry. 
 — Godscroft relates, that when Mary of Lor- 
 raine was regent she pressed the Earl of 
 Angus to admit a royal garrison into his 
 Castle of Tantallon. To this he, returned 
 no direct answer; but, as if apostrophizing 
 a goss-hawk, which sat on his wrist, and 
 which he was feeding during the Queen's 
 speech, he exclaimed, " The devil's in this 
 greedy glede, she will never be full." Home's 
 History of the House of Douglas, 1743, ^"l. 
 ii., p. 131. Barclay complains of the com- 
 mon and indecent practice of bringing hawks 
 and hounds into churches. 
 
 Note 42. 
 
 And princely peacock's gilded train, 
 And o^er the boar-head, garnish' d brave. 
 -P. 41. 
 
 The peacock, it is well known, was con- 
 sidered, during the times of chivalry, not 
 merely as an e.xquisite delicacy, but as a 
 dish of peculiar solemnity. After being 
 roasted, it was again decorated with its 
 plumage, and a sponge, dipped in lighted 
 spirits of wine, was placed in its bill. When 
 it was introduced on days of grand festival, 
 it was the signal for the adventurous knights 
 to take upon them vows to do some deed of 
 chivalry, " before the peacock and the ladies."' 
 
 The boar's head was also a usual dish of 
 feudal splendor. In Scotland it was some- 
 times surrounded with little banners display- 
 ing the colors and achievements of tiie baron 
 at whose board it was served. — Pjnker- 
 ton's History, vol. i., p. 432. 
 
 Note 43. 
 
 Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthill. — 
 
 P.4I- 
 The Rutherfords of Hunthill were an an- 
 cient race of Border Lairds, whose names 
 occur in history, sometimes as defending the 
 frontier against the English, sometimes as 
 disturljing the jieace of their own country. 
 Dickon Draw-thc-sword was son to the an- 
 cient warrior, called in tradition the Cock of 
 Huntliill. remarkable for leading into battle 
 nine sons, gallant warriors, all sons of thtt 
 aged champion. 
 
688 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note 44. 
 
 bit his glove. — P. 41. 
 
 To bite the tliunib, or the glove, seems not 
 to have Ijcen considered, upon the Border, as 
 a gesture of contempt, though so used by 
 Shakespeare, but as a pledge of mortal re- 
 venge. It is yet rememtered, that a young 
 gentleman of Teviotdale, on the morning 
 after a hard drinking-bout, observed that he 
 had bitten his glove. He instantly demanded 
 of his companion with whom lie had quar- 
 relled ? And, learning that he had had words 
 with one of the party, insisted on instant 
 satisfaction, asserting that though he remem- 
 bered nothing of the dispute, yet he was sure 
 he never would have bit his glove unless he 
 had received some unpardonable insult. He 
 fell in the duel, which was fought near Sel- 
 kirk, in 1721. 
 
 Note 45. 
 
 old Albert Grame, 
 
 The Minstrel of thai ancient name. — P. 42. 
 " John Grseme, second son of Malice, Earl 
 of Montcith, commonly surnamed John -with 
 the Bright Sword, upon some displeasure 
 risen against him at court, retired with many 
 of his clan and kindred into the English Uor- 
 ders, in the reign of King Henry the I'ourth, 
 where they seated themselves ; and many of 
 their posterity have continued ever since. 
 Mr. .Sandford, speaking of them, says (which 
 indeed was applicable to most of the Bor- 
 derers on both sides), 'They were all stark 
 
 moss-troopers and arrant thieves : both to 
 England and .Scotland outlawed ; yet some- 
 times connived at, tecause they gave intelli- 
 gence forth of -Scotland, and would raise four 
 hundred horse at any time upon a raid of the 
 English into .Scotland. .^^ saying is recorded 
 of a mother to her son (which is now become 
 proverbial). Hide, Rowley, hough's i ' the pot : 
 that is, the last piece of beef was in the pot, 
 and therefore it was high time for him to go 
 and fetch more.' " — Introduction to the His- 
 tory of Cumberland. 
 
 Note 46. 
 [\ho has not heard of Surrey's fame ? — 
 
 P-43- 
 The gallant and unfortunate Henry How- 
 ard, Earl of .'Surrey, was unquestionably the 
 most accomplished cavalier of his time ; and 
 his sonnets display teauties which would do 
 honor to a more polished age. He was be- 
 headed on Tower-hill in 1546; a victim to 
 the mean jealousy of Henry \'in., who could 
 not bear so brilliant a character near his 
 throne. 
 
 The song of the supposed bard is founded 
 on an incident said to have happened to the 
 Earl in his travels. Cornelius Agrippa, the 
 celebrated alchemist, showed him in a look- 
 ing-glass the lovely Geraldine, to whose ser- 
 vice he had devoted his pen and his sword. 
 The vision represented her as indisposed, and 
 reclining upon a couch, reading her lover's 
 verses by the light of a waxen taper. 
 
 M A R M I O N. 
 
 Note i. 
 
 As when the Champion of the Lake 
 Enters Morgana'' s fated house, 
 Or in the Chapel Perilous, 
 Despising spells and demons' force, 
 Holds converse with the unburied corse. 
 - P- 53- 
 The romance of the Morte Arthur contains 
 a sort of abridgment of the most celebrated 
 adventures of the Round Table; and, ixiing 
 written in comparatively modern language, 
 gives the general reader an excellent idea of 
 what romances of chivalry actually were. It 
 has also the merit of being written in pure 
 old English ; and many of the wil4 adven- 
 
 tures which it contains are told with a sim 
 plicity bordering upon the sublime. Several ol 
 these are referred to in the te.xt : and I would 
 have illustrated them by more full extracts, 
 but as this curious work is about to te re- 
 publisiied, 1 confine myself to the tale of the 
 Chapell Perilous, and of the quest of Sir 
 Launcelot after the -Sangreal. 
 
 " Right so .Sir Launcelot departed, and 
 when he came to the Chapell Perilous, he 
 alighted downe, and tied his horse to a little 
 gate. And as soon as he was within the 
 churchyard, he saw on the front of the chapell, 
 many faire rich shields turned upside downe ; 
 and many of the shields .'^ir Tauncelot had 
 scene knights have before ; with that he saw 
 
MARMIOX. 
 
 689 
 
 stand by him thirtie great knights, more, by a 
 yard, than any man that ever he had seene, 
 and all those grinned and gnaslied at Sir 
 Launcelot; and when he saw their counte- 
 nance, hee dread them sore, and so put his 
 shield afore him, and tooke his sword in his 
 hand, ready to doe battaile ; and they were 
 all armed in black harneis, ready, with their 
 shields and swords drawen. And when Sir 
 Launcelot would have gone through tliem, 
 they scattered on every side of liim, and gave 
 liim the way ; and tlierewith he waxed ail bold, 
 and entered into thechapell,and then hee saw 
 no light but a dimmelampe burning, and then 
 was he ware of a corps covered with a cloath 
 of silke ; then Sir Launcelot stooped downe, 
 and cut a piece of that cloath away, and then 
 it fared under him as the earth had quaked a 
 little, whereof he was afeard, and then hee saw 
 a faire sword lye by the dead knight, and that 
 he gat in his hand, and hied liiiii out of the 
 clwppell. As soon as he was in the chappell- 
 yerd, all the knights spoke to him with a 
 grimly voice, and said, 'Knight, Sir Launce- 
 lot, lay that sword from thee, or else thou 
 simlt die.'— ' Whether I live or die,' said Sir 
 Launcelot, 'with no great words get yee it 
 againe, therefore tight for it and yee list.' 
 'Jherewith he passed through tliem ; and, te- 
 yond the chappell-yerd, there met him a faire 
 lamosell, and said, ' Sir Launcelot, leave that 
 sword tehind thee, or thou wilt die for it.' — 
 • 1 will not leave it,' said Sir Launcelot, 'for 
 lo threats.' — ' No?' said she, 'and ye did 
 leave that sword, Queen Guenever should ye 
 never see.' — ' Then were I a fool and I would 
 leave this sword,' said Sir Launcelot. — 
 ' Now, gentle knight,' said the damosell, ' 1 
 require tliee to kiss me once.' — ' Nay,' said 
 Sir Launcelot, 'that (iod forbid !'—' Well, 
 sir,' said she. ' and thou haddest kissed me 
 thy life dayes had teen done, but now, alas ! ' 
 said she, ' I have lost all my latx)r ; for 1 or- 
 deined this chappell for thy sake, and for Sir 
 Gawaine ; and once I had Sir Gawaine within 
 it; and at that time he fought with that 
 l:riiglit which there lieth dead in yonder 
 cliappell, .Sir Gilbert the bastard, and that 
 time hee smote off Sir Giltert the bastard's 
 left hand. And so, .Sir Launcelot, now 1 tell 
 thee, that I have loved thee these seaven 
 yeare ; but there may no woman have thy 
 love but Queene Guenever ; but sithen J m.ay 
 not rejoyice thee to have thy body alive, 1 
 had kept no more joy in this world but to 
 have had thy dead body ; and I would have 
 balmed it and served, and so have kept it in 
 my life dales, and daily I should have clipiied 
 thee, and kissed thee, in the despite of Queen 
 Guenever.' — ' Yee say well,' said -Sir Launce- 
 lot ; ' Jesus preserve me from your subtill 
 
 craft.' And therewith he took his horse and 
 departed from her." 
 
 Note 2. 
 A sinful man, and tinconfcss'd. 
 He took the SangreaVs holy quest, 
 And, slumbering, saw the vision high, 
 He tnight not view with waking eye. — 
 
 P. 54. 
 One day, when Arthur was holding a high 
 feast with his Knights of the Kound Table, 
 the Sangreal, or vessel out of which the last 
 passover was eaten (a precious relic, which 
 had long remained concealed from human 
 eyes, tecauseof the sins of the land), suddenly 
 apjieared to him and all his chivalry. The 
 consequence of this vision was, that all the 
 knights took on them a solemn vow to seek 
 the Sangreal. Lint alas! it could only be re- 
 vealed to a knight at once accomplished in 
 earthly chivalry, and pure and guiltless of 
 evil conversation. All Sir Launcelot's noble 
 accomplishments were therefore rendered vain 
 by his guilty intrigue with Queen Guenever 
 or Ganore; and in his holy quest he encoun- 
 tered only such disgraceful disasters as that 
 which follows : — 
 
 " But Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and 
 endlong in a wild forest, and held no path 
 but as wild adventure led him ; and at the last 
 he came unto a stone crosse, which departed 
 two waves, in wast land ; and, by the crosse, 
 was a stone that was of marble; but it was 
 so dark, that Sir Launcelot might not well 
 know what it was. Then Sir Launcelot 
 looked by him, and saw an old chappell, and 
 there he wend to have found people. And 
 so .Sir Launcelot tied his horse to a tree, 
 and there he put off his shield, and hung it 
 upon a tree, and then hee went unto the 
 chappell doore, and found it wasted and 
 broken. And within he found a faire altar, 
 full richly arrayed with cloth of silk, and 
 there stood a faire candlestick, which beare 
 six great candles, and the candlesticke was 
 of silver. And when .Sir Launcelot saw this 
 hght, he had a gre,at will for to enter into the 
 chappell, but he could hnd no place where hee 
 might enter. . Then was hee passing heavie 
 and dismaied. Then he returned, and came 
 againe to his horse, and tooke off his saddle 
 and his bridle, and let him pasture, und un- 
 laced his helme, and ungirded his sword, and 
 laid him downe to sleepe upon his shield, 
 before the crosse. 
 
 "And so hee fell on sleepe; and, halfe 
 waking and halfe sleeping, hee saw come by 
 him two palfreys, both faire and white, the 
 which beare a litter, therein lying a sicke 
 knight. And when he was nigh the crosse, 
 
690 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 he there abode still. All this Sir Launcelot 
 saw and beheld, for hee slept not verily, and 
 hee heard him say, ' O sweete Lord, when 
 shall this sorrow leave me, and when shall 
 the holy vessel come by me, where through 
 I shall be blessed, for 1 have endured thus 
 long for little trespasse ! ' And thus a great 
 while complained the knight, and allwaies 
 Sir Launcelot heard it. With that Sir 
 Launcelot saw the candlesticke, with the fire 
 tapers, come before the crosse ; but he could 
 see no lx>dy that brought it. Also there came 
 a table of silver, and the holy vessell of the 
 Sancgreall, the which Sir Launcelot had 
 seen before tliat time in King Petchour's 
 house. And therewithal! the sicke knight 
 set him upright, and held up both his hands, 
 and said, ' Faire sweete Lord, which is here 
 within the holy vessell, take heede to mee, 
 that I may bee hole of this great malady ! ' 
 And therewith upon his hands, and upon his 
 knees, he .vent so nigh, that he touched tiie 
 holy vessell and kissed it : And anon he was 
 hole, and then he said, ' Lord God, I thank 
 thee, for I am healed of this malady.' Soo 
 when the holy vessell had been there a great 
 while, it went into the chappelle againe, with 
 the candlesticke and tlie light, so that Sir 
 Launcelot wist not where it became, for he 
 was overtaken with sinne, that hee had no 
 power to arise against the holy vessell, 
 wherefore afterward many men said of him 
 shame. But he tooke reixintance afterward. 
 Then the sicke knight dressed him upright, 
 and kissed the crosse. Then anon his 
 squire brought him his amies, and asked his 
 lord how he did. ' Certainly,' said hee, ' I 
 thanke God right heartily, for through the 
 holy vessell I am healed : But I have right 
 great mervaile of this sleeping knight, which 
 hath had neither grace nor power to awake 
 during the time that this holy vessell hath 
 beene here present.' — 'I dare it right well 
 say,' said the squire, ' that this same 
 knight is defouled with some manner of 
 deadly sinne, whereof he has never con- 
 fessed.' — ' By my faith,' said the knight, 
 ' whatsoever he b)e he is unhappie ; for, as I 
 deeme, hee is of the fellowship of the Round 
 Table, the which is entred into the quest 
 of the Sancgreall.' — '.Sir,' said the squire, 
 ' here I have brought you all your amies, 
 save your helme and your sword ; and, there- 
 fore, by mine assent, now may ye take this 
 knight's helme and his sword ; ' and so he 
 did. And when he was cleane armed, he 
 took Sir Launcelot's horse, for he was 
 better than his owne, and so they departed 
 from the crosse. 
 
 " Then anon Sir Launcelot awaked, and 
 set himselfe upright, and he thought him 
 
 what hee had there scene, and whether it 
 were dreames or not ; right so he heard a 
 voice that said, * Sir Launcelot, more hardy 
 than is the stone, and more bitter than is 
 the wood, and more naked and bare than is 
 the liefe of the fig-tree, therefore go thou 
 from hence, and withdraw thee from this 
 holy place ; ' and when -Sir Launcelot heard 
 this, he was passing heavy, and wist not 
 what to doe. And so he departed sore 
 weeping, and cursed the time that he was 
 Ijorne ; for then he deemed never to have 
 had more worship; for the words went unto 
 his heart, till that he knew wherefore that 
 hee was so called." 
 
 Note 3. 
 And Dryden, in immortal strain, 
 Had raised the Table Round again. — P. 54. 
 
 Dryden's melancholy account of his pro- 
 jected Epic l^oem, blasted by the selfish and 
 sordid parsimony of his patrons, is con- 
 tained in an " Essay on Satire," addressed 
 to the Earl of Dorset, and prefixed to the 
 Translation of Juvenal. .After mentioning 
 a plan of supplying machinery from the 
 guardian angels of kingdoms, mentioned in 
 the Book of Daniel, he adds : — 
 
 " Thus, my lord, I have, as briefly as I 
 could, given your lordship, and by you the 
 world, a rude draught of what 1 have been 
 long laboring in my imagination, and what 
 I had intended to have put in practice ; 
 (though far unable for the attempt of such a 
 pf)em ;) and to have left the stage, to which 
 my genius never much inclined me, for a 
 work which would have taken up my life in 
 the performance of it. This, too, I liad in- 
 tended chiefly for the honor of my native 
 country, to which a poet is particularly 
 obliged. Of two subjects, both relating to 
 it, 1 was doubtful whether I should choose 
 that of King .Arthur conquering the ."^a.xons, 
 which, being farther distant in time, gives 
 the greater scope to my invention : or that 
 of Edward the Black Prince, in sulxluing 
 Spain and restoring it to the lawful prince, 
 though a great tyrant, Don Pedro the Cruel ; 
 which, for the compass of time, including 
 only the expedition of one year, for the 
 greatness of the action and its answerable 
 event, for the magnanimity of the English 
 hero, opposed to the ingratitude of the 
 person whom he restored, and for the many 
 beautiful episodes which I had interwoven 
 with the principal design, together with the 
 characters of the chiefest English persons, 
 (wherein, after Virgil and .Spenser, I would 
 have taken occasion to represent my living 
 friends and patrons of tlie noblest families, 
 
MARMION. 
 
 691 
 
 and also shadowed the event of future ages in 
 the succession of our imperial line), — with 
 these helps, and those of the machines 
 which I have mentioned, 1 might perhapis 
 have done as well as some of my predeces- 
 sors, or at least chalked out a way for 
 others to amend my errors in a like design ; 
 but being encouraged only with fair words 
 by King Charles II., my little salary ill 
 paid, and no prospect of future subsistence, 
 1 was then discouraged in the beginning of 
 my attempt ; and now age has overtaken me, 
 and want, a more insufferable evil, through 
 the change of the times, has wholly disabled 
 me." 
 
 Note 4. 
 
 Their theme the tnerry minstrels made, 
 
 Of Ascapart, and Bevis hold. — P. 54. 
 
 The " History of Bevis of Hampton " is 
 abridged by my friend Mr. George Ellis, 
 with that liveliness which extracts amuse- 
 ment even out of the most rude and un- 
 promising of our old tales of chivalry. 
 Ascapart, a most important personage in 
 the romance, is thus described in an ex- 
 tract : — 
 " This geaunt was mighty and strong, 
 
 And full thirty foot was long. 
 
 He was bristled like a sow ; 
 
 A foot he \\\A between each brow ; 
 
 His lips were great, and hung aside; 
 
 His even were hollow, his mouth was wide ; 
 
 Ijjtlily he was to look on tlian, 
 
 And liker a devil than a man. 
 
 His staff was a young oak. 
 
 Hard and heavy was his stroke." 
 
 Specimens of Metrical Romances, 
 vol. ii., p. 136. 
 
 I am happy to say that the memory of Sir 
 Cevis is still fragrant in his town of South- 
 ampton ; the gate of whicli is sentinelled by 
 the effigies of that doughty knight-errant 
 and his gigantic associate. 
 
 Note 5. 
 Day set on Norham's castled steep. 
 And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, etc. 
 
 - P- 54. 
 The ruinous castle of Norham (anciently 
 called Ubbanford), is situated on the south- 
 ern bank of the Tweed, about six miles 
 above Berwick, and where that river is still 
 the boundary between England and Scot- 
 land. The extent of its ruins, as well as its 
 historical importance, shows it to have been 
 a place of magnificence, as well as strength. 
 Edward I. resided there when he was cre- 
 ated umpire of the dispute concerning 
 the Scottish succession. It was repeatedly 
 taken and retaken during the wars between 
 England and Scotland ; and, indeed, scarce 
 
 any happened in which it had not a princi- 
 pal share. Norham Castle is situated on a 
 steep bank which overhangs the river. The 
 repeated sieges which the castle had sus- 
 tained rendered frequent repairs necessary. 
 In 1164, it was almost rebuilt by Hugh 
 Pudsey, Bishop of Durham, who added a 
 huge keep or donjon ; notwithstanding which 
 King Henry 11., in 1174, took the castle 
 from the bishop and committed the keeping 
 of it to William de Neville. After this 
 period it seems to have been chiefly gar- 
 risoned by the King, and considered as a 
 royal fortress. The Greys of Chillingham 
 Castle were frequently the castellans, or 
 captains of the garrison ; yet, as the castle 
 was situated in the patrimony of St. Cuth- 
 bert, the property was in the see of Durham 
 till the Reformation. After that period it 
 passed through various hands. At the 
 union of the crowns, it was in the ftos- 
 session of Sir Robert Carey (afterwards Earl 
 of Monmouth) for his own life, and that of 
 two of his sons. After King James's acces- 
 sion, Carey sold Norham Castle to George 
 Home, Earl of Dunbar, for /6,ooo. See his 
 curious Memoirs, published by Mr. Con- 
 stable of Edinburgh. 
 
 According to Mr. Pinkerton, there is, in 
 the British Museum, Cal. B. 6, 216, a curi- 
 ous memoir of the Dacres on the State of 
 Norham Castle in 1522, not long after the 
 battle of Flodden. The inner ward, or 
 keep, is represented as impregnable : " The 
 provisions are three great vats of salt eels, 
 forty-four kine, three hogsheads of salted 
 salmon, forty quarters of grain, besides 
 many cows and four hundred sheep, lying 
 under the castle-wall nightly ; but a num- 
 ber of the arrows wanted feathers, and a 
 good Fletcher (t.e. maker of arrows) was 
 required." — History of Scialand, voL ii^ 
 p. 201, note. 
 
 The ruins of the castle are at present con- 
 siderable, as well a? picturesque. They 
 consist of a large shattered tower, with 
 many vaults, and fragments of other edifices 
 enclosed within an outward wall of great 
 circuit. 
 
 Note 6. 
 The battled tcrwers, the donjon keep. — P. 54. 
 
 It is perhaps unnecessary to remind my 
 readers that the donjon, in its proper signi- 
 fication, means the strongest part of a feudal 
 castle : a high square tower, with walls of 
 tremendous thickness, situated in the centre 
 of the other buildings, from which, however, 
 it was usually detached. Here, in case of 
 the outward defences being gained, the gar- 
 rison retreated to make their last stand. 
 
692 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 The donjon contained the great hall and 
 principal rooms of state for solemn occa- 
 sions, and also the prison of the fortress; 
 from which last circumstance we derive the 
 modern and restricted use of the word duti- 
 geon. Ducange {voce DuNjo) conjectures 
 plausibly, that the name is derived from 
 these keeps teing usually built upon a hill, 
 which in Celtic is called Dun. Borlase 
 supposes the word came from the darkness 
 of the apartments in these towers, which 
 were thence figuratively called Dungeons : 
 thus deriving the ancient word from the 
 modern application of it. 
 
 Note 7. 
 
 Well was he arvt'd front head to heel. 
 In mail and plate of Milan steel. 
 
 - P- 55. 
 The artists of Milan were famous in the 
 Middle Ages for their skill in armory, as 
 appears from the following passage, in which 
 Froissart gives an account of the prepara- 
 tions made by Henry, F.arl of Hereford, 
 afterwards Henry IV., and Thomas, Duke 
 of Norfolk, Earl Marischal, for their pro- 
 posed combat in the lists at Coventry: — 
 " These two lords made ample provision of 
 all things necessary for the combat ; and the 
 Earl of Derby sent off messtiugers to I.om- 
 bardy, to have armor from .Sir Galeas, Duke 
 of Milan. The Duke complied with joy, 
 and gave the knight, called .Sir Francis, who 
 had brought the message, the choice of all 
 his armor for the Earl of Derliy. When he 
 had selected what he wished for in plated 
 and mail armor, the Ford of Milan, out of 
 his abundant love for the Fart, ordered 
 four of the best armorers in Milan to accom- 
 pany the knight to England, that the Earl 
 of Derby might be more completely armed." 
 JOHNES' Froissart, vol. iv., p. 597. 
 
 Note S. 
 
 Who checks at me, to death is di^ht. 
 
 -P. 55. 
 
 The crest and motto of Marmion are lx>r- 
 rowed from the following story : — .Sir David 
 de Lindsay, first Earl of Crauford, was, 
 among other gentlemen of quality, attended 
 during a visit to I^ondon, in i,^<)0> by .Sir 
 William Dalzell, who was, according to my 
 authority. Bower, not only excelling in wis- 
 dom, but also of a lively wit. Chancing to 
 be at the court, he there saw Sir Piers Cour- 
 tenay, an English knight, famous for skill 
 in tilting, and for the beauty of his person, 
 parading the palace, arrayed in a new man- 
 
 tle, bearing for device an embroidered falcon, 
 with this rhyme, — 
 
 " I tear a falcon, fairest of flight, 
 Whoso pinches at her, his death is dight* 
 In graith." t 
 
 The Scottish knight, being a wag, ap- 
 peared next day in a dress exactly similar to 
 that of Courtenay, but bearing a magpie in- 
 stead of the falcon, with a motto ingeniously 
 contrived to rhyme to the vaunting inscrip- 
 tion of Sir Piers : — 
 " I bear a pie picking at a peice, 
 
 Whoso picks at her, 1 shall pick at his nese, % 
 In faith." 
 
 This affront could only be expiated by a 
 joust with sharp lances. In the course, Dal- 
 zell left his helmet unlaced, so that it gave 
 way at the touch of his antagonist's lance, 
 and he thus avoided the shock of the en- 
 counter. This happened twice : in the third 
 encounter the handsome Courtenay lost two 
 of his front teeth. As the F'nglishman com- 
 plained bitterly of Dalzell's fraud in not fas- 
 tening his helmet, the Scottishman agreed to 
 run six courses more, each champion staking 
 in the hand of the King two hundred pounds, 
 to be forfeited, if, on entering the list, any 
 unequal advantage should Ix' detected. 'J'his 
 being agreed to, the wily .Scot demanded that 
 Sir Piers, in addition to the loss of his teeth, 
 should consent to the extinction of one of 
 his eyes, he himself having lost an eye in the 
 fight of Ottcrburne. As Courtenay demurred 
 to this equalization of optical powers, Dal- 
 zell demanded the forfeit ; which, after much 
 altercation, the King appointed to be paid 
 to him, saying, he surpassed the English 
 both in wit and valor. This must apjiear to 
 the reader a singular specimen of the humor 
 of that time. I suspect the Jockey Club 
 would have given a different decision from 
 Henry I\'. 
 
 Note 9. 
 They hail'd Lord Marmion : 
 They hail'd him Lord of Pontenaye, 
 Of Luticni'ard, and Scrivelbaye, 
 
 Of Tavnvorth tower and town. — P. 56. 
 
 Lord Marmion, the principal character of 
 the present romance, is entirely a fictitious 
 personage. In earlier times, indeed, the 
 family of Marmion, Lords of Fontenaye, 
 in Normandy, was highly distinguished. 
 RolDcrt de Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, a 
 distinguished follower of the Conqueror, ob- 
 tained a grant of the castle and town of 
 Tamworth, and also of the manor of .Scriv- 
 elby, in Lincolnshire. One or both of these 
 noble possessions was held by the honorable 
 
 * Prepared. t Armor. X Nose. 
 
MARMION. 
 
 693 
 
 service of being the Royal Champion, as the 
 ancestors of Marniion had formerly been to 
 the Dukes of Normandy. But after tlie 
 castle and demesne of Taniworth had passed 
 through four successive barons from Robert, 
 the family became extinct in the person 
 of Philip de Marmion, who died in 20th 
 Edward I. without issue male. He was suc- 
 ceeded in his castle of Tamworth by Alex- 
 ander de Freville, who married Mazera, his 
 granddaughter. Baldwin de Freville, Alex- 
 ander's descendant, in the reign of Richard 
 I., by the supi>osed tenure of his castle at 
 Tamworth, claimed the office of Royal Cham- 
 pion, and to do the service appertaining; 
 namely, on the day of coronation, to ride, 
 completely armed, upon a barbed horse, into 
 Westminster Hall, and there to challenge 
 the combat against any who would gainsay 
 the King's title. But this office was ad- 
 judged to Sir John Dymoke, to whom the 
 manor of Scrivelby had descended by another 
 of the co-heiresses of Roliert de Marmion; 
 and it remains in that family, whose repre- 
 sentative is Hereditary Champion of Eng- 
 land at the present day. The family and 
 possessions of Freville have merged in the 
 Earls of F"errars. I have not, therefore, 
 created a new family, but only revived the 
 titles of an old one in an imaginary person- 
 age. 
 
 It was one of the Marmion family who, in 
 the reign of Edward II., performed that 
 chivalrous feat before the very castle of 
 Norham, which Bishop Percy has woven 
 into his beautiful ballad, " The Hermit of 
 Warkworth." The story is thus told by 
 Leland : — 
 
 " The .Scottes cam yn to the marches of 
 England, and destroyed the castles of Work 
 and Herbotel. and overran much of Northum- 
 berland marclies. 
 
 " At this tyme, Thomas Gray and his 
 friendes defended Norham from the Scottes. 
 
 " It were a wonderful processe to declare, 
 what mischefes cam by hungre and asseges 
 by the space of xi. years in Northumberland ; 
 for the Scottes became so proude. after they 
 had got Berwick, that they nothing esteemed 
 the Englishmen. 
 
 " About this tyme there was a great feste 
 made yn Lincolnshir, to which came many 
 gentlemen and ladies ; and among them one 
 lady brought a heaulme for a man of were, 
 with a very riclie creste of gold, to William 
 Marmion, knight, with a letter of commande- 
 ment of her lady, that he should go into the 
 daungerest place in England, and therto let 
 the heaulme be scene and known as famous. 
 So he went to Norham ; whither, within 4 
 days of cumming, cam Philip Moubray, 
 
 guardian of Berwicke, having yn his bande 
 40 men of armes, the very flour of men of 
 the Scottish marches. 
 
 "Thomas Gray, capitayne of Norham, 
 seynge this, brought his garrison afore the 
 barriers of the castel, behind whom cam 
 William, richly arrayed, as al glittering in 
 gold, and wearing the heaulme, his lady's 
 present. 
 
 "Then said Thomas Gray to Marmion, 
 ' Sir Knight, ye be cum hither to fame your 
 helmet : mount up on yowr horse, and ryde 
 lyke a valiant man to yowr foes even here at 
 hand, and I forsake God if I rescue not thy 
 body deade or alive or 1 myself wyl dye for 
 it.' 
 
 " Whereupon he toke his cursere, and rode 
 among tiie throng of ennemyes ; the which 
 layed sore stripes on him, and pulled him at 
 the last out of his sadel to the grounde. 
 
 " Then Thomas Gray, with al the hole 
 garrison, lette prick yn among the .Scottes, 
 and so wondid them and their horses, that 
 they were overthrowan ; and Marmion, sore 
 beten, was horsid agayn, and, with Gray, 
 l^ersewed the Scottes yn chase. There were 
 taken fifty horse of price : and the women of 
 Norham brought them to the foote men to 
 follow the chase." 
 
 Note 10. 
 
 Sir Hugh the Heron bold. 
 Baron of Tiviscl, and of Ford, 
 
 And Capiain of the Hold.— V. 57. 
 Were accuracy of any consequence in a 
 fictitious narrative, this castellans name 
 ought to have been William : for William 
 Heron of Ford was husband to the famous 
 Lady Ford, whose siren charms are said to 
 liave cost our James 1 V. so dear. Moreover, 
 the said William Heron was, at the time 
 supposed, a prisoner in Scotland, Ixing sur- 
 rendered bv Henry Vlll., on account of his 
 share in the slaughter of Sir Robert Ker of 
 Cessford. His wife, lepresented in the text 
 as residing at the Court of .Scotland, was, 
 in fact, living in her own Castle at Ford. — 
 .SeeSiK RicHAKU Huron's curious Geneal- 
 ogy of the Heron Family. 
 
 Note 11. 
 James back'd the cause of that mock frince. 
 War heck, that Flemish counterfeit. 
 Who on the i^ibhet faid the cheat. 
 Then did I march with Surreys fower, 
 What time we razed old Ayton tower. 
 
 — V. 58. 
 
 The story of Perkin Warbeck,oT Richard, 
 Duke of York, is well known. In 1496 he 
 was received honorably in Scotland ; and 
 
694 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 James IV., after conferring upon him in 
 marriage his own relation, the Lady Cather- 
 ine Gordon, made war on England in be- 
 half of his pretensions. To retaUate an 
 invasion of England, Surrey advanced into 
 Berwickshire at the head of considerable 
 forces, but retreated, after taking the incon- 
 siderable fortress of Ayton. 
 
 Note 12. 
 
 / trow, 
 
 Norham can find you guides enmv ; 
 For here be some have pricked as far, 
 On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar ; 
 Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan's ale, 
 And driven the beeves of Lauderdale : 
 Harried the vives of Greenlaw'' s goods. 
 And given them light to set their hoods. 
 
 - P. 5S. 
 The garrisons of the English castles of 
 Wark, Norham, and Berwick, were, as may 
 be easily supposed, very troublesome neigh- 
 bors to Scotland. Sir Richard Maitland of 
 Ledington wrote a poem, called " The Blind 
 Baron's Comfort ; " when his barony of 
 Blythe in Lauderdale was harried by Row- 
 land Foster, the English captain of Wark, 
 with his company, to the numter of 300 men. 
 They spoiled the poetical knight of 5,000 
 sheep, 200 nolt, 30 horses and mares ; the 
 whole furniture of his house of Blythe, worth 
 100 pounds Scots (S^^. bs. 8t/.), and every- 
 thing else that was portable. 
 
 Note 13. 
 The priest of Shoreswood — he could rein 
 The wildest war-horse in your train. — P. 58. 
 
 This churchman seems to have been akin 
 to Welsh, the vicar of St. Thomas of E.xe- 
 ter, a leader among the Cornish insurgents 
 in 1 549. " This man," says Holinshed, " had 
 many good things in him. He was of no 
 great stature, but well set, and mightilie 
 compact. He was a very good wrestler ; 
 shot well, both in the longbow and also in 
 the crossbow ; he handled his handgun and 
 peece very well ; he was a very good wood- 
 man, and a bardie, and such a one as would 
 not give his head for the polling, or his 
 beard for the washing. He was a compan- 
 ion in any exercise of activitie, and of a 
 courteous and gentle behaviour. He de- 
 scended of a good honest parentage, being 
 borne at Peneverin in Cornwall ; and yet, 
 in this rebellion, an arch-captain and a prin- 
 cipal doer." — Vol. iv., p. 95S, 4to edition. 
 This model of clerical talents had the mis- 
 fortune to be hanged upon the steeple of his 
 own church. 
 
 Note 14. 
 
 that Grot where Oliz'es nod, 
 
 Where, darling of each heart and fye, 
 From all the yottth of Sicily, 
 
 Saint Rosalie retired to God. — P. 59. 
 " Sante Rosalia was of Palermo, and born 
 of a very noble family, and when very young 
 abhorred so much the vanities of this world, 
 and avoided the converse of mankind, resolv- 
 ing to dedicate herself wholly to God Al- 
 mighty, that she, by divine inspiration, for- 
 sook her father's house, and never was more 
 heard of, till her body was found in that cleft 
 of a rock, on that almost inaccessible moun- 
 tain, where now the chapel is built ; and they 
 affirm that she was carried up there by the 
 hands of angels ; for that place was not for- 
 merly so accessible (as now it is) in the days 
 of the .'^aint : and even now it is a very bad, 
 and steepy, and breakneck way. In this 
 frightful place, this holy woman lived a great 
 many )-ears, feeding only on what she found 
 growing on that barren mountain, and creep- 
 ing into a narrow and dreadful cleft in a 
 rock, which was always dropping wet, and 
 was her place of retirement as well as prayer ; 
 having worn out even the rock with her 
 knees in a certain place, which is now 
 open'd on purpose to show it to those 
 who come here. This chapel is very richly 
 adorn'd ; and on the spot where the Saint's 
 dead body was discovered, which is just be- 
 neath the hole in the rock, which is open'd 
 on purpose, as I said, there is a very statue 
 of marble representing her in a lying posture, 
 railed in all about with fine iron and brass 
 work ; and the altar, on which they say 
 mass, is built just over it." — Voyage to Si- 
 cily and Malta, by Sir John Dryden (son to 
 the poet), p. 107. 
 
 Note 15. 
 
 Friar J oh it 
 
 Himself still sleeps before his beads 
 
 Have mark'd ten aves, and two creeds. — 
 
 P. 59. 
 
 Friar John understood the sopwrific virtue 
 of his beads and breviary as well as his 
 namesake in Rabelais. " But Gargantua 
 could not sleep by any means, on which side 
 soever he turned himself. Whereupon the 
 monk said to him, ' I never sleep soundly 
 but when I am at sermon or prayers. Let 
 us therefore begin, you and I, the seven 
 penitential psalms, to try whether you shall 
 not quickly fall asleep.' The conceit pleased 
 Gargantua very well ; and, beginning the first 
 of these psalms, as soon as they came to 
 Beati quorum, they fell asleep, both the one 
 and the other." 
 
MARMION. 
 
 695 
 
 Note 16. 
 T]ie summoned Pahner came in place. — 
 
 P. 59- 
 A Palmer, opposed to a Pilgrim, was one 
 who made it his sole business to visit differ- 
 ent holy shrines ; travelling incessantly, and 
 subsisting by charity : whereas the Pilgrim 
 retired to his usual home and occupations, 
 when he had paid his devotions at the par- 
 ticular spot which was the object of his pil- 
 grimage. The Palmers seem to have been 
 the Quitstionarii of the ancient Scottish can- 
 ons 1242 and 1296. 
 
 Note 17. 
 
 To fair St. Andrew's bound, 
 Within the ocean-cave to fray, 
 Where good Saint Rule his holy lay, 
 From midnight to the dawn of day, 
 Sung to the hilloivs' sound. — P. 60. 
 
 St. Kegulus (Scottice, St. Rule), a monk 
 of Patra;, in Achaia, warned by a vision, is 
 said, A.u. 370, to have sailed westward, 
 until he landed at .Saint .Andrews in Scot- 
 land, where he founded a chajx-l and tower. 
 The latter is still standing, and, though we 
 may doubt the precise date of its foundation, 
 is certainly one of the most ancient edifices 
 in Scotland. A cave, nearly fronting the 
 ruinous castle of the .\rchbishops of St. 
 .Andrews, bears the name of this religious 
 person. It is difficult of access ; and the 
 rock in which it is hewed is washed by the 
 German Ocean. It is nearly round, about 
 ten feet in diameter, and the same in height. 
 On one side is a sort of stone altar ; on the 
 other an aperture into an inner den, where 
 the miserable ascetic who inhabited this 
 dwelling probably slept. .\t full tide, egress 
 and regress are hardly practicable. As Keg- 
 ulus first colonized the metropolitan see of 
 Scotland, and converted the inhabitants in 
 the vicinity, he has some reason to complain, 
 that the ancient name of Killrule (Cella 
 Regiili) should have been superseded even in 
 favor of the tutelar saint of Scotland. The 
 reason of the change was, that St. Rule is 
 said to have brought to Scotland the relics 
 of St. Andrew. 
 
 Note 18. 
 
 Saint Fillan's blessed well. 
 
 Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel. 
 And the crazed brain restore. — P. 60. 
 
 St. Fillan was a Scottish saint of some 
 reputation. .Although Popery is, with us, 
 matter of abomination, yet the common 
 people still retain some of the superstitions 
 connected with it. There are in J'erthshire 
 several wells and springs dedicated to St. 
 
 Fillan, which are still places of pilgrimage 
 and offerings, even among the Protestants. 
 They are held powerful i . cases of madness ; 
 and, in some of very late occurrence, luna- 
 tics have been left all night bound to the 
 holy stone, in confidence that the saint would 
 cure and unloose them before morning. 
 
 Note 19. 
 
 The scenes are desert now, and bare, 
 
 WhereflourisKd once a forest fair. — P. 61. 
 
 Ettrick Forest, now a range of riiountain- 
 ous sheep-walks, was anciently reserved lor 
 the pleasure of the royal chase. Since it 
 was disparked, the wood has been, by de- 
 grees, almost totally destroyed, although, 
 wherever protected from the sheep, copses 
 soon arise without any planting. When the 
 King hunted there, he often summoned the 
 array of the country to meet and assist 
 his sport. Thus, in 152S, James V. "made 
 proclamation to all lords, barons, gentfemen, 
 landwardmen, and freeholders, that they 
 should compear at Edinburgh, with a month's 
 victuals, to pass with the king where !« 
 pleased, to danton the thieves of Tiviotdale. 
 Annandale, Liddisdale, and other parts of 
 that country ; and also warned all gentlemen 
 that had good dogs to bring them, that he 
 might hunt in the said country as he pleased : 
 The whilk the Earl of Argyle, the Earl of 
 Huntley, the Earl of Athole, and so all the 
 rest of the gentlemen of the Highland, did, 
 and brought their hounds with them in like 
 manner, to hunt with the King, as he 
 pleased. 
 
 '• The second day of June the King past 
 out of Edinburgh to the hunting, with 
 many of the nobles and gentlemen of Scot- 
 land with him, to the number of twelve 
 thousand men ; and then past to Meggit- 
 land, and hounded and hawked all the 
 country and bounds ; that is to say. Cram- 
 mat, Pappert-law, St. Mary-laws, Carlavirick, 
 Chapel, Ewindoores, and Longhope. 1 
 heard say, he slew, in these bounds, eighteen 
 score of harts." * 
 
 These huntings had, of course, a military 
 character, and attendance upon them was a 
 part of the duty of a vassal. The act for 
 abolishing ward or military tenures in 
 Scotland, enumerates the services of hunt- 
 ing, hosting, watching, and warding, as those 
 which were in future to be illegal. 
 
 Taylor, the water-poet, has given an ac- 
 count of the mode in which these huntings 
 were conducted in the Highlands of Scot- 
 land, in the seventeenth century, having 
 
 * Pitscottib's History of Scotland, folio edi- 
 tion, p. 143. 
 
696 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 been present at Braemar upon such an 
 occasion : — 
 
 " There did I find the truly noble and 
 right honorable lords, John Erskine, Earl of 
 Mar ; James Stewart, Earl of Murray ; 
 George Gordon, Earl of Engye, son and 
 heir to the Marquess of Huntley ; James 
 Erskine, Earl of 15uchan ; and John, Lord 
 Erskine, son and heir to the Earl of Mar, 
 and their Countesses, with my much lionored 
 and my last assured and approved friend, 
 Sir William Murray, knight of Abercarney, 
 and hundreds of others, knights, esquires, 
 and their followers ; all and every man in 
 general, in one hal^it, as if Lycurgus had 
 been there, and made laws of equality ; for 
 once in the year, which is the whole month 
 of August, and sometimes part of Septem- 
 ber, many of the nobility and gentry of the 
 kingdom (for their pleasure) do come into 
 these Highland countries to hunt ; where 
 they do conform themselves to the habit of 
 the Highlandmen, who, for the most part, 
 speak nothing but Irish; and, in former 
 time, were those people which were called 
 the Red-shanks. 'J'heir habit is, — shoes, 
 with but one sole a-piece ; stockings (which 
 they call short hose), made of a warm stuff 
 of divers colours, which they call tartan ; as 
 for breeches, many of them, nor their fore- 
 fathers, never wore any, but a jerkin of the 
 same stuff that their hose is of ; their garters 
 being bands or wreaths of hay or straw ; 
 with a plaid about their shoulders ; which is 
 a mantle of divers colours, much finer and 
 lighter stuff than their hose ; with blue flat 
 caps on their heads ; a handkerchief, knit 
 with two knots, about their necks; and thus 
 are they attired. Now their weapons are — 
 long lx)wes and forked arrows, swords, and 
 targets, harquebusses, muskets, durks, and 
 Lochaber axes. With these arms 1 found 
 many of them armed for tlie hunting. As 
 for their attire, any man, of what degree 
 soever, that comes amongst them, must not 
 disdain to wear it ; for, if they do, then they 
 will disdain to hunt, or wini.ngly to bring in 
 their dogs; but if men be kind unto them, 
 and be in their habit, then are they con- 
 quered with kindness, and the sport will be 
 plentiful. This was the reason that 1 found 
 so many noblemen and gentlemen in those 
 shapes. But to proceed to the hunting : — 
 
 " My good Lord of Mar having put me 
 into that shape, I rode with him from his 
 house, where 1 saw the ruins of an old castle, 
 called the Castle of Kindroghit. It was 
 built by King Malcolm Canniore (for a 
 hunting-house), who reigned in Scotland, 
 when Edward the Confessor, Harold, and 
 Norman William, reigned in England. I 
 
 speak of it, because it was the last house I 
 saw in those parts ; for I was the space of 
 twelve days after, before 1 saw either house, 
 corn-field, or habitation for any creature but 
 deer, wild horses, wolves, and such like 
 creatures, — which made me doubt that I 
 should never have seen a house again. 
 
 •' Thus, the first day, we travelled eight 
 miles, where there were small cottages built 
 on purpose to lodge in, which they call I-on- 
 quhards. 1 thank my good Lord Erskine, 
 he commanded that I should always be 
 lodged in his lodging: the kitchen being 
 always on the side of a bank : many kettles 
 and pots boiling, and many spits turning 
 and winding, with great variety of cheer, • — 
 as venison baked ; sodden, roast, and stewed 
 beef ; mutton, goats, kid, hares, fresh salmon, 
 pigeons, hens, capons, chickens, partridges, 
 muir-coots, heath-cocks, caperkellies, and 
 termagants ; good ale, sacke, white and 
 claret, tent (or allegant), with most potent 
 aquavita;. 
 
 " All these, and more than these, we had 
 continually in superfluous abundance, caught 
 by falconers, fowlers, fishers, and brought by 
 my lord's tenants and purveyors to victual 
 our camp, which consisteth of fourteen or 
 fifteen hundred men and horses. The manner 
 of the hunting is this : Five or six hundred 
 men do rise early in the morning, and they 
 do disperse themselves divers ways, and 
 seven, eight, or ten miles compass, they do 
 bring, or chase in, the deer in many herds 
 (two, three, or four hundred in a herd), to 
 such or such a place, as the noblemen shall 
 appoint them ; then, when day is come, the 
 lords and gentlemen of their companies do 
 ride or go to the said places, sometimes wad- 
 ing up to the middles, throui;h burns and 
 rivers ; and then, they being come to the 
 place, do lie down on the ground till those 
 foresaid scouts, which are called the 'J'ink- 
 hell, do bring down the deer; but, as the 
 proverb says of the bad cook, so these tink- 
 iiell men do lick their own fingers ; for, be- 
 sides their bows and arrows, which they 
 carry with them, we can hear, now and then, a 
 harquebuss or a musket go oft, which they 
 do seldom discharge in vain. Then, after 
 we had staid there three hours or thereabouts, 
 we might perceive the deer appear on the 
 hills round abtmt us (their heads making a 
 show like a wood), which, being followed 
 close by the tinkhell, are chased down into 
 the valley where we lay ; then all the valley, 
 on each side, being svaylaid with a hundred 
 couple of strong Irish greyhounds, they are 
 all let loose, as occasion serves, upon the 
 herd of deer, th.at with dogs, guns, arrows, 
 durks, and daggers, in the space of two 
 
MARMION. 
 
 697 
 
 hours, fourscore fat deer were slain ; which 
 after are disposed of, some one way, and 
 some anotiier, twenty and thirty miles, and 
 more than enough left for us, to make 
 merry withall at our rendezvous. 
 
 Note 20. 
 
 By lone Saint Mary's silent lake. 
 
 — P. 62. 
 
 This beautiful sheet of water forms tlie 
 reservoir from which the Varrow takes its 
 source. It is connected with a smaller lake, 
 called the Loch of the Lowes, and sur- 
 rounded by mountains. In the winter it is 
 still frequented by flights of wild swans; 
 hence my friend Mr. Wordsworth's lines : — 
 
 "The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
 Floats double, swan and sliadow." 
 
 Near the lower extremity of the lake are 
 the ruins of Dryhope tower, the birthplace 
 of Mary Scott, daughter of Philip Scott, of 
 Dryhope, and famous by the traditional 
 name of the Flower of Varrow. .She was 
 married to Walter Scott of Harden, no less 
 renowned for his depredations, than his 
 bride for her beauty. Her romantic appel- 
 lation was in later days, with equal justice, 
 conferred on Miss Mary Lilias Scott, the 
 last of the elder branch of the Harden fam- 
 ily. The author well remembers the talent 
 and spirit of the latter Flower of Yarrow, 
 though age had then injured the charms 
 which procured her the name. The words 
 usually sung to the air of " Tweedside," be- 
 ginning, " What beauties does Flora dis- 
 close," were composed in her honor. 
 
 Note 21. 
 
 in feudal strife, a foe. 
 
 Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low. 
 
 — P. 62. 
 
 The chapel of St. Mary of the Lowes (iie 
 lacubus) was situated on the eastern side of 
 the lake, to which it gives name. It was in- 
 jured by the clan of Scott, in a feud with the 
 Cranstouns ; but continued to be a place 
 of worship during the seventeenth century. 
 The vestiges of the building can now scarcely 
 be traced ; but the burial-ground is still used 
 as a cemetery. A funeral, in a spot so very 
 retired, has an uncommonly striking effect. 
 The vestiges of the chaplain's house are yet 
 visible. Being in a high situation, it com- 
 manded a full view of the lake, with the 
 opposite mountain of Bourhope, belonging, 
 with the lake itself, to Lord Napier. On 
 the left hand is the tower of Dryhope, men- 
 tioned in a preceding note. 
 
 Note 22. 
 
 The Wizard^ s grave ; 
 
 That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are 
 
 thrust 
 From company of holy dust. — P. 63. 
 
 At one corner of the burial-ground of the 
 demolished chapel, but without its precincts, 
 is a small mound, called Binram's Corse, 
 where tradition deposits the remains of a 
 necromantic priest, the former tenant of the 
 chaplainry. 
 
 Note 23. 
 Some ruder and more savage scene. 
 Like that which frowns round dark Loch- 
 skene. — P. 63. 
 Loch-skene is a mountain lake, of consid- 
 erable size, at the head of the Moflfat-water. 
 The character of the scenery is uncommonly 
 savage ; and the earn, or Scottish eagle, has, 
 for many ages, built its nest yearly upon an 
 islet in the lake. Loch-skene discharges it- 
 self into a brook, which, after a short and 
 precipitate course, falls from a cataract of 
 immense height, and gloomy grandeur, called 
 from its appearance, the " Gray Mare's 
 Tail." The " Giant's Grave," afterwards 
 mentioned, is a sort of trench, which bears 
 that name, a little way from the foot of the 
 cataract. It has the appearance of a battery, 
 designed to command the pass. 
 
 Note 24. 
 
 St. Cuthbert's Holy Isle. — P. 64. 
 
 Lindisfarne, an isle on the coast of Nortli- 
 umberland, was called Holy Island, from the 
 sanctity of its ancient monastery, and from 
 its having been the episcopal seat of the see 
 of Durham during the early ages of British 
 Christianity. A succession of holy men held 
 that office ; but their merits were swallowed 
 up in the superior fame of .St.Cuthbert, who 
 was sixth Bishop of Durham, and who be- 
 stowed the name of his " patrimony " upon 
 the extensive property of the see. The ruins 
 of the monastery upon Holy Island betoken 
 great antiquity. The arches are, in general, 
 strictly Saxon, and the pillars which support 
 them, short, strong, and massy. In some 
 places, however, there are pointed windows, 
 which indicate that the building has been 
 repaired at a period long subsequent to the 
 original foundation. The exterior orna- 
 ments of the building, being of a light sandy 
 stone, have been wasted, as described in the 
 text. Lindisfarne is not properly an island, 
 but rather, as the venerable Bede has termed 
 it, a semi-isle : for. although surrounded by 
 the sea at full tide, the ebb leaves the sands 
 
698 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 dry between it and the opposite coast of 
 Northumberland, from which it is about 
 three miles distant. 
 
 Note 25. 
 
 in their convent cell, 
 
 A Saxon princess once did dwell. 
 The lovely Edelfled. — P. 66. 
 
 She was the daughter of King Oswy, who, 
 in gratitude to Heaven for the great victory 
 which he won in 655, against Penda, the 
 Pagan King of Mercia, dedicated Edelfleda, 
 then but a year old, to the service of God, in 
 the monastery of Whitby, of which St. Hilda 
 was then abbess. She afterwards adorned 
 the place of her education with great mag- 
 nificence. 
 
 Note 26. 
 
 of thousand snakes, each one 
 
 Was changed into a coil of stone, 
 
 \ Vhen holy Hilda pray'd ; 
 Tltcy told, haiv seafoivW pinions fail, 
 As aver Whitby s towers they sail. — 
 
 P. 66. 
 
 These two miracles are much insisted upon 
 by all ancient writers who have occasion to 
 mention either Whitby or .'^t. Hilda. The 
 relics of the snakes which infested the pre- 
 cincts of the convent, and were, at the 
 abbess's prayer, not only beheaded, but pet- 
 rified, are still found about the rocks, and are 
 termed by Protestant fossilists, Amtnonita. 
 
 The other miracle is thus mentioned by 
 Camden : " It is also ascribed to the power 
 of her sanctity, that these wild geese, which, 
 in the winter, fly in great flocks to the lakes 
 and rivers unfrozen in the southern parts, to 
 the great amazement of every one, fall down 
 suddenly upon the ground, when they are 
 in their flight over certain neighboring fields 
 hereabouts ; a relation I should not have 
 made, if 1 had not received it from several 
 credible men. But those who are less in- 
 clined to heed superstition attribute it to 
 some occult quality in the ground, and to 
 somewhat of antipathy between it and the 
 geese, such as they say is betwixt wolves and 
 scylla roots : For that such hidden tenden- 
 cies and aversions, as we call sympathies and 
 antipathies, are implanted in many things by 
 provident Nature, for the preservation of 
 them, is a thing so evident that everybody 
 grants it." Mr. Charlton, in his History of 
 Whitby, points out the true origin of the 
 fable, from the number of sea-gulls that, 
 when flying from a storm, often alight near 
 Whitby ; and from the woodcocks, and other 
 birds of passage, who do the same upon 
 their arrival on shore, after a long flight. 
 
 Note 27. 
 His body's resting-place, of old. 
 How oft their Patron changed, they cold. — 
 
 P. 66. 
 
 -St. Cuthbert was, in the choice of his 
 sepulchre, one of the most mutable and un- 
 reasonable saints in the Calendar. He died 
 A.D. 6S8, in a hermitage upon the Fame 
 Islands, having resigned tlie bishopric of 
 Lindisfarne, or Holy Island, aljout two years 
 before. His body was brought to Lindis- 
 farne, where it remained until a descent of 
 the Danes, aljout 7<i3, when the monastery 
 was nearly destroyed. The monks fled to 
 Scotland with what they deemed their chief 
 treasure, the relics of St. Cuthbert. The 
 .Saint was, however, a most capricious fel- 
 low traveller, which was the more intolerable, 
 as, like -Sinbad's Old Man of the .'^ea, he 
 journeyed upon the shoulders of his com- 
 panions. They paraded him through Scot- 
 land for several years, and came as far west 
 as Whithern, in Galloway, whence they at- 
 tempted to sail for Ireland, but were driven 
 back by tempests. He at length made a 
 halt at Norham ; from thence he went to 
 Melrose, where he remained stationary for a 
 short time, and then caused himself to be 
 launched upon the Tweed in a stone coffin, 
 which landed him at Tilmouth, in Northum- 
 berland. 
 
 The resting-place of the remains of this 
 Saint is not now matter of uncertainty. So 
 recently as 17th May. 1S27, 1,139 years after 
 his death, their discovery and disinterment 
 were effected. Under a blue stone in the 
 middle of the shrine of St. Cuthbert, at the 
 eastern extremity of the choir of Durham 
 Cathedral, there was then found a walled 
 grave, containing the coffins of the .^aint. 
 The first, or outer one, was ascertained to be 
 that of 1 54 1, the second of 1041 ; the third, 
 or inner one, answering in every particular 
 to the description of that of 698, was found 
 to contain, not indeed, as had been averred 
 then, and even until 1539, the incorruptible 
 body, but the entire skeleton of the Saint ; 
 the bottom of the grave being perfectly dry, 
 free from offensive smell, and without the 
 slightest symptom that a human tody had 
 ever undergone decomposition within its 
 walls. The skeleton was found swathed in 
 five silk robes of emblematic embroidery, the 
 ornamental parts laid with gold leaf, and 
 these again covered with a robe of linen. 
 Beside the skeleton were also deposited sev- 
 eral gold and silver insignia, and other 
 relics of the Saint. 
 
 [.'^peaking of the burial of Cuthbert, Mr. 
 Hartshorne says, " .\ldhune was at that time 
 
MARMION. 
 
 699 
 
 bishop of the, previously for a long period, 
 wandering see of Lindisfarne. But we now 
 liear no more of that ancient name as the 
 seat of Episcopacy. A cathedral church, 
 such as it was . . . was speedily erected ui> 
 on the hill of Durham. This church was 
 consecrated, with much magnificence and 
 solemnity, in the year 999." — History of 
 Northumberland, P. 221.] 
 
 Note 2S. 
 Even Scotland's datinllcss king and heir, 
 
 etc., 
 Before his standard fled. — P. 67. 
 
 Every one has heard, that when David 1., 
 with his son Henry, invaded Northumber- 
 land in iijfi, the English host marched 
 against them under the holy banner of St. 
 Cuthbcrt ; to the efficacy of which was im- 
 puted the great victory which they obtained 
 in the bloody battle of Northallerton, or 
 Cutonmoor. The conquerors were at least 
 as much indebted to tlie jealousy and intract- 
 ability of the ditferent tribes who composed 
 David's army : among whom, as mentioned 
 in the text, were the Galwegians, the Britons 
 of Strath-Clyde, the men of Teviotdale and 
 Lothian, with many Norman and German 
 warriors, who asserted the cause of the 
 Empress Maud. .See Chalmers's Caledo- 
 nia, vol.i., p. 622 ; a most laborious, curious, 
 and interesting publication, from which con- 
 siderable defects of style and manner ought 
 not to turn aside the Scottish antiquary. 
 
 Note 29. 
 'Twos he, to vindicate his reign. 
 Edged Alfred'' s falchion on the Dane, 
 And turned the Conqtieror back, again. — 
 
 P. 67. 
 Cuthbert, we have seen, had no great rea- 
 son to spare the Danes, w^hen opportunity 
 offered. Accordingly, 1 find, in Simeon of 
 Durham, that the Saint appeared in a vision 
 to Alfred, when lurking in the marshes of 
 Glastonbury, and promised him assistance 
 and victory over his heathen enemies ; a con- 
 solation which, as was reasonable, Alfred, 
 after the victory of Ashendown, rewarded by 
 a royal offering at the shrine of the Saint. 
 .•\s to William the Conqueror, the terror 
 spread before his army, when he marched to 
 punish the revolt of the Northumbrians in 
 1096, had forced the monks to fly once more 
 to Holy Island with the body of the Saint. 
 It was, however, replaced before William left 
 the north ; and, to balance accounts, the 
 Conqueror having intimated an indiscreet 
 curiosity to view the Saint's body, he was, 
 while in the act of commanding the shrine 
 
 to be opened, seized with heat and sickness, 
 accompanied with such a panic terror, that, 
 notwithstanding there was a sumptuous din- 
 ner prepared for him, he fled without eating 
 a morsel (which the monkish historian seems 
 to have thought no small part both of the 
 miracle and the penance), and never drew his 
 bridle till he got to the river Tees. 
 
 Note 30. 
 
 Saint Cuthbcrt sits, and toils to frame 
 
 The sea-born beads that bear his name. — 
 
 P. 67. 
 
 Although we do not learn that Cuthbert 
 was, during his life, such an artificer as 
 Dunstan, his brother in sanctity, yet, since 
 his death, he has acquired the reputation of 
 forging those Entrochi which are found 
 among the rocks of Holy Island, and pass 
 there by the name of St. Cuthljerfs Beads. 
 While at this task, he is supposed to sit 
 during the night upon a certain rock, and 
 use another as his anvil. This story was 
 perhaps credited in former days ; at least 
 the Saint's legend contains some not more 
 probable. 
 
 Note 31. 
 OldCohvtilf.— V.dT. 
 
 Ceolwulf, or Colwulf, King of Northum- 
 berland, flourished in the eighth century. 
 He was a man of some learning ; for the 
 venerable Bede dedicates to him his " Eccle- 
 siastical History." He abdicated the throne 
 about 738, and retired to Holy Island, where 
 he died in the odor of sancity. Saint as 
 Colwulf was, however, I fear the foundation 
 of the penance vault does not correspond 
 w ith his character ; for it is recorded among 
 his memorabilia, that, finding the air of the 
 island raw and cold, he indulged the monks, 
 whose rule had hitherto confined them to 
 milk or water, with the comfortable privi- 
 lege of using wine or ale. If any rigid an- 
 tiquary insists on this objection, he is welcome 
 to suppose the penance-vault was intended, 
 by the founder, for the more genial purposes 
 of a cellar. 
 
 Note 32. 
 
 Tynemoiitli' s haughty Prioress. — P. 67. 
 That there was an ancient priory at Tyne- 
 mouth is certain. Its ruins are situated on 
 a high rocky point; and, doubtless, many a 
 vow was made to the shrine by the distressed 
 mariners who drove towards the iron-bound 
 coast of Northumberland in stormy weather. 
 It was anciently a nunnery ; for Virca, abbess 
 of Tynemouth^ presented St. Cuthbert (yet 
 alive) with a rare winding-sheet, in emulation 
 of a holy lady called Tuda, who had sent 
 
700 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 him a coffin. But, as in the case of Whitby, 
 and of Holy Island, the introduction of nuns 
 at Tyneniouth in the reign of Henry VHI. 
 is an anachronism. The nunnery at Holy 
 Island is altogether fictitious. Indeed, St. 
 Cuthbert was unlikely to permit such an es- 
 tablishment ; for, notwithstanding his ac- 
 cepting the mortuary gitts above mentioned, 
 and his carrying on a visiting acquaintance 
 with the Abljess of Coldingham, he certainly 
 hated the whole female sex ; and, in revenge 
 of a slipjjery trick played to him by an Irish 
 princess, he, after death, inflicted severe pen- 
 ances on such as presumed to approach with- 
 in a certain distance of his shrine. 
 
 Note 33. 
 On those the wall was to enclose, 
 Alive within the tomb. — P. 69. 
 It is well known that the religious, who 
 broke their vows of chastity, were subjected 
 to the same penalty as the Roman vestals 
 in a similar case. A small niclie, sufficient 
 to enclose their bodies, was made in the mas- 
 sive wall of the convent ; a slender pittance 
 of food and water was deposited in it, and 
 the awful words, Vade in Pace, were the 
 signal for immuring the criminal. It is not 
 likely that, in later times, tiiis punishment 
 was often resorted to ; but among the ruins 
 of the .Abbey of Coldingham were some years 
 ago discovered the remains of a female skele- 
 ton, which from the shape of the niche and 
 position of the figure seemed to be that of 
 an immured nun. 
 
 Note 34. 
 The village inn. — P. "]■},. 
 The accommodations of a Scottish hostel- 
 rie, or inn, in the si.xteenth century, may be 
 collected from Dunbar's admirable tale of 
 " The Friars of Berwick." Simon Lawder, 
 "the gay ostlier," seems to have lived very 
 comfortably ; and his wife decorated her jx;r- 
 son with a scarlet kirtle, and a belt of silk 
 and silver, and rings upon her fingers ; and 
 feasted her paramour with rabbits, capons, 
 partridges, and Bordeaux wine. At least, if 
 the .Scottish inns were not good, it was not 
 for want of encouragement from the legis- 
 lature ; who, so early as the reign of James 
 I., not only enacted that in all boroughs and 
 fairs there be hostellaries, having stables and 
 chamlxTs, and provision for man and horse, 
 but by another statute ordained that no man, 
 travelling on horse or foot, should presume 
 to lodge anywhere except in these hostella- 
 ries ; and that no person, save innkeepers, 
 should receive such travellers, under the 
 penalty of forty shillings, for exercising such 
 
 hospitality. But, in spite of these provident 
 enactments, the Scottish hostels are but in- 
 different, and strangers continue to find re- 
 ception in the houses of individuals. 
 
 Note 35. 
 The death of a dear friend. — P. 76. 
 
 Among other omens to which faithful 
 credit is given among the Scottish peasantry, 
 is what is called the " dead-bell," explained 
 by my friend James Hogg to be that tink- 
 ling in the ears which the country people 
 regard as the secret intelligence of some 
 friend's decease. 
 
 Note 36. 
 The Goblin Hall. — P. 77. 
 
 A vaulted hall under the ancient castle of 
 Gifford or Vester (for it bears either name 
 indifferently), the construction of which has 
 from a very remote period been ascribed to 
 magic. The Statistical Account of the Par- 
 ish of Garvald and Baro gives the following 
 account of the present state of this castle 
 and apartment ; — " Upon a peninsula 
 formed by the water of Hopes on the east, 
 and a large rivulet on the west, stands the 
 ancient castle of Yester. Sir Uavid Ual- 
 ryniple, in his Annals, relates, that 'Hugh 
 Gifford de Yester died in 1267; that in his 
 castle there was a capacious cavern, formed 
 by magical art, and called in the country 
 Bo-Hall; i.e.. Hobgoblin Hall.' A staircase 
 of twenty-four steps led down to this apart- 
 ment, which is a large and spacious hall, 
 with an arched roof, and though it had stood 
 for so many centuries, and been exposed to 
 the external air for a {)eriod of fifty or sixty 
 years, it is still as firm and entire as if it 
 liad only stood a few years. From the floor 
 of this hall another staircase of thirty-six 
 steps leads down to a pit which hath a com- 
 munication with Hopes-water. A great part 
 of the walls of this large and ancient castle 
 are still standing. There is a tradition that 
 the castle of Yester was the last fortification 
 in this country that surrendered to General 
 CJray, sent into Scotland by Protector Som- 
 erset." — Statistical Account, vol. xiii. 1 
 have only to add, that, in 1737, the Goblin 
 Hall was tenanted by the Marquess of Tweed- 
 dale's falconer, as I learn from a poem by 
 Boyse, entitled " Retirement," written upon 
 visiting Yester. It is now rendered inac- 
 cessible by the fall of the stair. 
 
 Note 37. 
 There floated Hacd's banner trim 
 Above IVorwcya?i warriors grim. — P. 77. 
 In 1263, Haco, King of Norway, came into 
 
MARMTON. 
 
 701 
 
 the Frith of Clyde with a powerful armament, 
 and made a descent at Largs, in Ayrshire. 
 Here he was encountered and defeated, on 
 the 2d October, by Alexander III. Haco re- 
 treated to Orkney, where he died soon after 
 this disgrace to his arms. There are still 
 existing, near the place of battle, many bar- 
 rows, some of which, having Ijeen opened, 
 were found, as usual, to contain bones and 
 urns. 
 
 Note 38. 
 
 U^on his breast a pentacle. — P. 77. 
 
 " A pentacle is a piece of fine Unen, folded 
 with five corners, according to the five senses, 
 and suitably inscribed with characters. This 
 the magician extends towards the spirits 
 which he invokes, when they are stubborn 
 and rebellious, and refuse to be conformable 
 unto the ceremonies and rites of magic." — 
 See the discourses, etc., in Reginald Scott's 
 Discovery of Witchcraft, ed. 1O65, p. 66. 
 
 Note 39. 
 As born upon that blessed night, 
 Whett yawning graves and dying groan 
 Proclaifn^d Hell's empire overthrown. — 
 
 V. 78. 
 It is a popular article of faith that those 
 who are born on Christmas, or Good Friday, 
 have the power of seeing spirits, and even of 
 commanding them. The Spaniards imputed 
 the haggard and downcast looks of their 
 Philip II. to the disagreeable visions to 
 which this privilege subjected him. 
 
 Note 40. 
 Yet still the knightly spear and shield 
 The Elfin ivarrior doth wield 
 
 Upon the brown hilfs breast. — P. 79. 
 
 The following extract from the Essay upon 
 the Fairy superstitions, in the " Minstrelsy 
 of the Scottish Border," vol. ii., will show 
 whence many of the particulars of the com- 
 bat Ijetween .Alexander 111. and the Goblin 
 Knight are derived : — 
 
 (iervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperial, ap. 
 Script, rer. Brunsvic. (vol. i. p. 797), relates 
 the following popular story concerning a fairy 
 knight : '• Oslxirt, a bold and powerful baron, 
 visited a noble family in the vicinity of Wan- 
 delbury, in the bishopric of Ely. .Among 
 other stories related in the social circle of 
 his friends, who, according to custom, amused 
 each other by repeating ancient tales and tra- 
 ditions, he was informed, that if any knight, 
 unattended, entered an adjacent plain by 
 moonlight, and challenged an adversary to 
 appear, he would be immediately encountered 
 by a spirit in the form of a knight. Osbert 
 
 resolved to make the experiment, and set out, 
 attended by a single squire, whom he ordered 
 to remain without the limits of the plain, 
 which was surrounded by an ancient intrench- 
 ment. On repeating the challenge, he was 
 instantly assailed by an adversary, whom he 
 quickly unhorsed, and seized the reins of his 
 steed. During this operation, his ghostly 
 opponent sprung up, and darting his spear, 
 like a javelin, at Osbert, wounded him in the 
 thigh. Osbert returned in triumph with the 
 horse, which he committed to the care of his 
 servants. The horse was of a sable color, 
 as well as his whole accoutrements, and ap- 
 parently of great beauty and vigor. He 
 remained with his keeper till cock<rowing, 
 when, with eyes flashing fire, he reare<i, 
 spurned the ground, and vanished. On dis- 
 arming himself, Ostert perceived that he was 
 wounded, and that one of liis steel boots 
 was full of blood." Gervase adds, that " as 
 long as he lived, the .scar of his wound 
 opened afresh on the anniversary of the eve 
 on which he encountered the spirit." Less 
 fortunate was the gallant Bohemian knight, 
 who, travelling by night with a single com- 
 panion, "came in sight of a fairy host, ar- 
 rayed under displayed banners. Despising 
 the remonstrances of his friend, the knight 
 pricked forward to break a lance with a cham- 
 pion, who advanced from the ranks appar- 
 ently in defiance. His coniixmion Ix'held 
 the Bohemian overthrown, horse and man, 
 by his aerial adversary ; and returning to the 
 spot next morning, he found the mangled 
 corpses of the knight and steed." — Hier- 
 archy of Blessed Angels, p. 554. 
 
 Besides these instances of Elfin chivalry 
 alx)ve quoted, many others might Ix; alleged 
 in support of employing fairy machinery in 
 this manner. The forest of (ilenmore, in the 
 North Highlands, is believed to be haunted 
 by a spirit called Lham-dearg, in the array 
 of an ancient warrior, having a bloody h.and, 
 from which he takes his name. He insists 
 upon those with whom he meets doing battle 
 with him ; and the clergyman who makes up 
 an account of the district, extant in the 
 Macfarlane MS. in the .Advocates' Library, 
 gravely assures us, that, in his time, Lham- 
 dearg fought with three brothers, whom he 
 met in his walk, none of whom long survived 
 the ghostly conflict. Barclay, in his " Eu- 
 phormion," gives a singular account of an 
 officer who had ventured, with his servant, 
 rather to intrude upon a haunted house in a 
 town in Flanders, than to put up with worse 
 quarters elsewhere. After taking the usual 
 precautions of providing fires, lights, and 
 arms, they watched till midnight, when be- 
 hold ! the severed arm of a man dropped from 
 
702 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 the ceiling ; this was followed by the legs, 
 the other arm, the trunk, and the head ot the 
 body, all separately. The members rolled 
 together, united themselves in the presence 
 ot the astonished soldiers, and formed a 
 gigantic warrior, who defied them both to 
 combat. The blows, although they pene- 
 trated the body and amputated the limbs of 
 their strange antagonist, had, as tiie reader 
 may easily believe, little effect on an enemy 
 who possessed such powers of self-union ; 
 nor did his efforts make more effectual im- 
 pression upon them. How the combat ter- 
 minated 1 do not exactly remeniter, and have 
 not the book by me; but 1 think the spirit 
 made to the intruders on liis mansion the 
 usual proposal that they should renounce 
 their redemption ; which being declined, he 
 was obliged to retreat. 
 
 The nortliern champions of old were accus- 
 tomed peculiarly to search for, and delight 
 in, encounters with such military spectres. 
 See a whole chapter on the subject, in Har- 
 TiiOLiNUS, De Causis contempliF. Atoriis a 
 Danis. p. 253. 
 
 Note 41. 
 Close to the hut no more his own, 
 Close to tlie aid he soiioht in vain, 
 The morn may find the stiffen\t swain. 
 — P. Si. 
 
 I cannot help here mentioning that, on the 
 night in which these lines were written, sug- 
 gested, as they were, by a sudden fall ot snow, 
 beginning after sunset, an unfortunate man 
 perished exactly in the manner here descrited, 
 and his body was next mf)rning found close 
 to his own house. The accident happened 
 within five miles of the farm ol Ashestiel. 
 
 Note 42. 
 Forbes. — V.ii. 
 Sir William I-'orbes of Pitsligo, Baronet ; 
 unequalled, perhaps, in the degree of indi- 
 vidual affection entertained for him by his 
 friends, as well as in the general respect and 
 esteem of Scotland at large. llis"Lifeof 
 Beattie," whom he befriended and patronizefl 
 in life, as well as celebrated after his decease, 
 was not long published before the tenevolent 
 and affectionate bifigrapher was called to 
 follow the subject of his narrative. This 
 melancholy event very shortly succeeded the 
 marriage of the friend, to whom this intro- 
 duction is addressed, with one of Sir Wil- 
 liam's daughters. 
 
 Note 43. 
 Friar Rush. — V.^T,. 
 Alias " Will o' the W'isp." This person- 
 
 age is a strolling demon, or esprit follet, who, 
 once upon a time, got admittance into a 
 monastery as a scullion, and played the 
 monks many pranks. He was also a sort 
 of Robin Goodfellow and Jack o' Lantern. 
 It is in allusion to this mischievous demon 
 that Milton's clown speaks, — 
 
 " She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said, 
 And he by Friar'' s Lantern led." 
 
 " The history of Friar Rush " is of extreme 
 rarity, and for some time, even tlie existence 
 of such a took was doubted, although it is 
 expressly alluded to by Reginald .Scott, in his 
 " Discovery of Witchcraft." I have perused 
 a copy in the valuable library of my friend, 
 Mr. Heter; and 1 observe from Mr. Beloo's 
 " Anecdotes of Literature," that there is one 
 in tlie excellent collection of the Marquess ol 
 Stafford. 
 
 ' Note 44. ■ 
 Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, 
 Lord Lion Kint^-al-arms. — P. 84. 
 The late elaborate edition of .Sir David 
 Lindesay's Works, by Mr. George Chalmers, 
 has probably introduced him to many ot my 
 readers. It is perhaps to te regretted that 
 the learned Editor had not bestowed more 
 pains inelucidatinghis author, even althougl; 
 he should have omitted, or at lea.st reserved, 
 his disquisitions on the origin of the lan- 
 guage used by the poet. But, with all its 
 faults, his work is an acceptable present to 
 Scottish antiquaries. Sir David Lindesay 
 was well known for liis early efforts in favor 
 of the Reformed doctrines, and. indeed, his 
 play, coarse as it now seems, nnist have had 
 a powerful effect upon tlie people of his age. 
 I am uncertain if 1 abuse poetical license by 
 introducing Sir David Lindesay in the char- 
 acter ot Lion-Herald, sixteen years lx?fore he 
 obtained that office. At any rate, I am not 
 the first who has been guilty of the anachron- 
 ism ; for the author of " I'"lodden Field" 
 despatches Dcllamoiint, which can mean no- 
 body but Sir l^avid de la Mont, to I'lance, on 
 the message of defiance from James IV'.to 
 Henry \T1I. It was often an office imposed 
 on the Lion King-at-arms to receive foreign 
 ambassadors; and Lindesay himself did this 
 honor to Sir Ralph Sadler in 1530-40. In- 
 deed, the oath of the Lion, in its first article, 
 bears reference to his frequent employment 
 uf>on royal messages and embassies. 
 
 The office of heralds in feudal times being 
 held of the utmost importance, the inaugura 
 tion of the King-at-arms, who presided over 
 their colleges, w.as proportionally solemn. In 
 fact, it was the mimicry of a royal coronation, 
 except that the unction was made with wine 
 
MARMION. 
 
 703 
 
 instead of oil. In Scotland, a namesake and 
 kinsman of Sir David Lindesay, inaugurated 
 in 1592, " was crowned by King James with 
 the ancient crown of Scotland, which was 
 used before the Scottish kings assumed a close 
 crown ; "' and on occasion of the same solem- 
 nity, dined at the King's table wearing the 
 crown. It is probable that the coronation of 
 his predecessor was not less solemn. So 
 sacred was the herald'S office, that in 15 15, 
 Lord Drummond was by Parliament declared 
 guilty of treason, and his lands forfeited, be- 
 cause he had struck with his fist the Lion 
 King-at-arms when he reproved him for his 
 follies. Nor was he restored, but at the 
 Lion's earnest solicitation. 
 
 Note 45. 
 Crichtoun Castle. — P. 85. 
 A large ruinous castle on the banks of the 
 Tyne, about ten miles from Edinburgh. As 
 indicated in the text, it was built at different 
 times, and with a very differing regard to 
 splendor and accommodation. The oldest 
 part of the building is a narrow keep, or tower, 
 such as formed the mansion of a lesser Scot- 
 tish baron ; but so many additions have been 
 made to it, that there is now a large court- 
 yard, surrounded by buildings of different 
 ages. The eastern front of the court is raised 
 above a portico, and decorated with entabla- 
 tures, iDearing anchors. All the stones of 
 this front are cut into diamond facets, the 
 angular projections of which have an uncom- 
 monly rich appearance. The inside of this 
 part of the building appears to have contained 
 a gallery of great length and uncommon ele- 
 gance. Access was given to it by a magnifi- 
 cent staircase, now quite destroyed. The 
 soffits are ornamented with twining cordage 
 and rosettes ; and the whole seems to have 
 been far more splendid than was usual in 
 Scottish castles. The castle belonged origi- 
 nally to the Chancellor, Sir William Crichton, 
 and probably owed to him its first enlarge- 
 ment, as well as its being taken by the Earl 
 of Douglas, who imputed to Crichton's coun- 
 sels the death of his predecessor, Earl Wil- 
 liam, beheaded in Edinburgh Castle, with his 
 brother, in 1440. It is said to have been 
 totally demolished on that occasion ; but the 
 present state of the ruin shows the contrary. 
 In 1483 it was garrisoned by Lord Crichton, 
 then its proprietor, against King James 111., 
 whose displeasure he had incurred by sedu- 
 cing his sister Margaret, in revenge, it is said, 
 for the Monarch having dishonored his bed. 
 From the Crichton family the castle passed 
 to that of the Hepburns, Earls of Bothwell ; 
 and when the forfeitures of Stewart, the last 
 
 Earl of Bothwell, were divided, the barony 
 and Castle of Crichton fell to the share of 
 the Earl of Buccleuch. They were after- 
 wards the property of the Pringles of Clifton, 
 and are now that of Sir John Callander, 
 Baronet. It were to be wished the proprietor 
 would take a little pains to preserve these 
 splendid remains of antiquity, which are at 
 present used as a fold for sheep, and winter- 
 ing cattle ; although, perhaps, there are very 
 few ruins in Scotland which display so well 
 the style and beauty of ancient castle-archi- 
 tecture. The castle of Crichton has a dun- 
 geon vault, called the Massy More. The 
 epithet, which is not uncommonly applied to 
 the prisons of other old castles in Scotland, 
 is of Saracenic origin. It occurs twice in the 
 '' Epistol<e Hitter arice" of ToUius, " Crtr«r 
 sitbterraneus, sive, ut Mann appellant, 
 Mazmorra," p. 147 ; and again, " Coguntur 
 omnes Captivi sub noctem in ergastula sub- 
 terranea, qua TurccB Algezerani vacant 
 Mazmorras," p. 243. The same word ap- 
 plies to the dungeons of the ancient Moorish 
 castles in Spain, and serves to show from 
 what nation the Gothic style of castle-build- 
 ing was originally derived. 
 
 Note 46. 
 Earl Adam Hepburn. — P. 85. 
 He was the second Earl of Bothwell, and 
 fell in the field of Flodden, where, according 
 to an ancient English poet, he distinguished 
 himself by a furious attempt to retrieve the 
 day : — 
 
 " Then on the Scottish part, right proud, 
 
 The Earl of Bothwell then out brast, 
 
 And stepping forth, with stomach good. 
 
 Into the enemies' throng he thrast; 
 And Bothwell! Botktvellt cried bold. 
 
 To cause his souldiers to ensue ; 
 But there he caught a welcome cold, 
 
 The Englishman straight down him threw. 
 Thus Habum through his hardy heart 
 His fatal fine in conflict found," etc 
 
 Flodden Field, a Poem ; edited by 
 H. Weber. Edin., 1808. 
 Adam was grandfather to James, Earl of 
 Bothwell, too well known in the history of 
 Queen Mary. 
 
 Note 47. 
 For that a messenger from Heaven, 
 In vain to James had counsel given. 
 Against the English var. — P. 85. 
 This story is told by Pitscottie with char- 
 acteristic simplicity:— " The King, seeing 
 that France could get no support of him for 
 that time, made a proclamation, full hastily, 
 through all the realm of Scotland, both east 
 and west, south and north, as well in the 
 
5ro4 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 isles as in the firm land, to all manner of 
 men, between sixty and sixteen years, that 
 they should be ready, within twenty days, to 
 pass with him, with forty days' victual, and 
 to meet at the Hurrow-muir of Edinburgh, 
 and there to pass forward where he pleased. 
 II is proclamations were hastily obeyed, con- 
 trary to the Council of Scotland's will ; but 
 every man loved his prince so well that they 
 would on no ways disobey him ; but every 
 man caused make his proclamation so has- 
 tily, conform to the charge of the King's 
 proclamation. 
 
 " The King came to Lithgow, where he 
 happened to be for the time at the Council, 
 very sad and dolorous, making his devotion 
 to God, to send him good chance and fortune 
 in his voyage. In this meantime there came 
 a man, clad in a blue gown, in at the kirk 
 door, and belted about him in a roll of linen 
 cloth ; a pair of brotikings * on his feet, to 
 the great of his legs ; with all other hose 
 and clothes conform thereto ; but he had 
 nothing on his head, but syde t red yellow 
 hair behind, and on his haffets. X which wan 
 down to his shoulders ; but his forehead 
 was bald and bare. He seemed to be a man 
 of two-and-fifty years, with a great pike-staff 
 in his hand, and came first forward among 
 the lords, crying and speiring § for the King, 
 saying, he desired to speak with him. While 
 at the last, he came where the priest was sit- 
 ting in the desk at his prayers; but when he 
 saw the King, he made him little reverence 
 or salutation, but leaned down grotfling on 
 the desk before him, and said to him in this 
 manner, as after follows: — 'Sir King, my 
 mother hath sent me to you, desiring you 
 not to pass, at this time, where thou art pur- 
 posed ; for if thou does, thou wilt not fare 
 well in thy journey, nor none that passeth 
 with thee. Further, she bade thee mell II 
 with no woman, nor use their counsel, nor 
 let them touch thy Ixjdy, nor thou theirs ; 
 for. if thou do it, thou wilt be confounded 
 and brought to shame ' 
 
 " Hy this man had spoken thir words unto 
 the King's grace, the evening song was near 
 done, and the King paused on thir words, 
 studying to give him an answer: but, in the 
 meantime, tefore the King's eyes, and in the 
 presence of all the lords that were about him 
 tor the time, this man vanished away, and 
 could no ways be seen or comprehended, but 
 vanished away as he had teen a blink of the 
 sun, or a whip of the whirlwind, and could 
 no more be seen. I heard say. Sir David 
 Lindesay, Lyon-herauld, and John Inglis the 
 
 marshal, who were, at that time, young men, 
 and special servants to the King's grace, 
 were standing presently beside the King, 
 who thought to have laid hands on this 
 man, that they might have speired further 
 tidings at him : But all for nought ; they 
 could not touch him ; for he vanished away 
 betwixt them, and was no more seen." 
 
 Note 48. 
 The -wild-buck bells. - 
 
 P. 86. 
 
 • Buskins, 
 t Long. 
 
 X Cheeks. 
 § Asking. 
 
 n Meddle. 
 
 I am glad of an opportunity to descrite 
 the cry of the deer by another word than 
 braying, although the latter has been sancti- 
 fied by the use of the Scottish metrical trans- 
 lation of the Psalms. Bell seems to be an 
 abbreviation of tellow. This sylvan sound 
 conveyed great delight to our ancestors, 
 chiefly, 1 suppose, from association. A 
 gentle knight in the reign of Henry VIII,, 
 Sir Thomas Wortley, built Wantley Lodge, 
 in Wancliffe Forest, for the pleasure (as an 
 ancient inscription testifies) of "listening to 
 the hart's belW 
 
 Note 49. 
 
 June saw his father s overthrow.— P. 86. 
 
 The retellion against James III. was sig- 
 nalized by the cruel circumstance of his son's 
 presence in the hostile army. When the 
 King saw his own baimer displayed against 
 him, and his son in the faction of his ene- 
 mies, he lost the little courage he had ever 
 possessed, fled out of the field, fell from his 
 horse as it started at a woman and water- 
 pitcher, and was slain, it is not well under- 
 stood by whom. James I V., after the battle, 
 passed to Stirling, and hearing the monks of 
 the chapel-royal deploring the death of his 
 father, their founder, he was seized with deep 
 remorse, which manifested itself in severe 
 penances. (See Note 56 on stanza ix. of 
 canto V.) The battle of Sauchie-burn, in 
 which James III. fell, was fought i8th June, 
 1488. 
 
 Note 50. 
 The Borough-moor. — P. 88. 
 
 The Borough, or Common Moor of Edin 
 burgh, was of very great extent, reaching 
 from the southern walls of the city to the 
 lx)ttom of Braid Hills. It was anciently a 
 forest; and, in that state, was so great a 
 nuisance, that the inhabitants of Edinburgh 
 had [x;rmission granted to them of building 
 wooden galleries, projecting over the street, 
 in order to encourage them to consume the 
 timter, which they seem to have done very 
 effectually. When James W . mustered the 
 array of the kingdom there, in 15 13, the 
 Borough-moor was, according to Hawthorn- 
 
MARMION. 
 
 705 
 
 den, "a field spacious, and delightful by the 
 shade of many stately and aged oaks." 
 Upon that, and similar occasions, the royal 
 standard is traditionally said to have been 
 displayed from the Hare-Stane,a high stone 
 now built into the wall, on the left hand of 
 the highway leading towards Braid, not far 
 from tiie head of Burntsfield Links. The 
 Hare-Stane probably derives its name from 
 the British word Har, signifying an army. 
 
 Note 51. 
 
 in fraud ScotlamVs royal shield, 
 
 The ruddy lion ramfd in gold. — P. 89. 
 The well-known arms of Scotland. If 
 you will believe Boethius and Buchanan, 
 the double treasure round the shield, men- 
 tioned, counter fleurile-lysed or lingued and 
 armed azure, was first assumed by Achaius, 
 King of .Scotland, contem|x)rary of Charle- 
 magne, and founder of the celebrated League 
 with France; but later antiquaries make 
 poor Eochy, or Achy, little better than a 
 sort of King of Brentford, whom old Grig 
 (who has also swelled into Gregorius Mag- 
 nus) associated with himself in the impor- 
 tant duty of governing some part of the 
 north-eastern coast of Scotland. 
 
 Note 52. 
 
 Caledonia's Queen is changed. — P. 91. 
 
 The Old 'J"own of Edinburgh was secured 
 on the north side by a lake, now drained, 
 and on the south by a wall, which there was 
 some attempt to make defensible even so 
 late as 1745. The gates, and the greater 
 part of the wall, have been pulled down, in 
 the course of the late e-xtensive and beauti- 
 ful enlargement of the city. My ingenious 
 and valued friend, Mr. Thomas Campbell, 
 proposed to celebrate Edinburgh under the 
 epithet here Ixirrowed. But the " Queen of 
 the North " has not been so fortunate as to 
 receive from so eminent a pen the proposed 
 distinction. 
 
 Note 53. 
 The cloth-yard arrcru's. — P. 92. 
 This is no poetical exaggeration. In 
 some of the counties of England, distin- 
 guished for archery, shafts of this extraordi- I 
 nary length were actually used. Thus at 
 the battle of Blackheath, between the troops 
 of Henry VII., and the Cornish insurgents, | 
 in 1496, the bridge of Dartford was defended | 
 by a picked band of archers from tlie rebel ^ 
 army, " whose arrows," says Holinshed, I 
 " were in length a full cloth yard." The I 
 Scottish, according to Ascham, had a prov- 
 erb, that every English archer carried 1 
 
 under his belt twenty-four Scots, in allusion 
 to his bundle of unerring shafts. 
 
 Note 54 
 He saiv the hardy burghers there 
 March artn'd on foot with faces bare. « 
 
 P-93- 
 The Scottish burgesses were, like yeo- 
 men, appointed to be armed with bows and 
 sheaves, sword, buckler, knife, spear, or a 
 good a-xe inste.-id of a bow, if worth /'loo : 
 their armor to be of white or bright harness. 
 They wore white hats, i.e., bright steel caps, 
 without crest or visor. By an act of Janies 
 IV. their weafon-schaivings are appointed 
 to be held four times a year, under the alder- 
 I men or bailiffs. 
 
 Note 55. 
 
 On foot the yeoman too 
 
 I Each at his back {a slender store) 
 I //is forty days' provision bore, 
 
 //is arms were halbert, axe, or spear. — 
 
 P- 93- 
 I Bows and quivers were in vain recom- 
 I mended to the peasantry of Scotland, by 
 j re|)eated statutes ; spears and axes seem 
 j universally to have been used instead of 
 them. Their defensive armor was the plate- 
 [ jack, hauberk, or brigantine ; and their mis- 
 sile weapons cross-lx)ws and culverins. 
 All wore swords of excellent temper, accord- 
 ing to Patten ; and a voluminous handker- 
 chief round their neck, "not for cold, but 
 for cutting." The mace also was much used 
 in the Scottish army. The old poem on the 
 battle of Flodden mentions a band — 
 
 " Who manfully did meet their foes, 
 With le.iden mauls, and lances long." 
 
 When the feudal array of the kingdom 
 was called forth, each man was obliged to 
 appear with forty days' provision. When 
 this was e.xfiended, which took place before 
 the battle of Flodden, the army melted aw.-iy 
 of course. Almost all the Scottish forces, 
 except a few knights, men-at-arms, and the 
 Border-prickers, who formed excellent light 
 cavalry, acted upon foot. 
 
 Note 56. 
 A banquet rich, and costly wtnes. 
 To /\darmion and his train. — F. 94. 
 In all transactions of gre.tt or petty im- 
 portance, and among whomsoever taking 
 pl.ice, it would seem that a present of wine 
 was a uniform and indispensable prelimi- 
 nary. It was not to Sir John Falstaff .alone 
 that such an introductory preface was neces- 
 sary, however well judged and acceptable on 
 
7o6 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 the part of Mr. Brook ; for Sir Ralph Sadler, 
 while on an embassy to Scotland in 1539-40, 
 mentions, with complacency, " the same 
 night came Rothesay (the herald so called) 
 to me again, and brought me wine from the 
 , King, both white and red." — Clifford's Edi- 
 tion, p. 39. 
 
 Note 57. 
 
 his iron-belt^ 
 
 That bound his breast in fcnance-pain, 
 In memory 0/ his father slain. — P. 95. 
 Few readers need to be reminded of this 
 belt, to the weight of which James added 
 certain ounces every year that he lived. 
 Pitscottie founds his belief that James was 
 not slain in the battle of Flodden, because 
 the English never had this token of the iron- 
 belt to show to any Scottishman. The person 
 and character of James are delineated ac- 
 cording toour best historians. His romantic 
 disposition, which led him highly to relish 
 gayety, approaching to license, was, at the 
 same time, tinged with enthusiastic devotion. 
 These propensities sometimes formed a 
 strange contrast. He was wont, during his 
 fits of devotion, to assume the dress, and 
 conform to the rules, of the order of Fran- 
 ciscans ; and when he had thus done penance 
 for some time in Stirling, to plunge again 
 into the tide of pleasure. Probably, too, with 
 no unusual inconsistency, he sometimes 
 laughed at the superstitious observances to 
 which he at other times subjected himself. 
 
 Note 58. 
 Sir Hugh the Heron'' s wife. — P. 95. 
 It has been already noticed (see note 10) 
 that King James's acquaintance with Lady 
 Heron of Ford did not commence until he 
 marched into England. Our historians im- 
 pute to the King's infatuated passion the 
 delays which led to the fatal defeat of 
 Flodden. The author of " The Genealogy 
 of the Heron Family " endeavors, with laud- 
 able anxiety, to clear the Lady Ford from 
 the scandal ; that she came and went, how- 
 ever, between the armies of James and Surrey 
 is certain. See Pinkerton's History and 
 the authorities he refers to, vol. ii., p. 99. 
 
 Note 59. 
 The fair Queen of France 
 Sent him a turquois ring and glove, 
 And charged him, as her knight and love, 
 
 For her to break a lance. — P. 95. 
 " Also the Queen of France wrote a love 
 letter to the King of .Scotland, calling him 
 her love, showing him that she had suffered 
 much rebuke in France for the defending of 
 his honor. She believed surely that he 
 
 would recomjjense her again with some of 
 his kingly support in her necessity ; that is 
 to say, that he would raise her an army, and 
 come three foot of ground on English ground, 
 for her sake. To that effect she sent him a 
 ring off her finger, witli fourteen thousand 
 French crowns to pay his expenses." Pit- 
 scottie, p. 110. — A turquois ring, probably 
 this fatal gift, is, with James's sword and 
 dagger, preserved in the College of Heralds, 
 London. 
 
 Note 60. 
 Archibald Bcll-the-Cat. — P. 97. 
 Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, a man 
 remarkable for strength of body and mind, 
 acquired tiie popular name of Bcll-the-Cat, 
 upon the following remarkable occasion : — 
 James the Third, of whom Pitscottie com- 
 plains that he delighted more in music, and 
 " policies of building," than in hunting, 
 hawking, and other noble exercises, was so 
 ill advised as to make favorites of his archi- 
 tects and musicians, whom the same liisto- 
 rian irreverently terms masons and fiddlers. 
 His nobility, who did not sympathize in 
 the King's respect for the fine arts, were 
 extremely incensed at the honors conferred 
 on those persons, particularly on Cochrane, 
 a mason, who had been created Earl of Mar ; 
 and, seizing the opportunity, when, in 1482, 
 the King had convoked the whole array of 
 the country to march against the English, 
 they held a midnight council in the church 
 of Lauder, for the purpose of forcibly remov- 
 ing these minions from the King's person. 
 When all had agreed on the propriety of this 
 measure. Lord Gray told the assembly the 
 apologue of the Mice, who had formed a 
 resolution that it would he. highly advanta- 
 geous to their community to tie a bell round 
 the cat's neck, that they might hear her 
 approach at a distance; but which public 
 measure unfortunately miscarried, from no 
 mouse being willing to undertake the task of 
 fastening the bell. " 1 understand the moral," 
 said Angus, "and, that what we propose 
 may not lack execution, I will bell-the-cat." 
 
 Note 61. 
 
 Against the war had Angus stood. 
 
 And chafed his royal Lord. — P. 97. 
 
 Angus was an old man when the war 
 
 against England was resolved upon. He 
 
 earnestly spoke against that measure from its 
 
 commencement ; and, on the eve of the battle 
 
 of Flodden, remonstrated so freely upon the 
 
 impolicy of fighting, that the King said to 
 
 him. with scorn and indignation, '• if he was 
 
 afraid he might go home." The Earl burst 
 
 into tears at this insupportable insult, and 
 
MARMION. 
 
 707 
 
 retired accordingly, leaving his sons George, 
 Master of Angus, and Sir William of Glen- 
 bervie, to command his followers. They 
 were both slain in the battle, with two hun- 
 dred gentlemen of the name of Douglas. 
 The aged earl, broken-hearted at the calami- 
 ties of his house and his country, retired 
 into a religious house, where he died about a 
 year after the field of Flodden. 
 
 Note 62. 
 Tantallon hold. — P. 97. 
 The ruins of Tantallon Castle occupy a 
 high rock projecting into the German Ocean, 
 about two miles east of North Berwick. 
 The building formed a principal castle of 
 the Douglas family, and when the Earl of 
 Angus was banished, in 1527, it continued to 
 hold out against James V. The King went 
 in person against it, and for its reduction 
 borrowed from the Castle of Dunbar, then 
 belonging to the Duke of Albany, two great 
 cannons, " Thrawn-mouth'd Meg and her 
 Marrow ; " also, •' two great botcards, and 
 two moyan, two double falcons, and four 
 quarter falcons." Yet, notwithstanding all 
 this apparatus, James was forced to raise 
 the siege, and only afterwards obtained pos- 
 session of Tantallon by treaty with the 
 governor, Simon Panango. When the Earl 
 of Angus returned from banishment, upon 
 the death of James, he again obtained posses- 
 sion of Tantallon, and it actually afforded 
 refuge to an English ambassador, under 
 circumstances similar to those described in 
 the text. This was no other than the cele- 
 brated Sir Ralph Sadler, who resided there 
 for some time under Angus's protection, af- 
 ter the failure of his negotiations for match- 
 ing the infant Mary with Edward VI. 
 
 Note 63. 
 Their motto on his blade. 
 
 P. 97. 
 
 A very ancient sword, in possession of 
 Lord Douglas, bears among a great deal of 
 flourishing, two hands pointing to a heart, 
 which is placed lietwixt them, and the date 
 1329, being the year in which Bruce charged 
 the good Lord Douglas to carry his heart to 
 the Holy Land. 
 
 Note 64. 
 
 Martin Sivart. — P. 99- 
 
 A German general, who commanded the 
 auxiliaries sent by the Duchess of Burgundy 
 with Lambert Simnel. He was defeated and 
 killed at Stokefield. The name of this 
 German general is preserved by that of the 
 field of battle, which is called, after him. 
 
 Swartmoor. There were songs about him 
 long current in England. — See Dissertation 
 prefixed to Ritson's Ancient Songs, 1792, 
 p. Ixi. 
 
 Note 65. 
 — — The Cross. — P. 100. 
 The Cross of Edinburgh was an ancient 
 and curious structure. I'he lower part was 
 an octagonal tower, sixteen feet in diameter, 
 and about fifteen feet high. At each angle 
 there was a pillar, and between them an 
 arch, of the Grecian shape. Above these 
 was a projecting battlement, with a turret at 
 each corner, and medallions, of rude but 
 curious workmanship, between them. Above 
 this rose the proper Cross, a column of one 
 stone, upwards of twenty feet high, sur- 
 mounted with a unicorn. This pillar is 
 preserved in the grounds of the property of 
 Drum, near Edinburgh. The magistrates 
 of Edinburgh in 1756, with consent of the 
 Lords of Session, destroyed this curious 
 monument under a wanton pretext that it 
 encumbered the streets. From the Tower 
 of the Cross, so long as it remained, the 
 heralds published the acts of Parliament. 
 
 Note 66. 
 This awful summons came. 
 
 — P. loi. 
 
 This supernatural citation is mentioned by 
 all our Scottish historians. It was, probably, 
 like the apparition at Linlithgow, an at- 
 tempt, by those averse to the war, to impose 
 upon the superstitious temper of James IV. 
 
 Note 67. 
 One of his rnvn ancestry. 
 Drove the Monks forth of Coventry. 
 
 P. 103. 
 
 This relates to the catastrophe of a real 
 Rotert de Marmion, in the reign of King 
 Stephen, whom William of Newbury de- 
 scribes with some attributes of my fictitious 
 hero. " Homo hellicosus, ferocia, ct astucta, 
 fere nulla suo tern fore imfar:' This Baron, 
 having expelled the Monks from the church 
 of Coventr>', was not long of experiencing 
 the Divine judgment, as the same monks, 
 no doubt, termed his disaster. Having 
 waged a feudal war with the Earl of Chester, 
 Marmion's horse fell, as he chargcnl in the 
 van of his troop, against a body of the 
 Earl's followers; the rider's thigh being 
 broken by thfe fall, his head was cut off by a 
 common foot-soldier, ere he could receive 
 any succor. The whole storj- is told by 
 William of Newbury. 
 
7o8 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note 68. 
 
 The savage Dane 
 
 At lol more deep the mead did drain. — 
 
 P. 104. 
 The lol of the heathen Danes (a word 
 still applied to Christmas in Scotland) was 
 solemnized with great festivity. The humor 
 of the Danes at table displayed itself by 
 pelting each other with bones ; and Torfajus 
 tells a long and curious story, in the History 
 of Hrolfe Kraka, of one Hottus, an inmate 
 of the Court of Denmark, who was so 
 generally assailed with these missiles, that 
 he constructed, out of the bones witli whicli 
 he was overwhelmed, a very respectable in- 
 trenchment, against those who continued 
 the raillery. 
 
 Note 69. 
 
 Who lists may in their mumming see 
 Traces of ancient mystery. — P. 105. 
 
 It seems certain that the Mummers of 
 England, who (in Northumberland at least) 
 used to go about in disguise to the neighbor- 
 ing houses, bearing the then useless plough- 
 share ; and the Guisards of Scotland, not 
 yet in total disuse, present, in some indis- 
 tinct degree, a shadow of the old mysteries, 
 which were the origin of the English drama. 
 In Scotland {ine ipso teste), we were wont, 
 during my boyhood, to take the characters 
 of the apostles, at least of Peter, Paul, and 
 Judas Iscariot ; the first had the keys, the 
 second carried a sword, and the last the bag, 
 in which tiie dole of our neighbors' plum- 
 cake was deposited. One played a cliam- 
 pion, and recited some traditional rhymes ; 
 another was : — 
 
 " Alexander, King of Macedon, 
 Who conquer'd all the world but Scotland 
 alone. 
 
 These, and many such verses, were repeated, 
 but by rote, and unconnectedly. There was 
 also, occasionally, 1 believe, a Saint George. 
 In all, there was a confused resemblance of 
 the ancient mysteries, in which the charac- 
 ters of Scripture, the Nine Worthies, and 
 ether popular personages, were usually ex- 
 hibited. 
 
 Note 70. 
 
 The Highlander 
 
 Will, on a Friday morn, look pale. 
 If ask'd to tell a fairy tale. — 
 
 P. 106. 
 
 The Daoine shi , or Men of Peace, of the 
 Scottish Highlanders, rather resemble the 
 Scandinavian Diiergar than the English 
 Fairies. Notwithstanding their name, they 
 
 are, if not absolutely malevolent, at least 
 peevish, discontented, and apt to do mischief 
 on slight provocation. The belief of their 
 existence is deeply impressed on the High- 
 landers, who think they are particularly of- 
 fended at mortals who talk to them, who 
 wear their favorite color (green), or in any 
 respect interfere with their affairs. This is 
 especially to be avoided on Friday, when, 
 whether as dedicated to Venus, with whom, 
 in Germany, this subterraneous people are 
 held nearly connected, or for a more solemn 
 reason, they are more active, and possessed 
 of greater power. Some curious particulars 
 concerning the popular superstition of the 
 Highlanders may be found in Dr. Graham's 
 Picturesque Sketches of Perthshire. 
 
 Note 71. 
 The last lord of Franchcmont. — P. 106. 
 
 The journal of the friend to whom the 
 Fourth Canto of the Poem is inscribed, fur- 
 nished me with the following account of a 
 striking superstition. 
 
 " Passed the pretty little village of Franchd- 
 mont (near Spaw), with the romantic ruins 
 of the old castle of the Counts of that name. 
 The road leads through many delightful 
 vales on a rising ground; at the extremity 
 of one of them stands the ancient castle, now 
 the subject of many super.stitious legends. 
 It is firmly Ixjlieved by the neigliboring peas- 
 antry, that the last Baron of Franchemont 
 deposited, in one of the vaults of the castle, 
 a ponderous chest, containing an immense 
 treasure in gold and silver, which, by some 
 magic spell, was intrusted to the care of the 
 Devil, who is constantly found sitting on 
 the chest in the shape of a huntsman. Any 
 one adventurous enough to touch the chest 
 is instantly seized with the palsy. Upon 
 one occasion, a priest of noted piety was 
 brouglit to the vault : he used all the arts of 
 exorcism to persuade his infernal majesty to 
 vacate his seat, but in vain ; the huntsman 
 remained iminovable. At last, moved by 
 the earnestness of the priest, he told him 
 that lie would agree to resign the chest, if 
 the exorciser would sign his name with 
 blood. But the priest understood his mean- 
 ing, and refused, as by that act he would 
 have delivered over his soul to the Devil. 
 Vet if anybody can discover the mystic 
 words used by the person who deposited the 
 treasure, and pronounce them, the fiend must 
 instantly decamp. I had many stories of a 
 similar nature from a peasant, who had him- 
 self seen the Devil in the shape of a great 
 cat." 
 
MARMION. 
 
 709 
 
 Note 72. 
 
 the huge and sweeping brand 
 
 Which wont of yore, in battle fray, 
 His focman's limbs to shred away, 
 As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.- 
 — P. no. 
 The Earl of Angus had strength and per- 
 sonal activity corresponding to his courage. 
 Speiis of Kilspindie, a favorite of James IV., 
 iiaviiig spoken of him lightly, the Earl met 
 iiim while hawking, and, compelling him to 
 single combat, at one blow cut asunder his 
 thigli-bone, and killed him on the spot. lUit 
 ere he could obtain James's pardon for this 
 slaughter, Angus was obliged to yield his 
 castle of Hermitage, in exchange for that of 
 IJotliwell, which was some diminution to the 
 family greatness. The sword with which he 
 struck so remarkable a blow, was presented 
 by his descendant James, E:arl of Morton, 
 afterwards Regent of Scotland, to Lord 
 I.indesay of the Byres, when he defied Both- 
 well to single combat on Carberry Hill. 
 See Introduction to the Minstrelsy of the 
 Scottish Border. 
 
 Note -j-^. 
 And hopcst thou hence unscathed logo ? — 
 No ; by St. Bride of Bothwell, no.' 
 Up drawbridge, grooms .' — what. Warder, 
 ho.' 
 
 Let the portcullis fall. — P. in. 
 
 This ebullition of violence in the potent 
 Earl of Angus is not without its example in 
 the real history of the house of Douglas, 
 whose chieftains possessed the ferocity with 
 the heroic virtues of a savage state. The 
 most curious instance occurred in the case 
 of Maclellan, Tutor of Homby, who, having 
 refused to acknowledge the pre-eminence 
 claimed by Douglas over the gentlemen and 
 Barons of Galloway, was seized and impris- 
 oned by the Earl, in his castle of the Thrieve, 
 on the borders of Kirkcudbrightshire. Sir 
 Patrick fJray, commander of King James 
 tiie Second's guard, was uncle to the Tutor 
 of Bomby, and obtained from the King a 
 "sweet letter of supplication," praying the 
 Earl to deliver his prisoner into Gray's hand. 
 When Sir Patrick arrived at the castle, he 
 was received with all the honor due to a 
 favorite servant of the King's household ; 
 but while he was at dinner, the Earl, wlio 
 suspected his errand, caused his prisoner to 
 be led forth and beheaded. .After dinner. 
 Sir Patrick presented the King's letter to 
 the Earl, who received it with great affecta- 
 tion of reverence; "and took him by the 
 hand, and led him forth to the green, where 
 the gentleman was lying dead, and showed 
 
 him the manner, and said. ' Sir Patrick, you 
 are come a little too late ; yonder is your sis- 
 ter's son lying, but he wants his head : take 
 
 his body, and do with it what you will.' 
 
 Sir Patrick answered again, with a sore 
 heart, and said, ' My lord, if ye have taken 
 from him his head, dispone upon the body 
 as ye please ; ' and with that called for his 
 horse, and leaped thereon ; and when he was 
 on horseback, he said to the Earl on this 
 manner, ' My lord, if I live, you shall be re- 
 warded for your labors that you have used 
 at this time, according to your demerits.' 
 
 " At this saying the Earl was highly of- 
 fended, and cried for horse. Sir Patrick, see- 
 ing the Earl's fury, spurred his horse, but he 
 was chased near Edinburgh ere they left him ; 
 and had it not been his 1^ horse was so tried 
 and good he had been taken." — Pitscot- 
 tie's History, p. 39. 
 
 Note 74, 
 
 A letter forged .' — Saint Jude to speed? 
 
 Did ever knight so foul a deed.' — P. in. 
 Lest the reader should partake of the 
 Earl's astonishment, and consider these 
 crimes inconsistent with the manners of the 
 period, I have to remind him of the numer- 
 ous forgeries (partly executed by a female 
 assistant) devised by Robert of Artois, to 
 forward his suit against the Countess Ma- 
 tilda ; which, being detected, occasioned his 
 flight into England, and proved the remote 
 cause of Edward the Third's memorable wars 
 in Erance. John Harding, also, was ex- 
 pressly hired by Edward I. to forge such 
 documents as might appear to establish the 
 claim of fealty asserted over Scotland by the 
 English monarchs. 
 
 Note 75. 
 Twisel Bridge. — P. 1 13. 
 On tlie evening previous to the memora- 
 ble battle of Flodden, Surrey's headquarters 
 were at Barmoor Wood, and King James 
 held an inaccessible position on the ridge of 
 Flodden-hill, one of the last and lowest emi- 
 nences detached from the ridge of Cheviot. 
 The Till, a deep and slow river, winded be- 
 tween the armies. On the morning of the 
 9th September, 1513, Surrey marched in a 
 north-westerly direction, and crossed the 
 Till, with his van and artillery, at Twistl- 
 bridge, nigh where that river joins the 
 Tweed, his rear-guard coliunn passing about 
 a mile higher, by a ford. This movement 
 had tlie double effect of placing his army 
 between King James and his supplies from 
 Scotland, and of striking the Scottish mon- 
 
7IO 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 arch with surprise, as he seems to have re- 
 lied on the depth of the river in liis front. 
 But ;is the passage, botli over the bridge and 
 through the ford, was dithcidt and slow, it 
 seems possible tliat the Engiisli might have 
 been attacked to great advantage wliile strug- 
 gling with these natural obstacles. 1 know 
 not if we are to impute James's forbearance 
 to want of military skill, or to the romantic 
 declaration which I'itscottie puts in his 
 mouth, " that he was determined t<} have his 
 enemies before him on a plain field," and 
 therefore would suffer no interruption to Ije 
 given, even by artillery, to their passing the 
 river. 
 
 The ancient bridge of Twisel, by which 
 the English crossed the Till, is still standing 
 beneath Twisel Castle, a splendid pile of 
 Gothic architecture rebuilt by Sir Francis 
 Blake. Beneath a tall rock near the bridge 
 is a plentiful fountain called St. Helen's Well. 
 
 Note 76. 
 Hence might they see the full array. 
 Of either host, for deadly fray. — F. 114. 
 The reader cannot here expect a full ac- 
 count of the battle of Flodden ; but, so far as 
 is necessary to understand the romance, I 
 beg to remind him, that, when the English 
 army, by their skilful countermarch, were 
 fairly placed between King James and his 
 own country, the Scottish monarch resolved 
 to fight ; and, setting fire to his tents, de- 
 scended from the ridge of Flodden to secure 
 the neighboring eminence of Brankstone, on 
 which that village is built. Thus the two 
 armies met, almost without seeing each 
 other, when, according to the old poem, of 
 " Flodden Field," 
 
 " The English line stretch'd east and west. 
 And southward were their faces set ; 
 The Scottish northward proudly prest, 
 And manfully their foes they met." 
 
 The English army advanced in four divis- 
 ions. On the right, which first engaged, were 
 the sons of Earl Surrey ; namely. Thomas 
 Howard, the .Admiral of England, and .Sir 
 Edmund, the Knight Marshal of the army. 
 Their divisions were separated from each 
 other ; but, at the request of Sir Edmund, 
 his brother's battalion was drawn very near 
 to his own. The centre was commanded by 
 Surrey in person ; the left wing by Sir Ed- 
 ward Stanley, with the men of Lancashire, 
 and of the palatinate of Chester. Lord 
 Dacre, with a large body of horse, formed a 
 reserve. When the smoke, which the wind 
 had driven between the armies, was some- 
 what dispersed, they perceived the Scots, 
 who had moved down the hill in a similar 
 
 order of battle and in deep silence. The 
 Earls of Huntly and of Home commanded 
 their left wing, and charged Sir Ednmnd 
 Howard with such success as entirely to 
 deJeat liis part of the English right wing. 
 Sir Edmund's banner was beaten down, and 
 he himself escajjed with ditticulty to his 
 brothers division. The Admiral, however, 
 stood firm; and Dacre advancing to his sup 
 port with the reserve of cavalry, probably 
 between the intervals of the divisions com- 
 manded by the brothers Howard, apjjears to 
 have kept the victors in effectual check. 
 Home's men, chiefiy Borderers, began to 
 pillage the baggage of both armies ; and 
 their leader is branded by the Scottish his- 
 torians with negligence or treachery. On 
 the other hand, Huntly, on whom they be- 
 stow many encomiums, is said by the Eng- 
 lish historians to have left the field after 
 the first charge. Meanwhile the Admiral, 
 whose Hank these chiefs ought to have at- 
 tacked, availed himself of their inactivity, 
 and pushed forward against another large 
 division of the Scottish army in his front, 
 headed by the Earls of Crawford and Mont- 
 rose, both of whom were slain, and their 
 forces routed. On the left, the success of 
 the English was yet more decisive ; for the 
 Scottish right wing, consisting of undisci- 
 plined Highlanders, commanded by Lennox 
 and Argyle, was unable to sustain the charge 
 of Sir Edward .Stanley, and especially the 
 severe execution of the Lancashire archers. 
 The King and Surrey, who commanded the 
 respective centres of their armies, were mean- 
 while engaged in close and dubious conflict. 
 James, surrounded by the flower of his king- 
 dom, and impatient of the galling discharge 
 of arrows, supported also by his reserve 
 under Bothwell, charged with such fury, 
 that the standard of Surrey was in danger. 
 At that critical moment, Stanley, who had 
 routed the left wing of the Scottish, pursued 
 his career of victory and arrived on the right 
 flank, and in the rear of James's division, 
 which, throwing itself into a circle, disputed 
 the battle till night came on. .Surrey then 
 drew back his forces ; for the Scottish centre 
 not having been broken, and their left wing 
 being victorious, he yet doubted the event of 
 the field. The -Scottish army, however, felt 
 their loss, and abandoned the field of battle 
 in disorder, before dawn. They lost, per- 
 haps, from eight to ten thousand men ; but 
 that included the very prime of their nobil- 
 ity, gentry, and even clergy. Scarce a family 
 of eminence but has an ancestor killed at 
 Flodden : and there is no province in Scot- 
 land, even at this day, where the battle is 
 mentioned without a sensation of terror and 
 
AfARMION. 
 
 711 
 
 sorrow. The English lost, also, a great 
 number of men, perhaps within one-third of 
 the vanquished, but they were of inferior note. 
 
 Note 77. 
 
 Brian Tunstall, stainless knight. — 
 
 P. 114. 
 Sir Brian Tunstall, called in the romantic 
 language of the time, Tunstall the Unde- 
 filed, was one of the few Englishmen of rank 
 slain at Flodden. He figures in the ancient 
 English poem, to which I may safely refer 
 my readers ; as an edition, with full explan- 
 atory notes, has been published by my 
 friend, Mr. Henry Weber. Tunstall, per- 
 haps, derived his epithet of undefiled from 
 his white armor and banner, the latter bear- 
 ing a white cock, about to crow, as well as 
 from his unstained loyalty and knightly 
 faith. His place of residence was Thurland 
 Castle. 
 
 Note 7S. 
 Reckless of life, he desferaie fought, 
 
 And fell on Flodden /lain ; 
 And -U'cU in death his trusty brand. 
 Firm clench' d -within his manly hand, 
 Bcseent'd the monarch slain. — 
 
 P. iiS. 
 There can be no doubt that King James 
 fell in the battle of Flodden. He was killed, 
 says the curious French Gazette, within a 
 lance's length of the Earl of Surrey ; and the 
 same account adds, that none of his division 
 were made prisoners, though many were 
 killed ; a circumstance that testifies the des- 
 peration of their resistance. The Scottish 
 historians record many of the idle reports 
 which passed among the vulgar of their day. 
 Home was accused by the pf)pular voice, not 
 only of failing to support the King, but even 
 of having carried him out of the field, and 
 murdered him. .And this tale was revived 
 in my remembrance by an unauthenticated 
 story of a skeleton, wrapped in a bull's hide, 
 and surrounded with an iron chain, said to 
 have been found in the well of Home Castle ; 
 for which, on inquiry, I could never find any 
 better authority than the sexton of the par- 
 isli having said that, if the -ivell were cleaned 
 out, he would not be surprised at such a dis- 
 
 cmiery. Home was the chamberlain of the 
 King, and his prime favorite ; he had much 
 to lose (in fact did lose all) in consequence 
 of James's death, and nothing earthly to gain 
 by that event ; but the retreat, or inactivity 
 of the left wing which he commanded, after 
 defeating Sir Edmund Howard, and even 
 the circumstance of his returning unhurt, 
 and loaded with spoil, from so fatal a con- 
 flict, rendered the propagation of any cal- 
 umny again.st him easy and acceptable. 
 Other reports gave a still more romantic 
 turn to the King's fate, and Averred, that 
 James, weary of greatness, after the carnage 
 among his nobles, had gone on a pilgrimage, 
 to merit absolution ior the death of his 
 father, and the breach of his oath of an.ity 
 to Henry. In particular, it was objected to 
 the English, that they could never show the 
 token of the iron belt, which, however, he 
 was likely enough to have laid aside on the 
 day of the battle, as encumtering his per- 
 sonal e.\ertions. They produce a better evi- 
 dence, the monarch's sword and dagger, 
 which are still preserved in the Herald's 
 College in London. Stowe has recorded a 
 degrading storj- of the disgrace with which 
 the remains of the unfortunate monarch 
 were treated in his time. An unhewn col- 
 umn marks the spot where James fell, still 
 called the King's Stone. 
 
 Note 79. 
 
 The fair cathedral stormed and took. — 
 
 P. 118. 
 
 This storm of Lichfield cathedral, which 
 had been garrisoned on the part of the King, 
 took place in the Great Civil War. Lord 
 Brook, who, with Sir John Gill, commanded 
 the assailants, was shot with a musket-ball 
 through the vizor of his helmet. The roy- 
 alists remarked, that he was killed by a shot 
 fired from St. Chad's cathedral, and upon 
 St. Chad's Day, and received his death- 
 wound in the very eye with which, he had 
 said, he hoped to see the ruin of all the 
 cathedrals in England. The magnificent 
 church in question suffered cruelly upon 
 this and other occasions ; the principal spire 
 being ruined by the fire of the besiegers. 
 
712 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Note i. 
 
 the heights of Uam- Var, 
 
 And roused the cavern^ where. Uis told, 
 A giant made his den of old. — P. 125. 
 Ua-var, as the name is pronounced, or 
 more properly Uaighmor, is a mountain to 
 the north-east of the village of Callender in 
 Menteith, deriving its name, which signifies 
 the great den or cavern, from a sort of re- 
 treat among the rocks on the south side, 
 said, by tradition, to have been the abode of 
 a giant. In latter times, it was the refuge 
 of robbers and banditti, who have been only 
 extirpated within these forty or fifty years. 
 Strictly speaking, this stronghold is not a 
 cave, as the name would imply, but a sort of 
 small enclosure, or recess, surrounded with 
 large rocks, and open above head. 
 
 Note 2. 
 Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 
 UntnatcKd for courage, breath, and speed. 
 -P.125. 
 " The hounds which we call Saint Hu- 
 bert's hounds, are commonly all blacke, yet 
 neuertheless, the race is so mingled at these 
 days, that we find them of all colours. These 
 are the hounds which the abbots of St. Hu- 
 bert haue always kept some of their race 
 or kind, in honour or remembrance of the 
 saint, which was a hunter with S. Eustace. 
 WhereujM)n we may conceiue that (by the 
 grace of God) all good huntsmen shall follow 
 them into paradise." — The Noble Art of 
 Venerie or Hunting, translated and col- 
 lected for the Use of all Noblemen and 
 Gentlemen. Lond. i6ii,4to, p. 15. 
 
 Note 3. 
 For the death-wound and death-halloo, 
 Mustered his breath, his xvhinyard dreiv. 
 — P. 126. 
 When the stag turned to bay, the ancient 
 hunter had the perilous task of going in 
 upon, and killing or disabling the desf)erate 
 animal. .At certain times of the \-ear this 
 was held particularly dangerous, a wound 
 received from a stag's horn being then 
 deemed poisonous, and more dangerous than 
 one from the tusks of a boar, as the old 
 rhyme testifies : — 
 
 " If thou be hurt witli hart, it brings thee to thy 
 bier, 
 But barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, there- 
 fore thou need'st not fear." 
 
 At all times, however, the task was danger- 
 
 ous, and to be adventured upon wisely and 
 warily, either by getting behind the stag 
 while he was gazing on the hounds, or by 
 watching an opportunity to gallop roundly 
 in upon him, and kill him with a sword. 
 
 Note 4. 
 And now to issue from the glen, 
 No pathway meets the ■wanderer'' s ken. 
 Unless he climb, with footing nice, 
 A far projecting precipice. — P. 127. 
 Until the present road was made through 
 the romantic pass which 1 iiave presumptu- 
 ously attempted to descrilje in the preceding 
 stanzas, there was no mode of issuing out of 
 the defile called the Trosachs, excepting l)y 
 a sort of ladder, composed of the branches 
 and roots of trees. 
 
 Note 5. 
 To meet luith Highland plunderers here. 
 Were worse than loss of steed or deer. — 
 
 P. 129. 
 The clans who inhabited the romantic re- 
 gions in the neighborhood of Loch Katrine, 
 were, even until a late period, much addicted 
 to predatory excursions upon their Lowland 
 neighbors. 
 
 Note 6. 
 A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent. 
 Was on the vision' d future bent. — P. 129. 
 If force of evidence could authorize us to 
 believe facts inconsistent with the general 
 laws of nature, enough might be produced in 
 favor of the existence of the second-sight. 
 It is called in Gaelic Taishitaraugh. from 
 Taish, an unreal or shadowy appearance ; 
 and those possessed of the faculty are called 
 Taishatrin, which may be aptly translated 
 visionaries. Martin, a steady believer in the 
 second-sight, gives the following account of 
 it: — 
 
 " The second-sight is a singular faculty of 
 seeing an otherwise invisible object without 
 any previous means used by the person that 
 used it for that end ; the vision makes such 
 a lively impression upon the seers, that they 
 neither see nor think of anytiiing else, ex- 
 cept the vision, as long as it continues: and 
 then they app)ear pensive or jovial, according 
 to the object that was represented to them. 
 
 "At the sight of a vision, the eyelids of 
 the jjerson are erected, and the eyes continue 
 staring until the object vanishes. This is ob. 
 vious to others who are by when the persons 
 happen to see a vision, and occurred more 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 7«3 
 
 than once to my own observation, and to 
 others that were with me. 
 
 " If a woman is seen standing at a man's 
 left hand, it is a presage tliat slie will be his 
 wife, whether they be married to others, or 
 unmarried at the time of the apparition. 
 
 " To see a spark of fire fall upon one's arm 
 or breast, is a forerunner of a dead child to 
 be seen in the arms of those persons; of 
 which there are several fresh instances. 
 
 " To see a seat empty at the time of one's 
 sitting in it, is a presage of that person's 
 death soon after." — Martin's Dcscrif<tion 
 of the Western Islands, 1716, 8vo, p. 300, 
 et scq. 
 
 To these particulars innumerable examples 
 might be added, all attested by grave and 
 credible authors. But, in despite of evidence 
 which neither Bacon, Boyle, nor Johnson 
 were able to resist, the Taisc/i, with all its 
 visionary properties, seems to be now uni- 
 versally abandoned to the use of poetry. 
 The exquisitely beautiful poem of Lochiel 
 will at once occur to the recollection of every 
 reader. 
 
 Note 7. 
 Here, for retreat in dangerous hour, 
 Soim chief had framed a rustic bower. — 
 
 P. 130. 
 
 The Celtic chieftains, whose lives were 
 continually exposed to peril, had usually, in 
 the most retired spot of their domains, some 
 place of retreat for the hour of necessity, 
 which, as circumstances would admit, was a 
 tower, a cavern, or a rustic hut, in a strong 
 and secluded situation. One of these last 
 gave refuge to the unfortunate Charles Ed- 
 ward, in his perilous wanderings after the 
 battle of CuUoden. 
 
 Note S. 
 Afy sirens tall form might grace the fart 
 Of Fcrragus or Ascabart. — P. 130. 
 These two sons of Anak flourished in ro- 
 mantic fable. The first is well known to the 
 admirers of Ariosto, by the name of Ferrau. 
 He was an antagonist of Orlando, and was 
 at length slain by him in single combat. 
 
 .Ascapart, or .\scabart, makes a very ma- 
 terial figure in the History of Bevis Hamp- 
 ton, by whom he was conquered. His effigies 
 may be seen guarding one side of a gate at 
 Southampton, while the other is occupied by 
 Sir Bevis himself. 
 
 Note 9. 
 
 Thouch all tinaslSd his birth and name. 
 ^ —P. 131. 
 
 The Highlanders, who carried hospitality 
 to a punctilious excess, are >aid to have con- 
 
 sidered it as churlish to ask a stranger his 
 name or lineage before he had taken refresh- 
 ment. Feuds were so frequent among them, 
 that a contrary rule would in many cases 
 have produced the discovery of some circum- 
 stance which might have excluded the guest 
 from the benefit of the assistance he stood in 
 need of. 
 
 Note 10. 
 
 Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel • 
 gray. 
 
 Allan Bane. — P. 132. 
 
 The Highland chieftains retained in their 
 service the bard, as a family officer, to a late 
 period. 
 
 Note ii. 
 
 The Grame. — P. 134. 
 
 The ancient and powerful family of Gra- 
 ham (which, for metrical reasons, is here 
 spelt after the Scottish pronunciation) held 
 extensive possessions in thecountiesof Dum- 
 barton and Stirling. Few families can boast 
 of more historical renown, having claim to 
 three of the most remarkable characters in 
 the Scottish annals. Sir John the Grame, 
 the faithful and undaunted partaker of the 
 labors and patriotic warfare of Wallace, fell 
 in the unfortunate field of Falkirk, 1298. 
 The celebrated Marquis of Montrose, in 
 whom De Ketz saw realized his abstract 
 idea of the heroes of antiquity, was the sec- 
 ond of these worthies. And, notwithstand- 
 ing the severity of his temper, and the rigor 
 with which lie executed the oppressive man- 
 dates of the princes whom he served, I do not 
 hesitate to name as a third. John Grwnie 
 of Claverhouse, \iscount of Dundee, whose 
 heroic death in the arms of victory may be 
 allowed to cancel the memory of his cruelty 
 to the nonconformists, during the reigns of 
 Charles 11. and James U. 
 
 Note 12. 
 this hart'., which erst Saint Afodan sway'd. 
 - P. 134- 
 I am not prepared to show that Saint 
 Modan was a performer on the harp. It 
 was, however, no unsaintly accomplishment; 
 for Saint Dunstan certainly did play upon 
 that instrument, which retaining, as was 
 natural, a portion of the sanctity attached 
 to its master's character, announced future 
 events by its spontaneous sound. 
 
 Note 13. 
 
 Ere Douglasses, to ruin drii'en, 
 
 Were exiled from their native heaven. — 
 
 P'34- 
 The downfall of the Douglasses of the 
 
714 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 house of Angus during the reign of James 
 V. is the event alluded to in tlie text. 
 
 Note 14. 
 In Holy-Rood a knight he slew. — P. 135. 
 Tliis was by no means an uncommon oc- 
 currence in the Court of Scotland ; nay, the 
 presence of the sovereign himself scarcely 
 restrained the ferocious and inveterate feuds 
 "which were the jierpetual source of bloodshed 
 among the Scottish nobility. The murder 
 of Sir William .Stuart of Ochiltree, called 
 The Bloody, by the celebrated Francis, Karl 
 of Bothvvell, may be mentioned among 
 many others. — Johnstoni Historia Rcriivi 
 Britannuiirum, ab anno 1572 ad annum 
 162S. Amstelodami, 1655, fol. p. 135. 
 
 Note 15. 
 
 The Douglas, like a stricken deer, 
 Dis(nvn\l by every noble peer. — P. 135. 
 The exile state of this powerful race is not 
 exaggerated in this and subsequent passages. 
 The hatred of James against the race of 
 Douglas was so inveterate, that numerous as 
 their allies were, and disregarded as the regal 
 authority had usually been in similar cases, 
 their nearest friends, even in the most remote 
 parts of Scotland, durst not entertain them, 
 unless under the strictest and closest dis- 
 guise. 
 
 Note 16. 
 
 Alaronnan^s cell. — P. 135. 
 
 The parish of Kilmaronock, at the east- 
 ern extremity of Loch Lomond, derives its 
 name from a cell or chajiel detlicated to ."->t. 
 Maronock, or Marnock, or Maronnan, about 
 whose sanctity very little is now remembered. 
 There is a fountain devoted to him in the 
 same parish ; but its virtues, like the merits 
 of its patron, have fallen into oblivion. 
 
 Note 17. 
 Bracklinn's thundering 7vave. — 
 
 This is a beautiful cascade made by a 
 mountain stream called the Keltic, at a place 
 called the Ilridge of Bracklinn, about a mile 
 from the village of Callender in Menteith. 
 
 Note iS. 
 I' or Tine-man forged by fairy lore. — 
 
 P. 136. 
 
 Archibald, the third Earl of Douglas, was 
 so unfortunate in all his enterprises, that he 
 acquired the epithet of Tine-man, because 
 he lined, or lost, his followers, in every battle 
 which he fought. 
 
 Note 19. 
 Did, selfttnscabbarded, foreshow 
 The footstep of a secret foe. — P. 136. 
 The ancient warriors, whose hope and 
 conlidence rested chiefly in their blades, were 
 accustomed to deduce omens from them, es- 
 pecially from such a.s was suppf^sed to have 
 been fabricated by enchanted skill, of which 
 we have various instances in the romances 
 and legends of the time. 
 
 Note 20. 
 Those thrilling sounds that call the mi^ht 
 Of old Clan- Alpine to thcjight.— P. 136. 
 The connoisseurs in pipe-music affect to 
 discover in a well-composed pibroch, the im- 
 itative sounds of march, conflict, flight, pur- 
 suit, and all the " current of a heady tight." 
 
 Note 21. 
 Rodcriqh Vich Alpine dhu, ho .' ieroe .' — 
 
 P- 137- 
 Roderick the Black, the descendant of 
 Alpine. Besides his ordinary name and sur- 
 name, which were chiefly used in the inter- 
 course with the Lowlands, every Highland 
 chief had an epithet expressive of his patri- 
 archal dignity as head of the clan, and which 
 was common to all his predecessors, as Pha- 
 raoh to the kings of Egypt, or Arsaces to 
 those of Parthia, this name was usually a 
 patronymic, expressive of his descent from 
 the founder of the family. Thus the Duke 
 of Argyle is called MacCallum More, or the 
 Son of Colin the Great. 
 
 Note 22. 
 .///(/ while the Fiery Cross glanced, like a 
 meteor, round. — P. 142. 
 When a chieftain designed to summon his 
 clan upon any sudden or important emer- 
 gency, he slew a goat, and making a cross 
 of any light wood, seared its extremities in 
 the fire, and extinguished them in the blood 
 of the animal. This was called the Fiery 
 Cross, also Crean Tarigh, or the Cross of 
 .Shame, Ijecause disolxKlience to what the 
 symbol implied, inferred infamy. It was de- 
 livered to a swift and trusty messenger, who 
 ran full sjxjed with it to the next hamlet, 
 where he presented it to the principal person, 
 with a single word, implying the place of 
 rendezvous. He who received the symbol 
 was bound to send it forward with eqnal de- 
 spatch to the next village ; and thus it passed 
 with incredible celerity through all the dis- 
 trict which owed allegiance to the chief, and 
 also among his allies and neighlx)rs, if the 
 danger was common to them. At sight of the 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 715 
 
 Fiery Cross, every man, from sixteen years 
 old to sixty, capable of bearing arms, was 
 obliged instantly to repair, in his best wea- 
 pons and accoutrements, to the place of ren- 
 dezvous. He who failed to appear, suffered 
 the extremities of fire and sword, which were 
 emblematically denounced to the disobedient 
 by the bloody and burnt marks upon this 
 warlike signal. During the civil war of 
 1745-56, tile Fiery Cross often made its cir- 
 cuit : and uj^in one occasion it passed 
 through the whole district of Breadalbane, a 
 tract of thirty-two miles, in three hours. 
 
 Note 23. 
 
 That monk, of savage form and face. — 
 
 P. 143. 
 
 The state of religion in the Middle .Ages 
 afforded considerable facilities for those 
 whose mode of life excluded them from reg- 
 ular worship, to secure, nevertheless, the 
 ghostly assistance of confessors, jierfectly 
 willing to adapt the nature of their doctrine 
 to the necessities and peculiar circumstances 
 of their tlock. Robin Hood, it is well known, 
 had his celebrated domestic chaplain, Friar 
 Tuck. 
 
 NOTU 24. 
 Of Brian's birth strange tales were toUl. — 
 
 P. 143. 
 
 The legend which follows is not of the 
 author's invention. It is jwssible he may 
 differ from modern critics, in supposing that 
 the records of human superstition, if peculiar 
 to, and characteristic of. the country in which 
 the scene is laid, are a legitimate subject of 
 fxietry. He gives, however, ready assent to 
 the narrower proposition which condemns 
 all attempts of an irregular and disordered 
 fancy to excite terror, by accumulating a 
 train of fantastic and incoherent horrors, 
 whether borrowed from all countries and 
 patched upon a narrative belonging to one 
 which knew thenj not, or derived from the 
 author's own imagination. In the present 
 case, therefore, I appeal to the record which 
 I have transci iixxl, with the variation of a 
 very few words from the geographical collec- 
 tions made by the Laird of ilacfarlane. I 
 know not whether it be necessary to remark, 
 that the miscellaneous concourse of youths 
 and maidens on the night and on the spot 
 where the miracle is said to have taken place, 
 might, even in a credulous age, have some- 
 what diminished the wonder which accom- 
 panied the conception of Gilli-Doir-Magre- 
 vollich. 
 
 '■ There is bot two myles from Inverloghie, 
 the church of Kilmalee, in Loghyeld. In an- 
 
 cient tymes there was ane church builded 
 upon ane hill, which was above this church, 
 which doeth now stand in this tonne ; and' 
 ancient men doeth say, thattlwre was a 
 battell foughten on ane litk hill not the tenth 
 part of a myle from this church, be certaine 
 men which they did not know what they 
 were. .And long tyme thereafter, certaine 
 herds of that toune, and of the next tonne, 
 calkxl Unnatt, both wenches and youthes' 
 did on a tyme convecn with others on that 
 hill; and the day being somewhat cold, did 
 gather the bones of the dead men that were 
 slayne long tyme before in that place, and 
 did make a fire to warm them. At List they 
 did all remove from the fire, except one maid 
 or wench, which was verie cold, and slie did 
 remaine there for a space. She being quyet- 
 lie her alone, without anie other companie. 
 took up her cloaths above her knees, or 
 thereby to warm her ; a wind did come and 
 caste the ashes upon lier, and she was con- 
 ceived of ane man-chyld. Severall tymes 
 thereafter slie was verie sick, and at last she 
 was knowne to be with cliyld. And tlK-n her 
 parents did ask at her the matter Ijeiroff, 
 which the wench could not weel answer which 
 way to satisfie them. At last she resolved 
 them with ane answer. As fortune fell upon 
 her concerning this marvellous miracle, the 
 chyld being borne, his name was called Gilli- 
 Doir-Maghrcvollich, that is to say, the Black 
 Child, Son to the Bones, ^o called, his 
 grandfather sent him to school, and so he 
 was a good schoUar, and gt)dlie. He did 
 build this church which doeth now stand in 
 Lochyeld, calletl Kilmalee." — Macfar- 
 LANii, lit su/-ra, ii. iSS. 
 
 Note 25. 
 Yet ne'er again to braid her hair 
 The Virgin snood did Alice wear. — P. 143. 
 The snood, or riband, with which a Scot- 
 tish Liss braidetl her hair, had an emblemati- 
 cal signification, and applied to her maiden 
 character. It was exchanged for the curch, 
 toy, or coif, when she passed, by marriage, 
 into the matron state. But if the damsel 
 was so unft)rtunate as to lose pretensions to 
 the name of maiden without gaining a right 
 to that of matron, she was neither permitted 
 to use the snood, nor advanced to the graver 
 dignity of the curch. In old Scottish songs 
 there occur many sly allusions to such mis- 
 fortune : as in the old words to the popular 
 tune of " Ower the muir amang the heather.* 
 
 " Down am.ing the broom, the briiom, 
 Down amang the broom, my dearie. 
 The lassie lost her silken sno»>d, 
 Tliat gard her greet till she was wearie" 
 
7i6 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note 26. 
 The fatal Ben-Skid's boding scream. — 
 
 P. 144. 
 Most great families in the Highlands were 
 supposed to have a tutelar, or rather a domes- 
 tic spirit, attached to them, who took an in- 
 terest in their prosperity, and intimated, by 
 its waitings, any approaching disaster. A 
 superstition of the same kind is, I believe, 
 universally received by the inferior ranks of 
 the native Irish. 
 
 Note 27. 
 Sounds, too, had come in midnieht blast 
 Of charging steeds, careering fast 
 Along Bcnharroui's shingly side, 
 Where mortal horsemen ne'er might ride. 
 
 -P. 144. 
 A presage of the kind alluded to in the 
 text is still believed to announce death to 
 the ancient Highland family of M'I.ean of 
 Lochbuy. The spirit of an ancestor slain in 
 battle is heard to gallop along a stony bank, 
 and then to ride thrice around the family 
 residence, ringing his fairy bridle, and thus 
 intimating the approaching calamity. 
 
 Note 28. 
 
 the dun deer's hide 
 
 On fleeter foot was never tied. — P. 145. 
 
 The present brogue of the Highlanders is 
 made of half-dried leather, with holes to 
 admit and let out the water ; for walking the 
 moors dry-shod is a matter altogether out of 
 the question. Tiie ancient buskin was still 
 ruder, being made of undressed deer's hide, 
 with tiie hair outwards ; a circumstance which 
 procured the Highlanders the well-known 
 epithet of Redshanks. 
 
 Note 29. 
 The dismal coronach. — P. 146. 
 The coronach of the Highlanders, like the 
 itlulatus of the Romans, and the ttluloo of 
 the Irish, was a wild expression of lamen- 
 tation, poured forth by the mourners over 
 the body of a departed friend. When the 
 words of it were articulate, they expressed 
 the praises of the deceased, and the loss the 
 clan would sustain by his death. 
 
 Note 30. 
 Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, 
 Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze. — 
 
 P. 14S. 
 It may lie necessary to inform the southern 
 reader, that the heath on the Scottish moor- 
 lands is often set fire to, that the sheep may 
 have the advantage of the young herbage 
 
 produced in room of the tough old heather 
 plants. This custom (execrated by spcjrts- 
 men) produces occasionally the most beauti- 
 ful nocturnal ap{)earances, similar almost to 
 the discharge of a volcano. This simile is 
 not new to poetry. The charge of a warrior, 
 in the fine ballad of Hardyknute, is said to 
 be " like fire to heather set." 
 
 Note 31. 
 
 By many a bard, in Celtic tongue, 
 
 Has Coir-nan- Uriskin been sung. — P. 149. 
 This is a very steep and most romantic 
 hollow in the mountain of lienvenue, over- 
 hanging the southeastern extremity of Loch 
 Katrine. It is surrounded with stupendous 
 rocks, and overshadowed with birch-trees, 
 mingled with oaks, the spontaneous produc- 
 ton of the mountain, even where its cHlfs 
 appear denuded of soil. 
 
 Note 32. 
 The Taghairm call'd ; by which, afar, 
 Our sires foresaw the events of war. — 
 
 P. ,51. 
 The Highlanders, like all rude people, had 
 various superstitious modes of inquiring into 
 futurity. One of the most noted was the Tag- 
 hairm, mentioned in the text. A person 
 was wrapjied up in the skin of a newly slain 
 bullock, and deposited beside a waterfall, or 
 at the bottom of a precipice, or in some other 
 strange, wild, and unusual situation, where 
 the scenery around him suggested nothing 
 but subjects of horror. In this situation, he 
 revolved in his mind the question proposed; 
 and whatever was impressed upon him by 
 his exalted imagination, passed for the in- 
 spiration of the disembodied spirits who 
 haunt the desolate recesses. 
 
 Note 33. 
 
 that huge cliff, whose am pic verge 
 
 Tradition calls the Hero's Targe. — P. 152. 
 
 There is a rock so named in the Forest of 
 Glenfinlas, by which a tumultuary cataract 
 takes its course. This wild place is said in 
 former times to have afforded refuge to an 
 outlaw, who was supplied with provisions by 
 a woman, who lowered them down from the 
 brink of the precipice above. His water he 
 procured for himself, by letting down a flagon 
 tied to a string, into the black pool beneath 
 the fall. 
 
 Note 34. 
 Which spills the foremost focman^ s life. 
 That party conquers in the strife. — P. 152. 
 
 Though this be in the text described as a 
 response of the Taghairm, or Oracle of the 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 717 
 
 Hide, it was of itself an augury frequently 
 attended to. The fate of the battle was often 
 anticipated in the imagination of the com- 
 batants, by observing which party first shed 
 blood. It is said that the Highlanders un- 
 der Montrose were so deeply imbued with 
 this notion, that, on the morning of the 
 battle of Tippermoor, they murdered a de- 
 fenceless herdsman, whom they found in the 
 fields, merely to secure an advantage of so 
 much consequence to their party. 
 
 Note 35. 
 Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, 
 
 Our moonlight tireless screen <* 
 Or 7i'ho comes here to chase the deer, 
 Beloved of our Elfin Queen ? — P. 154. 
 Fairies, if not positively malevolent, are 
 capricious, and easily offended. They are, 
 like other proprietors of the forest, peculiarly 
 jealous of their rights of vert and venison. 
 This jealousy was also an attribute of the 
 northern Duergar, or dwarfs ; to many of 
 whose distinctions the fairies seem to have 
 succeeded, if, indeed, they are not the same 
 class of beings. 
 
 Note 36. 
 
 -who tnay dare on wold to wear 
 
 The fairies' fatal green ? — P. 154. 
 As the Daoine Shi\ or Men of Peace, wore 
 green habits, they were supposed to take of- 
 fence when any mortals ventured to assume 
 their favorite color. Indeed, from some 
 reason which has been, perhaps, originally a 
 general superstition, green is held in Scot- 
 land to be unlucky to particular trites and 
 counties. The Caithness men, who hold 
 this belief, allege as a reason, that their 
 bands wore that color when they were cut 
 off at the battle of Flodden ; and for the 
 same reason thev avoid crossing the Ord on 
 a Monday, being the day of the week on 
 which their ill-omened array set forth. Green 
 is also disliked by those of the name of Og- 
 ilvy : but more especially it is held fatal to 
 the whole clan of Grahame. It is remem- 
 bered of an aged gentleman of that name, 
 that when his' horse fell in a fox-chase, he 
 accounted for it at once by observing, that 
 the whipcord attached to his lash was of 
 . this unlucky color. 
 
 Note 37. 
 For thou wert christened man. — P. 1 54- 
 The elves were supposed greatly to envy 
 the privileges acquired by Christian initia- 
 tion, and thev gave to those mortals who had 
 fallen into their power a certain precedence, 
 founded upon this advantageous distinction. 
 
 Tamlane, in the old ballad, describes his 
 
 own rank in the fairy procession : — 
 
 " For I ride on a milk-white steed. 
 
 And aye nearest the town ; 
 
 Because I was a christen'd knieht. 
 
 They gave me that renown. 
 
 Note 38. 
 Who ever reck'd, where, how, or when, 
 The prowling fox was trapfd or slain ? — 
 
 P. 159. 
 St. John actually used this illustration 
 when engaged in confuting the plea of law 
 proposed for the unfortunate Earl of Straf- 
 ford : " It was true we gave laws to hares 
 and deer, because they are teasts of chase ; 
 but it was never accounted eitiier cruelty or 
 foul play to knock fo.xes or wolves on the 
 head as they can be found, because they are 
 beasts of prey. In a word, the law and hu- 
 manity were alike : the one being more falla- 
 cious, and the other more barbarous, than in 
 any age had been vented in such an author- 
 ity." — Cl.arendon"s History of the Rebel- 
 lion. Oxford, 1702, fol. vol. p. 183. 
 
 Note 39. 
 
 his Highland cheer. 
 
 The hardened flesh 'of mountain deer. — 
 
 P. 159. 
 The Scottish Highlanders in former 
 times, had a concise mode of cooking their 
 venison, or rather of dispensing with cook- 
 ing it, which appears greatly to have sur- 
 prised the French whom chance made ac- 
 quainted with it. The Vidame of Charters, 
 when a hostage in England, during the 
 reign of Edward VI., was permitted totr.ivel 
 into Scotland, and penetrated as far as to 
 the remote Highlands (au fin fond des Sau- 
 va^es). After a great hunting party, at which 
 a most wonderful quantity of game was 
 destroyed, he saw these Scottish Savages de- 
 vour a part of their venison raw, without 
 any further preparation than compressing it 
 between two batons of wood, so as to force 
 out the blood and render it extremely hard. 
 This thev reckoned a great delicacy; and 
 when the Vidame partook of it, his compli- 
 ance with their taste rendered him extremely 
 popular. 
 
 Note 40. 
 Not then claimed sovereignty his due. 
 While Albany, with feeble hand. 
 Held borrow d truncheon of command. — 
 
 P. 161 
 
 There is scarcely a more disorderly period 
 in Scottish historv than that which succeeded 
 the battle of Flodden, and occupied the mi 
 
7i8 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 nority of James V. Feuds of ancient stand- 
 ing broke out like old wounds, and every 
 quarrel among the indeiJendent nobility, 
 which occurred daily, and almost hourly, 
 gave rise to fresh bloodshed. 
 
 Note 41. 
 
 / 07tly meant 
 
 To show the reed on which you leant. 
 Deeming this fath yoti might fur site 
 Without a pass from Roderick Dhu. — 
 
 P. ^(.i. 
 This incident, like some other passages in 
 the poem, illustrative of the character of the 
 ancient Gael, is not imaginary, but borrowed 
 from fact. The Highlanders, with the in- 
 consistency of most nations in the same 
 state, were alternately capable of great exer- 
 tions of generosity, and of cruel revenge and 
 perfidy. 
 
 Note 42. 
 On Bochastle the mouldering lines, 
 Where Rome, the Etnpress of the world. 
 Of yore her eagle-wings unfurVd. — P. 163. 
 The torrent which discharges itself from 
 T.och Vennachar, the lowest and eastniost of 
 the three lakes which form the scenery ad- 
 joining to the Trosaciis, sweeps through a flat 
 and extensive moor, called Bochastle. Upon 
 a small eminence, called the Dun of Boch- 
 astle, and indeed on the plain itself, are some 
 intrenchments, which have been thought Ro- 
 man. There is, adjacent to Callender, a 
 sweet villa, the residence of Captain Fair- 
 foul, entitled the Roman Camp. 
 
 Note 43. 
 See, here, all vantageless I stand, 
 j4rm'd, like thyself, -with simple brand. — 
 
 P. 163. 
 The duellists of former times did not al- 
 ways stand upon those punctilios resjx^cting 
 equality of arms, which are now judged es- 
 sential to fair combat. It is true, that in 
 former combats in the lists, the parties were, 
 by the judges of the field, put as nearly as 
 possible in the same circumstances. But in 
 private duel it was often otherwise. 
 
 Note 44. 
 Ill fared it then ivith Roderick Dhu, 
 That on the field his targe lie threiv. 
 For irain'd abroad his arms to ii'icld, 
 Filz-fames''s blade was sivord a7id shield. — 
 
 P. 164. 
 
 A round target of light wood, covered witli 
 
 strong leather, and studded with brass or 
 
 iron, was a necessary part of a Highlander's 
 
 equipment. In charging regular troops, 
 tiiey received the thrust of the bayonet in 
 this buckler, twisted it aside, and used the 
 broadsword against the encumbered soldier. 
 In the civil war of 1745, most of the front 
 rank of the clans were thus armed ; and Cap- 
 tain Grose informs us, tiiat, in 1747, the pri- 
 vates of the 42d regiment, then in Flanders, 
 were, for the most part, jsermitted to carry 
 targets. — Aliliiary Antiquities, vol. i., p. 
 164. ^ 
 
 Note 45. 
 The burghers hold their sports to-day. — 
 
 P. ir>r>. 
 
 Every burgh of Scotland, of the least note, 
 but more esj>ecially the considerable towns, 
 had their solemn play, or festival, when 
 feats of archery were exhibited, and prizes 
 distributed to those who excelled in wrest- 
 ling, hurling the bar, and the other gymnas- 
 tic exercises of the period. Stirling, a usual 
 place of royal residence, was not likely to be 
 deficient in pomp upon such occasions, es- 
 ])ecially since James V. was very partial to 
 them. His ready participation in these pop- 
 ular aniusen)ents was one cause of his ac- 
 quiring the title of King of the Commons, 
 or Rex Plebeiorum, a.s Lesley has latinized 
 it. The usual prize to the best shooter was 
 a silver arrow. Such a one is preserved at 
 Selkirk and at Peebles. 
 
 Note 46. 
 Robin Hood. — P. 167, 
 The exhibition of this renowned outlaw 
 and his band was a favorite frolic at such 
 festivals as we are describing. This sport- 
 ing, in which kings did not disdain to l)e 
 actors, was prohibited in Scotland upon the 
 Reformation, by a statute, of the 6th Parlia- 
 ment of Queen Mary, c. 61, a.d. 1555, which 
 ordered, under heavy penalties, that, " na 
 manner of person be chosen Robert Hude, 
 nor Little John, Ablxjt of Unreason, Queen 
 of M.ay, nor otherwise." But in i-,(^i, the 
 " ra.scal multitude," says John Knox, " were 
 stirred up to make a Robin Hude, whilk 
 enormity was of many years left and damned 
 by statute and act of Parliament ; yet would 
 they not lie forbidden." Accordingly, they 
 raised a very serious tumult, and at length 
 made prisoners the magistrates who en- 
 deavored to suppress it, and would not re- 
 lease them till they extorted a formal prom- 
 ise that no one should be punished for his 
 share of the disturbance. It would seem, 
 from the complaints of the General Assembly 
 of the Kirk, that these profane festivities 
 were continued down to 1592. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 719 
 
 Note 47. 
 Prizt of the wrestling match, the King 
 To Douglas gave a golden ring. — P. 167. 
 The usual prize of a wrestling was a ram 
 and a ring, but the animal would have em- 
 barrassed my story. Jhus, in the Cokes 
 Tale of Gamelyn, ascbribed to Chaucer : — 
 "There liapped to be there beside, 
 Tryed a wrestling ; 
 Aud therefore there was y-setten 
 A rain and als a ring." 
 
 Note 48. 
 These drc-ai not for their fields the sword 
 Like tenants of a feudal lord, 
 Nor oivn'd the patriarchal claim 
 Of Chieftain in their leader's name ; 
 Adventurers they. — P. 170. 
 
 The Scottish armies consisted chiefly of 
 the nobility and barons, with their vassals, 
 who held lands under them, for military ser- 
 vice by themselves and their tenants. The 
 patriarchal influence exercised by the heads 
 of clans in the Highlands and borders was of 
 a different nature, and sometimes at vari- 
 ance with feudal principles. It flowed from 
 the Fatria Potes/as. exercised by the chief- 
 tain as representing the original father of 
 the whole name, and was often obeyed in 
 contradiction to the feudal superior. 
 
 Note 49. 
 Thoti now hast glee-maiden and harp .' 
 Get thee an ape, aiid trudge the land, 
 The leader of a juggler band. — P. 171. 
 The jongleurs, or jugglers, used to call in 
 the aid of various assistants, to render these 
 performances as captivating as possible. The 
 glee-maiden was a necessary attendant. Her 
 duty was tumbling and dancing ; and there- 
 fore the .Anglo-.Saxon version of St. Mark's 
 Gospel states Herodias to have vaulted or 
 tumbled before King Herod. 
 
 Note 50. 
 That stirring air that peals on high. 
 O'er Dermid/s race our victory, — 
 St rile it.— V. 174. 
 There are several instances, at least in 
 tradition, of persons so much attached to 
 particular tunes as to require to hear them 
 on their deathbed. Such an anecdote is 
 mentioned by the late Mr. Riddel of Glen- 
 riddel, in his collection of Border tunes, 
 respecting an air called the " Dandling of 
 the Bairns," for which a certain Gallovidian 
 laird is said to have evinced this strong 
 mark of partiality. It is popularly told of 
 
 a famous freebooter, that he composed the 
 tune known by the name of Macpherson's 
 Kant, while under sentence of death, and 
 played it at, the gallows-tree. Some spirited 
 words have been adapted to it by Burns. A 
 similar story is recorded of a Welsh bard, 
 who composed and played on his deathbed 
 the air called Dafyddy Garregg Wen. 
 
 Note 51. 
 Battle of Bear an Duinc.— F. 174. 
 \ skirmish actually took place at a pass 
 thus called in the Trosachs, and closed with 
 the remarkable incident nientioned in the 
 text. It was greatly posterior in date to the 
 reign of James V. 
 
 Note 52. 
 And Snowdoun's Knight is ScotlaneTs King. 
 — P. 178. 
 This discovery will probably remind the 
 reader of the beautiful Arabian tale of // 
 Bondocani. Yet the incident is not bor- 
 rowed from that elegant story, but from 
 .Scottish tradition. James V., of whom we 
 are treating, was a monarch whose good 
 and benevolent intentions often rendered 
 his romantic freaks venial, if not respecta- 
 ble, since from his anxious attention to the 
 interests of the lower and most oppressed 
 class of his subjects he was, as we have seen, 
 popularly termed the King of the Commons. 
 For the purpose of seeing that justice was 
 regularly administered, and frequently from 
 the less justifiable motive of gallantry, he 
 used to traverse the vicinage of his several 
 palaces in various disguises. The two ex- 
 cellent comic songs, entitled, " The Gaber- 
 lunzie Man," and " We'll gae nae mair a 
 roving," are said to have been founded upnin 
 tlie success of his amorous adventures when 
 travelling in the disguise of a beggar. The 
 latter is perhaps the b2st comic ballad in any 
 language. 
 
 Note 53. 
 
 Stirling's tower 
 
 Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims. — 
 P. 17S. 
 William of Worcester, who wrote about 
 the middle of the fifteenth century, calls 
 Stirling Castle Snowdoun. Sir David 
 Lindesay bestows the same epithet upon it 
 in his complaint of the Papingo : — 
 " Adieu, fair Snawdoun, with thy towers high, • 
 Thv chapel-royal, park, and table round: 
 May, June, and July, would I dwell in thee. 
 We're 1 a man, to hear the birdis sound, 
 Whilk doth againe thy royal rock rebound." 
 
720 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 Note i. 
 
 And CattractlCs glens ■with voice of tri- 
 umph runt;. 
 And mystic Alcrlin harp'd, and gray-hair' d 
 Llyivarch sung.' — P. iSi. 
 
 This locality may startle those readers 
 who do not recollect that much of the an- 
 cient poetry preserved in Wales refers less 
 to tiie history of the Principality to which 
 that name is now limited, than to events 
 which happened in the north-west of Eng- 
 land and south-west of Scotland, where the 
 Britons for a hjng time made a stand against 
 the Saxons. The battle of Cattraeth, la- 
 mented by the celebrated .Aneurin, is sup- 
 posed, by the learned Dr. l.eyden, to have 
 been fought on the skirts of Ettrick Forest. 
 It is known to the English reader by the 
 paraphrase of Gray, beginning, — 
 
 " Had I but the torrent's might, 
 With headlong rage and wild affright," etc. 
 
 But it is not so generally known that the 
 champions mourned in this beautiful dirge 
 were the British inhabitants of Edinburgh, 
 who were cut off by the .^axons of Deiria or 
 Northumberland, about the latter part of the 
 sixth century. 
 
 Llywarch. the celebrated bard and mon- 
 arch, was prince of Argood in Cumberland; 
 and his youthful exploits were jaerformed 
 upon the Border. Merlin Wyllt, or the 
 Savage, bore the name of Caledonia, and 
 hence is appropriated to Scotland. The 
 spot in which he was buried, near Drum- 
 elzier on the Tweed, is still shown. .See 
 Pennycuick's " Description of Tweeddale," 
 Edinburgh, 171 5, vol. iv., p. 26. 
 
 , Note 2. 
 Minchmore's haunted sfiring. — P. 182. 
 
 A belief in the existence and nocturnal 
 revels of the fairies still lingers among the 
 vulgar in Selkirkshire. A copious fountain 
 upon the ridge of Minchmore, called the 
 Cheesewell, is supposed to te sacred to 
 these fanciful spirits, and it was customary 
 to propitiate them by throwing in some- 
 thing upon passing it. A pin was the usual 
 oblation ; and the ceremony is still some- 
 times practised, though rather in jest than 
 earnest. 
 
 Note 3. 
 
 the rude villager, his labor done. 
 
 In verse spontaneous chants some favored 
 name. — P. 182. 
 
 The flexibility of the Italian and Spanish 
 
 languages, and perhaps the liveliness of their 
 genius, renders these countries distinguished 
 for the talent of improvisation, which is 
 found even among the lowest of the peo- 
 ple. It is mentioned by Baretti and other 
 travellers. 
 
 Note 4. 
 
 kindling at the deeds of Grcemc. — 
 
 P. 182. 
 
 (jver a name sacred for ages to heroic 
 verse, a poet may be allowed to exercise 
 some power. I have used the freedom, here 
 and elsewhere, to alter the orthography of 
 the name of my gallant countryman, in order 
 to apprise the Southern reader of its legiti 
 mate sound; — Grahame being, on the othet 
 side of the Tweed, usually pronounced as a 
 dissyllable. 
 
 Note 5. 
 What .' will Don Roderick here till morn- 
 ing stay, 
 To wear in shrift and prayer the night 
 away ? 
 And are his hours in such dull fenanct 
 past, 
 For fair Florinda's plundered charms to 
 payf — V. 1 84. 
 Almost all the Spanish historians, as well 
 as the voice of tradition, ascribe the inva- 
 sion of the Moors to the forcible violation 
 committed by Roderick upon Florinda, called 
 by the Moors, Caba or Cava. .She was the 
 daughter of Count Julian, one of the Gothic 
 monarch's principal lieutenants, who, when 
 the crime was periietrated, was engaged in 
 the defence of Ceuta against the Moors. In 
 his indignation at the ingratitude of his sov- 
 ereign, and the dishonor of his daughter, 
 Count Julian forgot the duties of a Chris- 
 tian and a patriot, and, forming an alliance 
 with Musa. then the Caliph's lieutenant in 
 Africa, he countenanced the invasion of -Spain 
 by a lx)dy of Saracens and Africans, com- 
 manded by the celebrated Tarik : the issue 
 of which was the defeat and death of Roder- 
 ick, and the occupation of almost the whole 
 peninsula by the Moors. Voltaire, in his 
 General History, expresses his doubts of 
 this popular story, and Gibbon gives him 
 some countenance: but the universal tradi- 
 tion is quite sufficient for the purposes of 
 poetry. The Spaniards, in detestation of 
 Florinda's memory, are said by Cervantes, 
 never to testow that name on any human 
 female, reserving it for their dogs. 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 721 
 
 Note 6. 
 Tlie Tecbir war-cry and the Lelie's yell. — 
 
 P. 186. 
 The Tecbir (derived from the words Alia 
 acbar, God is most mighty), was the ori- 
 ginal war-cry of the Saracens. It is celebrated 
 by Hughes in the Siege of Damascus: — 
 " We heard the Tecbir; so these Arabs call 
 Their shout of onset, when, with loud ap)>eal. 
 They challenge Heaven, as if demanding 
 conquest." 
 
 The l^l'tc, well known to the Christians 
 during the crusades, is the shout of Alia ilia 
 Alia, the Mahometan confession of faith. It 
 is twice used in poetry by my friend Mr. W. 
 Stewart Rose, in the romance of Partenopex, 
 and 4n the Crusade of St. Lewis. 
 
 Note 7. 
 By Heaven, the Moors prevail .' the Chris- 
 tians yield .' — 
 Their coward leader gives for flight tlte 
 sign! 
 The sceptred craven mounts to quit the 
 field— 
 Is not yon steed Orelia ? — Yes, 'tis mine .' 
 
 — P. 1S7. 
 Count Julian, the father of the injured 
 
 Florinda, with the connivance and assistance 
 of Uppas, Archbishop of Toledo, invited, in 
 71-;, the Saracens into .Spain. A consider- 
 able army arrived under the conmiand of 
 Tarik, or Tarif, who liequeathed the well- 
 known name of Gibraltar (Gibel al Tarik, 
 or the mountain of Tarik) to the place of his 
 landing. He was joined by Count Julian, 
 ravaged Andalusia, and took .Seville. In 
 714 they returned with a still greater force, 
 and KtKlerick marched into .Andalusia at 
 the head of a great army, to give them battle. 
 The field was chosen near Xeras. [Roderick 
 was defeated, and fled from the field of battle 
 on his favorite steed Orelia. This famous 
 and matchless charger was found riderless 
 on the hanks of the river Guadelite, with the 
 King's upper garment, buskins, etc. It was 
 supposed that in trying to swim the river 
 he was drowned. But wild legions as to his 
 after fate long prevailed in Spain. — .See 
 SoL'THEv's "Don Roderick." — En.] 
 
 Note S. 
 When for the light bolero ready stand. 
 The mozn blithe, with ^ay muchacha met. 
 
 — P. 1S9. 
 The bolero is a very light and active dance. 
 
 much practised by the Spaniards, in which 
 castanets are always used. Mozo and mucha- 
 cha are equivalent to our phrase of lad and 
 lass. 
 
 Note 9. 
 While trumfcts rang, and lieralds cried, 
 " Castile .' " — P. 191. 
 The heralds, at the coronation of a Spanish 
 monarch, proclaim his name three times, and 
 repeat three times the word Castilla, Cas- 
 tilla, Castilla; which, with all other cere- 
 monies, was carefully copied in the mock 
 inauguration of Joseph Bonaparte. 
 
 Note 10. 
 
 High blazed the war, and long, and far, and 
 wide. — P. 192. 
 
 Those who were disposed to believe that 
 mere virtue and energy are able of themselves 
 to work forth the salvation of an oppressed 
 pieople, surprised in a moment of confidence, 
 deprived of their officers, armies, and for- 
 tresses, who had every means of resistance 
 to seek in the very moment when they were 
 to be made use of, and whom the numerous 
 treasons among the higher orders deprived 
 of confidence in their natural leaders, — those 
 who entertained this enthusiastic but delu- 
 sive opinion may be pardoned for expressing 
 their disapjx>intnient at the protracted war- 
 fare in the Peninsula. There are, however, 
 another class of persons, who, having them- 
 selves the highest dread or veneration, or 
 something allied to both, for the power of 
 the modern Attila, will nevertheless give the 
 heroical Spaniards little or no credit for the 
 long, stubl>irn, and unsubdued resistance of 
 three years to a power before whom their 
 former well-prepared, well-armed, and numer- 
 ous adversaries fell in the course of as many 
 months. While these gentlemen plead for 
 deference to Bonaparte, and crave 
 
 *' Respect for his great place, and bid the devil 
 Ite duly honor'd for his burning throne," 
 it may not be altogether unre,isonable to 
 claim some modification of censure upon 
 those who have been long and to a great 
 e.Ntent successfully resisting this great enemy 
 of mankind. That the energy of Sp.ain has 
 not uniformly been directed by conduct equal 
 to its vigor, has been too obvious ; that her 
 armies, under their complicated disadvan- 
 tages, have shared the fate of such as were 
 defeated after taking the field with every 
 possible advantage of arms and discipline, 
 is surely not to be wondered at. But that a 
 nation, under the circumstances of repeated 
 discomfiture, internal treason, and the mis 
 management incident to a temporary and 
 hastily adopted government, should have 
 wastei, by its stubborn, uniform, and pro- 
 longed resistance, myriads after myriads of 
 those soldiers who had overrun the world — 
 and some of its provinces should, like Galida, 
 
722 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 after being abandoned by their allies, and 
 overrun by their enemies, have recovered 
 their freedom by their own unassisted ex- 
 ertions ; that others, like Catalonia, undis- 
 mayed by the treason which betrayed some 
 fortresses, and the force which subdued 
 others, should not only have continued their 
 resistance, but have attained over their vic- 
 torious enemy a superiority, which is even 
 now enabling them to besiege and retake the 
 places of strengtli which had been wrested 
 from them, is a tale hitherto untold in the 
 revolutionary war. 
 
 Note ii. 
 They won not Zaragoza, but her childreii's 
 bloody tomb. — P. 192. 
 
 The interesting account of Mr. Vaughan * 
 has made most readers acquainted with the 
 first siege of Zaragoza. The last and fatal 
 siege of that gallant and devoted city is de- 
 tailed with great eloquence and precision in 
 the " Edinburgh Annual Register " for 1S09, 
 — a work in which the affairs of Spain have 
 been treated of with attention corresponding 
 to their deep interest, and to the peculiar 
 .sources of information open to the his- 
 torian. Tlie following are a few brief ex- 
 tracts from this splendid historical narra- 
 tive : — 
 
 " A breach was soon made in the mud 
 walls, and then, as in the former siege, the 
 war was cairied on in the streets and houses ; 
 but the French had IxHjn taught ijy experi- 
 ence, that in this species of warfare tlie Zara- 
 gozans derived a superiority from the feeling 
 and principle which inspired them and the 
 cause for which they fought. The only 
 means of conquering Zaragoza was to de- 
 stroy it house by house, and street by street ; 
 and upon this system of destruction they 
 proceeded. Three companies of miners, and 
 eight companies of sappers, carried on this 
 subterraneous war ; the Spaniards, it is said, 
 attempted to oppose them ))y countermines ; 
 these were o^x^rations to wliich they were 
 wholly unused, and, according to the French 
 statement, their miners were every day dis- 
 covered and suffocated. Meantime, the bom- 
 bardment was incessantly kept up. ' Within 
 the last forty-eight hours,' said Palafox in a 
 letter to his friend (General Doyle. '6,000 
 shells have been thrown in. Two-thirds of 
 the town are in ruins ; but we sliall j>erish 
 under the ruins of the remaining third rather 
 tlian surrender.' In the course of the siege, 
 above 1 7,000 bombs were thrown at the town ; 
 the stock of powder with which Zaragoza 
 
 * " Narrative of the Siecre of Zaracroy.a," by 
 Richard Cliarles Vaiichan, I'^o i. Mr, Vaughan 
 was afterwards British Minister at Washington." 
 
 had been stored was exhausted ; they had 
 none at last but what they manufactured 
 day by day ; and no other cannon-balls than 
 those which were shot into the town, and 
 which they collected and fired back upon 
 the enemy." 
 
 In the midst of these horrors and priva- 
 tions, the pestilence broke out in Zaragoza. 
 To various causes, enumerated by the annal- 
 ist, he adds, '• scantiness of food, crowded 
 quarters, unusual exertion of body, anxiety 
 of mind, and the impossibility of recruiting 
 their exhausted strength by needful rest, in 
 a city which was almost incessantly bom- 
 barded, and where every hour their sleep 
 was broken by the tremendous explosion of 
 mines. There was now no respite, either by 
 day or night, for this devoted city ; even the 
 natural order of light and darkness was de- 
 stroyed in Zaragoza ; by day it was involved 
 in a red sulphureous atmosphere of smoke, 
 which hid the face of heaven ; by night, the 
 fire of cannons and motars, and the flames 
 of burning houses, kept it in a state of ter- 
 rific illumination. 
 
 " When once the pestilence had begun, it 
 was impossible to check its progress, or con- 
 fine it to one quarter of the city. Hospitals 
 were immediately established, — there were 
 above thirty of them ; as soon as one was 
 destroyed by the Ixmibardment, the patients 
 were removed to another, and thus the in- 
 fection was carried to every part of Zaragoza. 
 Famine aggravated the evil; the city had 
 probably not been sufficiently provided at 
 the commencement of the siege, and of the 
 provisions which it contained, much was de- 
 stroyed in the daily ruin which the mines and 
 bombs had effected Had the Zaragozans 
 and their garrison proceeded according to 
 military rules, they would have surren- 
 dered before the end of January ; their bat 
 teries had then been demolished, there were 
 op>en breaches in many parts of their weak 
 walls, and tlie enemy were already within 
 the city. On the 30th, above sixty houses 
 were blown up, and the French obtained 
 possession of the monasteries of the .Augus- 
 tines and Las Monicas, which adjoined each 
 other, two of the last defensible places 
 left. The enemy forced their way into the 
 church ; every column, every chapel, every 
 altar, became a point of defence, which was 
 repeatedly attacked, taken, and retaken ; the 
 pavement was covered with blood, the aisles 
 and Ijody of the church strewed with the 
 dead, who were trampled under foot by the 
 coml)atants. In the midst of this conflict, 
 the roof, shattered by repeated boml)s, fell 
 in ; the few who were not crushed, after a 
 short pause, which this tremendous shock, 
 
THE VISTO.V OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 in 
 
 and their own unexpected escape, occasioned, 
 renewed the figlit with rekindled fury ; fresh 
 parties of the enemy poured in ; monks and 
 citizens, and soldiers, came to the defence, 
 and the contest was continued upon the 
 ruins, and the bodies of the dead and the 
 dying." 
 
 Yet, seventeen days after sustaining these 
 extremities, did the heroic inhabitants of 
 Zaragoza continue their defence; nor did 
 they then surrender until their despair had 
 extracted from the French generals a capitu- 
 lation, more honorable than has been granted 
 to fortresses of the first order. 
 
 Who shall venture to refuse the Zara- 
 gozans the eulogium conferred upon them 
 by the eloquence of Wordsworth ! — " Most 
 gloriously have the citizens of Zaragoza 
 proved that the true army of Spain, in a 
 contest of this nature, is the whole people. 
 The same city has also exemplified a melan- 
 choly, yea, a dismal truth, yet consolatory 
 and full of joy, -—that when a people are 
 called suddenly to fight for their liberty, and 
 are sorely pressed upon, their best field of 
 battle is the floors upon which their chil- 
 dren have played ; the chambers where the 
 family of each man has slept (his own or 
 his neighbors'), upon or under the roofs by 
 which they have been sheltered ; in the gar- 
 dens of their recreation ; in the street, or in 
 the market-place ; before the altars of their 
 temples, and among their congregated dwell- 
 ings, blazing or uprooted. 
 
 " The government of Spain must never 
 forget Zaragoza for a moment. Nothing is 
 wanting to produce the same effects every- 
 where, but a leading mind, such as that city 
 was blessed with. In the latter contest this 
 has been proved; for Zaragoza contained, 
 at that time, bodies of men from almost all 
 parts of Spain. The narrative of those two 
 sieges should be the manual of every Span- 
 iard. He may add it to the ancient stories 
 of Numantia and -Saguntum ; let him sleep 
 upon the book as a pillow, and. if he be a 
 devout adherent to the religion of his coun- 
 try, let him wear it in his bosom for his 
 crucifix to rest ujion." — WORDSWORTH on 
 the Convention of Cintra. 
 
 Note 12. 
 The Vault of Destiny.— P. I95- 
 Before finally dismissing the enchanted 
 cavern of Don Roderick, it may be noticed, 
 that the legend occurs in one of Calderon's 
 plays, entitled La Virgin del Saorario. The 
 scene opens with the "noise of the chase, and 
 Recisundo, a predecessor of Rodeiick upon 
 the Gothic throne, enters pursuing a stag. 
 
 The animal assumes the form of a man. and 
 defies the King to enter the cave, which 
 forms the Ixjttom of the scene, and engage 
 with him in single combat. 'I'he King ac- 
 cepts the challenge, and they engage accord- 
 ingly, but without advantage on either side, 
 which induces the Genie to inform Recis- 
 undo, that he is not the monarch for whom 
 the adventure of the enchanted cavern is re- 
 served, and he proceeds to predict the down- 
 fall of the Gothic monarchy, and of the 
 Christian religion, which shall attend the 
 discovery of its mysteries. Recisundo. ap 
 palled by these prophecies, orders the cavern 
 to be secured by a gate and bolts of iron. 
 In the second part of the same play, we are 
 informed that Don Roderick had removed 
 the barrier, and transgressed the prohibition 
 of his ancestor, and had been apprised by 
 the prodigies which he discovered of the ap 
 proaching ruin of his kingdom. 
 
 Note 13. 
 
 While downward on the land his legions 
 press. 
 Before them it was rich with vine and flock, 
 
 And smiled like Eden in her summer 
 dress ; — 
 Behind their wasteful march, a reeking wil- 
 derness. — P. 195. 
 
 I have ventured to apply to the move- 
 ments of the French army that sublime pas 
 sage in the prophecies of Joel, which seems 
 applicable to them in more respects than that 
 1 have adopted in the text. One would 
 think their ravages, their niilitar)- appoint- 
 ments, the terror which they spread among 
 invaded nations, their military discipline, 
 their arts of political intrigue and deceit, 
 were distinctly pointed out in the following 
 verses of Scripture : — 
 
 "2. A day of darknesse and of gloomi- 
 nesse, a day of clouds and of thick darknesse, 
 as the morning spread upon the mountains; 
 a great people and a strong, there hath no« 
 been ever the like, neither shall be any more 
 after it. even to the yeares of many genera- 
 tions. ■!,. A fire devoureth before them, and 
 behind them a flame burneth ; the land is as 
 the Garden of Eden before them, and behinde 
 them a desolate wilderness, yea, and nothing 
 shall escape them. 4. The appearance of 
 them is as the appearance of horses ; and as 
 horsemen, so shall they runne. 5. Like the 
 noise of chariots on the tops of mountains, 
 shall they leap, like the noise of a flame of 
 fire that devoureth the stubble, as a strong 
 people set in battel array. (^. Before their 
 face shall the people be much pained: all 
 faces shall gather blacknesse. 7. They shall 
 
724 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 run like mighty men, they shall climb the 
 wall like men of warre, and they shall march 
 every one in his wayes, and they shall not 
 break their ranks. S. Neither shall one 
 thrust another, they shall walk every one in 
 his path : and when they fall upon the sword, 
 they shall not be wounded. 9. They shall 
 run to and fro in the citie ; they shall run 
 upon the wall, they shall climbe up upon the 
 houses : they shall enter in at the windows 
 like a thief. 10. The earth shall quake be- 
 fore them, the heavens shall tremble, the 
 sunne and the moon sliall be dark, and the 
 starres shall withdraw their shining." 
 
 In verse 20th, also, wiiicli announces the 
 retreat of the northern army, descrited in 
 such dreadful colors, into " a land barren and 
 desolate," and the dishonor with which God 
 afflicted them for having " magnified tliem- 
 selves to do great things," tiiere are partic- 
 ulars not inapplicable to the retreat of 
 Massena; — Divine Providence having, in 
 all ages, attached disgrace as the natural 
 punishment of cruelty and presumption. 
 
 Note 14. 
 The rudest sentinel, in Britain born. 
 
 With horror paused to view the havoc 
 done, 
 Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch for- 
 lorn. — P. 196. 
 
 Even the unexampled gallantry of the 
 British army in the campaign of 1810-11, 
 although they never fought but to conquer, 
 will do them less honor in iiistory than tlieir 
 humanity, attentive to soften to the utmost 
 of their power the horrors wiiich war, in its 
 mildest aspect, must always inflict upon the 
 defenceless inhabitants of the country in 
 which it is waged, and which, on this occa- 
 sion, were tenfold augmented by the barbar- 
 ous cruelties of the French. Soup-kitchens 
 were established by subscription among the 
 officers, wherever the troops were quartered 
 for any length of time. The commissaries 
 contributed the heads, feet, etc., of the cattle 
 slaughtered for the soldiery : rice, vegetables, 
 and bread, where it could be had, were pur- 
 chased by the officers. Fifty or sixty starv- 
 ing peasants were daily fed at one of these 
 regimental establishments, and carried home 
 the relics to their famished households. 
 The emaciated wretches, who could not 
 crawl from weakness, were speedily employed 
 in pruning tiieir vines. While pursuing 
 Massena, the soldiers evinced the same 
 spirit of humanity, and in many instances, 
 when reduced themselves to short allowance, 
 from having outmarched their supplies, they 
 shared their pittance with the starving in- 
 
 habitants, who had ventured back to view 
 the ruins of their habitations, burnt by the 
 retreating enemy, and to bury the bodies of 
 their relations whom they had butchered. 
 Is it possible to know such facts without 
 feeling a sort of confidence, that those who 
 so well deserve victory are most likely to at- 
 tain it.' — It is not the least of Lord Wel- 
 lington's military merits, that the slightest 
 disposition towards marauding meets im- 
 mediate punisliment. Independently of all 
 moral obligation, the army which is most 
 orderly in a friendly country, has always 
 proved most formidable to an armed enemy. 
 
 NoTF. 15. 
 Vain-glorious fugitive .' — P. 196. 
 The French conducted this memorable re- 
 treat with much of the fanfaronnadepropcT 
 to their country, by which tiiey attempt to 
 impose upon others, and perhaps on them- 
 .selves, a tolief that they are triumphing in 
 the very moment of their discomfiture. On 
 the 30th March, iSii, their rear-guard was 
 overtaken near Pega by the British cavalry. 
 Being well posted, and conceiving themselves 
 safe from infantry (who were indeed many 
 miles in the rear), and from artillery, they 
 indulged themselves in parading tlieir bands 
 of music, and actually performed " God save 
 the King." Their minstrelsy was, however, 
 deranged by the undesired accompaniment 
 of the British horse-artillery, on whose part 
 in tlie concert they had not calculated. The 
 surprise was sudden, and the rout complete ; 
 for the artillery and cavalry did execution 
 upon them for about four miles, pursuing at 
 the gallop as often as they got beyond the 
 range of the guns. 
 
 Note 16. 
 Vainly thy sqtiadrous hide Ass?iava's 
 plain, 
 And front the flying thunders as they 
 roar, 
 With frantic charge and tenfold odds, in 
 
 vain .' — P. 196 
 In the severe action of Fuentesde Honoro, 
 upon 5th May, i8ii,the grand mass of the 
 French cavalry attacked the right of the 
 British position, covered by two guns of 
 the horse-artillery, and two squadrons of 
 cavalry. After suffering considerably from 
 the fire of the guns, which annoyed them 
 in every attempt at formation, the enemy 
 turned their wrath entirely towards them, 
 distributed brandy among their troojiers, and 
 advanced to carry the field-pieces with the 
 desperation of drunken fury. They were in 
 
THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 725 
 
 nowise checked by the heavy loss which they 
 sustained in this daring attempt, but closed, 
 and fairly mingled with the British cavalry, 
 to whom they bore the proportion of ten to 
 one. Captain Ramsay (let me be permitted 
 to name a gallant countryman), who com- 
 manded the two guns, dismissed them at 
 the gallop, and putting himself at the head 
 of the mounted artillerymen, ordered them to 
 fall upon the French, sabre-in-hand. This 
 very unexpected conversion of artillerymen 
 into dragoons, contributed greatly to the 
 defeat of the enemy, already disconterted by 
 the reception they had met from the two 
 British squadrons : and the appearance of 
 some small re-enforcements, notwithstanding 
 the immense disproportion of force, put 
 them to absolute rout. A colonel or major 
 of their cavalry, and many prisoners (almost 
 all intoxicated), remained in our possession. 
 Those who consider for a moment the dif- 
 ference of the services, and how much an 
 artilleryman is necessarily and naturally led 
 to identify his own safety and utility with 
 abiding by the tremendous implement of 
 war, to the exercise of which he is chiefly, if 
 not exclusively, trained, will know how to 
 estimate the presence of mind which com- 
 manded so bold a manctuvre, and the stead- 
 iness and confidence with which it was 
 executed. 
 
 NoTii 17. 
 And -what avails thee that, for Cameron 
 slain. 
 
 Wild from his flaided ranks the yell was 
 given. 
 
 — P. 196. 
 
 The gallant Colonel Cameron was 
 wounded mortally during the desperate 
 contest in the streets of the village called 
 Fuentes de Honoro. He fell at the head of 
 his native Highlanders, the 71st and ;^th, 
 who raised a dreadful shriek of grief and 
 rage. They charged with irresistible fury, 
 the finest body of French Grenadiers ever 
 seen, being a part of Bonaparte's selected 
 guard. The officer who led the French, a 
 man remarkable for stature and symmetry, 
 was killed on the spot. The Frenchman 
 who stepped out of his rank to take aim 
 at Colonel Cameron was also bayoneted, 
 pierced with a thousand wounds, and almost 
 torn to pieces by the furious Highlanders, 
 who, under the command of Colonel Cado- 
 gan, bore the enemy out of the contested 
 ground at the point of the bayonet. Mas- 
 sena pays my countr\nien a singular com- 
 pliment in his account of the attack and 
 defence of this village, in which he says 
 the British lost many officers, and Scotch. 
 
 Note iS. 
 O who shall grudge him Albuera's bays. 
 
 Who brought a race regenerate to the field 
 Roused them to emulate their fat/iers' praise, 
 
 Temfcr'd their headlong rage, their cour- 
 age steefd, 
 And raised fair Lusitania' s fallen shield. 
 -P. 197. 
 
 Nothing during the war of Portugal seems, 
 to a distinct observer, more deserving of 
 praise, than the self-devotion of Field-Mar- 
 shal Beresford, who was content^ to under- 
 take all the hazard of obloquy which might 
 have been founded upon any miscarriage in 
 the highly important experiment of training 
 the Portuguese troops to an improved state 
 of discipline. In exposing his military rep- 
 ution to the censure of imprudence from the 
 most moderate, and all manner of unutter- 
 able calumnies from the ignorant and malig- 
 nant, he placed at stake the dearest pledge 
 which a military man had to offer ; and 
 nothing but the deepest conviction of the 
 high and essential importance attached to 
 success can be supposed an adequate mo- 
 tive. How great the chance of miscarriage 
 was supposed, may be estimated from the 
 general opinion of officers of unquestioned 
 talents and experience, possessed of every 
 opportunity of information ; how completely 
 the experiment has succeeded, and how 
 much the spirit and patriotism of our an- 
 cient allies had been underrated, is evident, 
 not only from those victories in which they 
 have borne a distinguished share, but from 
 the liberal and highly honorable manner in 
 which these opinions have been retracted. 
 The success of this plan, with all its impor- 
 tant consequences, we owe to the indefati- 
 gable exertions of Field-Marshal Beresford. 
 
 Note 19. 
 
 a race renowned of old. 
 
 Whose war-cry oft has waked the battle- 
 swell. 
 
 the conqtiering shout ofGrtcme. — P. 198. 
 
 This stanza alludes to the various achieve- 
 ments of the warlike family of Grwrne, or 
 Grahame. They are said, by tradition, to 
 have descended from the .Scottish chief, under 
 whose command his countrymen stormed the 
 wall built by the Emperor Severus between 
 the Friths of Forth and Clyde, the fragments 
 of which are still popularly called Gra-me's 
 Dyke. Sir John tlie Gra!me, "the hardy, 
 wight, and wise," is well known as the friend 
 of Sir William Wallace. Alderne, Kilsythe, 
 and Tibbermuir, were scenes of the victories 
 of the heroic Marquis of Montrose. The 
 
726 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 pass of Killycrankie is famous for the action 
 between King William's forces and the 
 Highlanders in 16S9, 
 
 " Where glad Dundee in faint huzzas expired." 
 
 It is seldom that one line can number so 
 many heroes, and yet more rare when it can 
 
 appeal to the glory of a living descendant in 
 support of its ancient renown. 
 
 The allusions to the private history and 
 character of General Grahame may be illus- 
 trated by referring to the eloquent and af- 
 fecting speech of Mr. .Sheridan, upon the 
 vote of thanks to the Victors of Barosa. 
 
 R O K E B Y. 
 
 Note i. 
 
 On Barnard's towers, and Tees' s stream, etc. 
 
 — P. 203. 
 
 " Barnard's Castle," saith old Leland, 
 " standeth stately upon Tees." It is founded 
 upon a very high bank, and its ruins impend 
 over the river, including within the area a 
 circuit of six acres and upwards. This once 
 magnificent fortress derives its name from its 
 founder, Barnard Baliol, the ancestor of the 
 short and unfortunate dynasty of that name, 
 which succeeded to the Scottish throne under 
 the patronage of Edward Land Edward III. 
 Baliol's Tower, afterwards mentioned in the 
 poem, is a round tower of great size, situated 
 at the western extremity of the building. It 
 bears marks of great antiquity, and was re- 
 markable for the curious construction of its 
 vaulted roof, which has been lately greatly 
 injured by the operations of some persons, 
 to whom the tower has been leased for the 
 purpose of making patent shot ! The pros- 
 pect from the top of Baliol's Tower com- 
 mands a rich and magnificent view of the 
 wooded valley of the Tees. 
 
 Barnard Castle often changed masters 
 during the Middle Ages. From John Ba- 
 liol, the first King of Scotland of that 
 family, it went by forfeiture to Edward I. 
 It was held by the Beauchamps of Warwick, 
 the .Staffordsof Buckingham, the Bishops of 
 Durham, and by the Crown. Richard III. 
 is said to have enlarged and strengthened its 
 fortifications, and to have made it for some 
 time his principal residence, for the purpose 
 of bridling and suppressing the Lancastrian 
 faction in tlie northern counties. The earls 
 of West Moreland received it probably 
 through marriage, and after the suppression 
 of the rebellion in the twelfth year of Queen 
 Elizabeth's reign, it reverted to the Crown, 
 and was sold or leased to Car, Ei;rl of Som- 
 erset, the guilty and unhappy favorite of 
 James I. It was afterwards granted to Sir 
 Henry Vane the Elder, and came finally into 
 possession of the Earls of Darlington. 
 
 Note 2. 
 
 no /ill man ear, 
 
 Unsharpcnd by revenge and fear, 
 Could e'er distinguish horse's clank. — 
 
 P. 204. 
 I have had occasion to remark, in real life, 
 the effect of keen and fervent anxiety in giv- 
 ing acuteness to the organs of sense. My 
 gifted friend. Miss Joanna Baillie, whose 
 dramatic works display such intimate ac- 
 quaintance with the oi^erations of human 
 passion, has not omitted this remarkable 
 circumstance : — 
 "/)* Montfort {off liis guard). 'Tis Rezen- 
 
 velt : I heard his well-known foot. 
 From the first staircase mounting step by step. 
 Freb. How quick au ear thou hast for distant 
 sound ! 
 I heard him not. 
 
 (De Montfort looks embarrassed, and is 
 silent.) " 
 
 Note 3. 
 The morion's plutncs his visage hide, 
 And the buff-coat, an ample fold, 
 Alantles his form's gigantic mould. — P. 204. 
 The use of complete suits of armor was 
 fallen into disuse during the Civil W^ar, 
 though they were still worn by leaders of 
 rank and importance. "In tiie reign of 
 King James I.," says our military antiquary, 
 " no great alterations were made in the 
 article of defensive armor, e.xcept that the 
 buff-coat, or jerkin, which was originally 
 worn under the cuirass, now became fre- 
 quently a substitute for it, it having been 
 found that a good buff leather would of itself 
 resist the stroke of a sword ; this, however, 
 only occasionally took place among the light- 
 armed cavalry and infantry, complete suits 
 of armor being still used among tiie heavy- 
 horse. Buff-coats continued to be worn by 
 the city-trained bands till within the memory 
 of persons now living, so that defensive 
 armor may, in some measure, be said to have 
 terminated in the same materials with which 
 it began ; tliat is, the skins of animals, or 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 727 
 
 leather." — Grose's Military Antiquities. 
 Lond., 1801, 4to, vol. ii., p. 323. 
 
 Of the butf-coats, which were worn over 
 the corslets, several are yet preserved ; and 
 Captain Grose has given an engraving of one 
 which was used in the time of Charles I. by 
 Sir Francis Rhodes, Bart., of Balbrough- 
 Hall, Derbyshire. They were usually lined 
 with silk or linen, secured tefore by buttons, 
 or by a lace, and often richly decorated with 
 gold or silver embroidery. 
 
 Note 4. 
 On his dark face a scorching clime. 
 And toil, had done the work of time. 
 
 Death had he seert by sudden bloiv. 
 By wasting plague, by tortures slcrw. — 
 P. 204. 
 In this character, I have attenijited to 
 sketch one of those West Indian adventurers, 
 who, during the course of the seventeenth 
 century, were popularly known .by the name, 
 of Buccaneers. The successes of the English 
 in the predatory incursions upon .Spanish 
 America, during the reign of Elizabeth, had 
 never been forgotten ; and. from that period 
 downward, the exploits of Drake and Raleigii 
 were imitated, upon a smaller scale indeed, 
 but with equally desperate valor, by small 
 bands of pirates, gathered from all nations, 
 but chiefly French and English. The en- 
 grossing policy of the Spaniards tended 
 greatly to increase the number of these free- 
 booters, from whom their commerce and 
 colonies suffered, in the issue, dreadful 
 calamity. 
 
 The Windward Islands, which the .Spanish 
 did not deem worthy their own occupation, 
 had Ijeen gradually settled by adventurers 
 of the French and English nations, .'\fter 
 P'redericof Toledo, acting under orders from 
 the Court of Madrid, had cruelly destroyed 
 these colonies, in 1630, the planters, rendered 
 desperate by persecution, began iinderthe well- 
 known name of Buccaneers, or Bucaniers, 
 a retaliation both by piracy on sea and pred- 
 atory descents on Spanish territory. See 
 either Raynal, or " The History of the 
 Bucaniers." 
 
 Note 5. 
 
 On Marston heath 
 
 Met, front to front, the ranks of death. — 
 
 P. 205. 
 The well known and desperate battle of 
 Long-Marston Moor, which terminated so 
 unfortunately for the cause of Charles, com- 
 menced under very different auspices. Prince 
 Rupert had marched with an army of 
 
 20,000 men for the relief of York, then be- 
 sieged by Sir Thomas Fairfax, at the head 
 of the Parliamentary army, and the Earl of 
 l.even, with the Scottish auxiliary forces. 
 In this he is so completely succeeded, that 
 he compelled the besiegers to retreat to Mars- 
 ton Moor, a large open plain, about eight 
 miles distant from the city. Thither they 
 were followed by the Prince, who had now 
 united to his army the garrison of York, 
 probably not less than ten thousand men 
 strong, under the gallant Marquis (then 
 Earl) of Newcastle. Whitelocke has re- 
 corded, with much impartiality, the follow- 
 ing particulars of this eventful day : — " The 
 right wing of the Parliament was commanded 
 by Sir Thomas Fairfax, and consisted of all 
 his horse, and three regiments of the Scots 
 horse ; the left wing was commanded by the 
 Earl of Manchester and Colonel Cromwell. 
 ! One body of their foot was commanded by 
 I Lord Fairfax, and consisted of his foot, and 
 two brigades of the Scots foot for reserve ; 
 and the main body of the rest of the foot was 
 commanded by General I.even. 
 
 " The right wing of the Prince's army was 
 commanded by the Earl of Newcastle ; the 
 left wing by the Prince himself ; and the 
 main body by General Goring, Sir Charles 
 Lucas, and Major-General Porter. Thus 
 were both sides drawn up into battalia. 
 
 "July 3d, 1644. In this posture both 
 armies faced each other, and about seven 
 o'clock in the morning the fight began be- 
 tween them. The Prince, with his left wing, 
 fell on the Parliament's right wing, routed 
 them, and pursued them a great way ; the 
 like did General Goring, Lucas, and Porter. 
 n[x>n the Parliament's main body. The 
 three generals, giving all for lost, hasted 
 out of the field, and many of their soldiers 
 fled, aird threw down their arms ; the King's 
 forces too eagerly following them, the vic- 
 tory, now almost achieved by them, was 
 again snatched out of their hands. For 
 Colonel Cromwell, with the brave regiment 
 of his countrj-men, and Sir Thomas Fairfax, 
 having rallied some of his horse, fell upon 
 the Prince's right wing, where the Earl of 
 Newcastle was, and routed them : and the 
 rest of their companions rallying, they fell 
 altogether upon the divided bodies of Rupert 
 and Goring, and totally dispersed them, and 
 obtained a complete victory, after three 
 hours' fight. 
 
 " From this battle and the pursuit, some 
 reckon were buried 7,000 Englishmen ; all 
 agree that above 3,000 of the Prince's men 
 were slain in the battle, besides those in the 
 chase, and 3,000 prisoners taken, many of 
 their chief officers, twenty-five pieces of ord- 
 
728 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 nance, forty-seven colors, 10,000 arms, two 
 wagons of carabins and pistols, 130 barrels 
 of powder, and all their bag and baggage." 
 Whitelocke's Memoirs, fol. p. 89. Lond., 
 1682. 
 
 Note 6. 
 Monckton and Mitton told the neit's, 
 How troops of Roundheads choked the Oitse, 
 And tnany a bonny Scot aghast. 
 Spurring his palfrey tiorthward, past, 
 Cursing the day when zeal or meed 
 First lured their Lesley o'er the Tweed. — 
 
 P. 208. 
 
 Monckton and Mitton are villages near the 
 river Ouse, and not very distant from the 
 field of battle. The particulars of the action 
 were violently disputed at the time ; but the 
 following extract, from the Manuscript His- 
 tory of the Baronial House of .Somerville, is 
 decisive as to the flight of the Scottish gen- 
 eral, the Earl of Leven. The details are 
 given by the author of the history on the 
 authority of his father, then the representa- 
 tive of the family. This curious manuscript 
 was published by consent of Lord Somer- 
 ville. 
 
 " The order of this great battell, wherin 
 both armies was neer of ane equall numter, 
 consisting, to the best calculatione, neer to 
 threescore thousand men upon both sydes, 
 I shall not take upon me to discryve; alijeit, 
 from the draughts then taken upon the 
 place, and information I receaved from this 
 gentleman, who being then a volunteer, as 
 having no command, had opportunitie and 
 libertie to ryde from the one wing of the 
 armie to the other, to view all ther several 
 squadrons of horse and battallions of foot, 
 how formed, and in what manner drawn up, 
 with every other circumstance relating to 
 the fight, and that both as to the King's 
 armies and that of the I^arliament's, amongst 
 whom, untill the engadgment, he went from 
 Stallone to statione to observe ther order 
 and forme ; but that the descriptione of this 
 battell, with the various success on both 
 sides at the beginning, with the loss of the 
 royal armie, and the sad effects that followed 
 that misfortune as to his Majestie's interest, 
 hes been so often done already by English 
 authors, little to our comniendatione, how 
 justly I shall not dispute, seing the truth is, 
 as our principall generall fled that night 
 neer fourtie mylles from the place of the 
 fight, that part of the armie wliere he com- 
 manded being totallie routed ; but it is as 
 true, that much of the victorie is attributed 
 to the good conduct of David Lesselie, 
 lievetennent-generall of our horse. Crom- 
 well himself, that miuione of fortune, but 
 
 the rod of God's wrath, to punish eftirward 
 three rebellious nations, disdained not to 
 take orders from him, allx;it then in the 
 same qualitie of command for the Parlia- 
 ment, as being lievetennent-generall to the 
 Earl of Manchester's horse, whom, with the 
 assistance of the Scots' horse, haveing routed 
 the Prince's right wing, as he had done that 
 of the Parliament's. These two command- 
 ers of the horse upon that wing wisely re- 
 strained the great bodies of their horse from 
 persuing these brocken troups, but, wheelling 
 to the left-hand, falls in upon the naked 
 flanks of the Prince's main battallion of foot, 
 c.arying them doune with great violence ; 
 nether mett they with any great resistance 
 untill they came to the Marques of New- 
 castle his battallione of White Coats, who, 
 first peppering them soundly with ther shott, 
 when they came to charge, stoutly boor them 
 up with their picks that they could not en- 
 ter to break them. Here the Parliament's 
 horse of that wing receaved ther greatest 
 losse, and a stop for sometyme putt to ther 
 hoped-for victorie ; and that only by the 
 stout resistance of this gallant battallione, 
 which consisted neer of four thousand foot, 
 until at length a Scots regiment of dragouns, 
 commanded by Collonell Frizeall, with other 
 two, was brought to open them upon some 
 hand, which at length they did, when all the 
 amnuinitione was sjxfnt. Having refused 
 quarters, every man fell in the same order 
 and ranke wherein he had foughten. 
 
 '• Be this execution was done, the Prince 
 returned from the ]X!rsuite of the right wing 
 of the Parliament's horse, which he had 
 ijeatten and followed too farre, to the losse 
 of the battell, which certanely. in all men's 
 opinions, he miglit have caryed if he had not 
 been too violent upon the pursuite ; which 
 gave his enemies upon the left-hand oppor- 
 tunitie to disperse and cut doune his in- 
 fantrie, who, having cleared the field of all 
 the standing btidies of foot, wer now, with 
 many [foot soldiers] of their oune. standing 
 ready to receave the charge of his allmost 
 spent horses, if he should attempt it ; which 
 the Prince observeing, and seeing all lost, he 
 retreated to Vorke with two thousand horse. 
 Notwithstanding of this, ther was that night 
 such a consternatione in the Parliament arm- 
 ies, that it's believed by most of those that 
 wer there present, that if the Prince, haveing 
 so great a body of horse inteire, had made 
 ane onfall that night, or the ensueing morn- 
 ing be-tyme, he had carryed the victorie out 
 of ther hands ; for it's certane, by the morn- 
 ing's light, he had rallyed a body of ten 
 thousand men. whereof ther was neer three 
 thousand gallant horse. These, with the 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 729 
 
 assistance of the toune and garrisoune of 
 Vorke. might have done much to have re- 
 covered the victory, for the losse of this bat- 
 tell in effect lost the King and his interest 
 in the three kingdomes ; his Majestic never 
 being able eftir this to make head in the 
 nortli, but lost his garrisons every day. 
 
 •• As for Generall Lesselie, in the beginning 
 of this flight haveing that part of the army 
 quite brocken, whare he had placed himself, 
 by the valour of the Prince, he imagined, 
 and was confermedby the opinioneof others 
 then upon the place with him, that the 
 battell was irrecoverably lost, seeing they 
 w^ fleeing upon all hands ; theirfore they 
 humblie intreated his excellence to reteir 
 and wait his better fortune, which, without 
 farder advyseing, he did ; and never drew 
 bridle untill he came the lenth of Leads, 
 having ridden all that night with a cloak of 
 drap de bcrrit alxjut him, belonging to this 
 gentleman of whom I write, then in his 
 retinue, with many other officers of good 
 qualitie. It was neer twelve the next day 
 befor they had the certanety who was master 
 of the field, when at length ther arryves ane 
 express, sent by David Lesselie, to acquaint 
 the general they had obtained a most glori- 
 ous victory, and that the Prince, with his 
 brocken troupes, was fled from Yorke. This 
 intelligence was somewhat amazeing to these 
 gentlemen that had l)een eye-witnesses to the 
 disorder of the armie before ther retearing, 
 and had then accompanyed the General in 
 his flight ; who, being much wearj-ed that 
 evening of the battell with ordering of his 
 armie, and now quite spent with his long 
 journey in the night, had casten himselfe 
 doune upon a bed to rest, when this gentle- 
 man comeing quyetly into his chamber, he 
 awoke, and hastily cryes out, ' Lievetennent- 
 coUonell, what newes?' — 'All is safe, may 
 it please your Excellence ; the Parliament's 
 armie hes obtained a great victory;' and 
 then delyvers the letter. The Generall, 
 upon the hearing of this, knocked upon his 
 breast, and sayes, 'I would to God I had 
 dyed upon the place ! ' and then opens the 
 letter, which, in a few lines, gave ane account 
 of the victory, and in the close pressed his 
 speedy returne to the armie, which he did 
 the next day, being accompanyed some 
 mylles back by this gentleman, who then 
 takes his leave of him, and receaved at part- 
 ing many expressions of kyndenesse, with 
 promises that he would never be unmyndful 
 of his care and respect towards him : and in 
 the end he entreats him to present his ser- 
 vice to all his friends and acquaintances in 
 Scotland. Thereftir the Generall sets for- 
 ward in his journey for the armie, as this 
 
 gentleman did for . . . in order to his trans- 
 fwrtatione for Scotland, where he arryved 
 sex dayes eftir the fight of Mestoune Muir, 
 and gave the first true account and de- 
 scriptione of that great battell, wherein the 
 Covenanters then gloryed see much, that 
 they impiously boasted the Lord had now 
 signally appeared for his cause and people ; 
 it being ordinary for them, dureing the 
 whole time of this warre, to attribute the 
 greatness of their success to the goodness 
 and justice of ther cause, untill Divine 
 Justice trysted them with some crosse dis- 
 pensatione, and then you might have heard 
 this language from them, ' That it pleases 
 the Lord to give his oune the heaviest end 
 of the tree to bear, that the saints and the 
 people of God must still be sufferers while 
 they are here away, that the malignant party 
 was God's rod to punish them for ther un- 
 thankfuUnesse, which in the end he will 
 cast into the fire ; ' with a thousand other 
 expressions and Scripture citations, pro- 
 phanely and blasphemously uttered by them 
 to palliate ther villainie and rebellion." — 
 Afemoires of the Somervilles. — Edin., 181 5. 
 
 Note 7. 
 With his barVd horse, fresh tidings say. 
 Stout Cromwell has redeem' d the day. — 
 
 P. 208. 
 Cromwell, with his regiment of cuirassiers, 
 had a principal share in turning the fate 
 of the day at Marston Moor ; which was 
 equally matter of triumph to the Independ- 
 ents, and of grief and heart-burning to the 
 Presbyterians and to the Scottish, 
 
 Note 8. 
 Do not my native dales prolong. 
 Of Percy Rede, the tragic song, 
 Trained forward to his bloody fall 
 By Gir son field, that treacherous Hall ? — 
 ^ P. 208. 
 
 In a poem entitled, " The Lay of the 
 Reedwater Minstrel,"' Newcastle, 1809, this 
 tale, with many others peculiar to the valley 
 of the Keed, is commemorated : — " The 
 particulars of the traditional story of Parcy 
 Reed of Troughend, and the Halls of Girson- 
 field, the author had from a descendant of 
 the family of Reed. From his account, it 
 appears that Percival Reed, Esquire, a 
 keeper of Reedsdale, was betrayed by the 
 Halls (hence denominated the false-hearted 
 Halls) to a band of moss-troopers of the 
 name of Crosier, who slew him at Bating- 
 hope, near the source of the Reed. 
 
 " The Halls were, after the murder of 
 Parcy Reed, held in such universal aUior 
 
7JO 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 fence and contempt by the inhabitants of 
 Keedsdale, for their cowardly and treacbei- 
 ous behaviour, that they were obliged to 
 leave the country.^ In another passa^ 
 we are informed that the ghost of the injured 
 Borderer is supposed to haunt the banks of 
 a brook called the Pringfe. These Keeds of 
 Troughend were a very ancient family, as 
 may be conjectured from their deriving their 
 surname from the river on which they had 
 their mansion. An epitaph on one of their 
 tomfas affirms that the family held their 
 lands of Troughend, which ate situated on 
 the Reed, nearly opposite to Otterbum, for 
 the incredible s^aas. of nine hundred years. 
 
 Note 9. 
 And Kcur tlu spat that gat^ mu name. 
 The tmaattd maumd 0f Kisingham, 
 Where Reed u^m. b£r tnargim sees 
 Sweet IVoodAurne's cottages and trees, 
 Somu antient sculft«r's art has shown 
 An otUlaxs image on lh£ stone — P. 20S. 
 
 Kisingham. upon the river Reed, near the 
 beautiful hamlet of Woodbum, is an ancient 
 Roman station, iorroerly called Habitancum. 
 Camden says, that in his time the popular 
 accoant bone, that it had been the abode of a 
 daty, or giant, called Magon ; and appeals, 
 in SDpport of this tradition, as well as to 
 thee^mwlogy of Risingham, or Reiisenham, 
 which signihes, in German, the habitation 
 of the giants, to two Roman altars taken 
 out of the river, inscribed, Deo Mogunti 
 Cauemorum. About half a mile distant 
 from Risingham, upon an eminence covered 
 with scattered birch-trees, and fragmen ts of 
 rock, there is cut upon a large rock, in alio 
 reliezv, a remarkable figure, called Robin 
 of Risingham, or RoUn of Rcsedsdale. It 
 presents a hunter, with bis bow raised in 
 one hand, and in the other what seems to be 
 a haie. There is a quiver at the back of the 
 figure, and he is dressed in a long coat, or 
 kirtle, comii^ down U> the knees, and meet- 
 ing dose, with a girdle bound round him. 
 Dr. Hotseley, who saw all monuments of 
 antiquity with Roman eyes, inclines to think 
 this figure a Roman archer: and oert^nly 
 the bow is rather of the anoent size, than of 
 that which was so formidaUe in the hand 
 of the Engfish archers of the Middle Ages. 
 But tite rudeness of the whole figure pre- 
 vents our founding strongly upon mere 
 inaccuracy of proportion. The popular 
 tradition is, that it represents a giant, whose 
 brother resided at Woodbum, and he him- 
 sdf at Kisingham. It adds, that the)' sub- 
 asted by hunting, and that one of them, 
 fin d in g the game become too scarce to sap- 
 
 port them, poisoned his companion, in 
 whose memory the monument was eng^ved. 
 What strange and tragic circumstance may- 
 be concealed under this legend, or whether 
 it is utterly apocryphal, it is now impossible 
 to discover. 
 
 Note 10. 
 Z><? thou revere 
 
 The statutes of the Butcancer. — P. 20S. 
 
 The '• statutes of the Buccaneers '' were, 
 in reality, more equitable than could have 
 been expected from the state of society under 
 which they had been formed. They diiefly 
 related, as may readily be conjectured, to 
 the distribution and the inheritance of their 
 plunder. 
 
 When the expedition was completiid, the 
 fund of prize-money acquired was thrown 
 together, each party taking his oath that be 
 had retained or concealed no part of the 
 common stock. If any one transgressed in 
 this important particular, the punishment 
 was, his being set ashore on sr^me dessert key 
 or island, to shift for himself as he could. 
 The owners of the vessel had then their 
 share assigned for the expenses of the out- 
 fit. These were generally old pirates, settled 
 at Tobago, Jamaica, St. Domingo, or some 
 other French or English settlement. The 
 surgeon's and carpenter's salaries, with the 
 price of provisions and ammunition, were 
 also defrayed. Then followed the compen- 
 sation due to the maimed and wounded, 
 rated according to the damage they had 
 sustained; as six hundred pieces of eight, 
 or six slaves, for the loss of an arm or leg, 
 and so in proportion. 
 
 "After this act of justice and humanity, 
 the remainder of the booty was divided into 
 as many shares as there were Buccaneers. 
 The commander could only lay claim to a 
 single slore, as the rest; but they compli- 
 mented him with two or three in proportion 
 as he had acquitted himself to their satisfac- 
 tion. Wlien the vessel was not the property 
 of the whole company, the person who had 
 fitted it out, and fumi^ied it with necessary 
 arms and ammunition, was entitksd to a third 
 of all theorizes. Favor had never any influ- 
 ence in the division of the booty, for every 
 share was detomined b}* lot. Instances c^ 
 such rigid justice as this are not easily met 
 with, and tiiey extended even to the dead. 
 Their share was given to the man who was 
 known to be their companion when alive, 
 and therefore their heir. If the person who 
 had been killed had no intimate, his part was 
 sent to bis relations, when they were known. 
 If there were no friends nor relations, it was 
 distributed in charity to the poor and to 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 73» 
 
 churches, which were to pray (or the person 
 in whose name these benefactions were given, 
 the fruits of inhuman, but necessary piratical 
 plunder." — Ray n al"s History of European 
 Sittkmenis in the East and West Indies, 
 by Justamond. Lend., 1776, Svo, iii. p. ^l. 
 
 Note 11. 
 The eourse of Tees. — P. 212. 
 The view from Barnard Castle commands 
 the rich and magnificent valley of Tees. Im- 
 mediately adjacent to the river, the banks 
 are very thickly wooded ; at a little distance 
 they are more open and cultivated ; but, 
 being interspersed with hedge-rows, and with 
 isolated trees of great size and age, tliey still 
 retain the richness of woodland scenery. 'J'lie 
 river itself flows in a deep trench of solid 
 rock, chiefly limestone and marble. The 
 finest view of its romantic course is from a 
 handsome modern-built bridge over the Tees, 
 by the late Mr. Morritt of Kokeby. In Ice- 
 land's time, tlie marble quarries seem to 
 have Ijeen of some value. " Hard under the 
 cliff by Egleston, is found on eche side of 
 Tese very fair marble, wont to be taken up 
 lx>oth by marljelers of Barnardes Castelle 
 and of Egleston, and partly to have been 
 wrought by them, and partly sold onwrought 
 to others." — Itinerary. Oxford, 1768, Svo, 
 p. SS. 
 
 Note 12. 
 Egliston' s gray ruins. — P. 212. 
 The ruins of this abbey, or priory (for 
 Tanner calls it the former, and Inland the 
 latter), are beautifully situated upon the an- 
 gle formed by a little dell callcnl Thorsgill, 
 at its junction with the Tees. .\ good part 
 of the religious house is still in some degree 
 habitable, "but the church is in ruins. Eglis- 
 ton was dedicated to St. Mary and St. John 
 the Baptist, and is supposed to have been 
 founded by Ralph de Multon about the end 
 of Henry the Seconds reign. There were 
 formerly the tombs of Rokeby, Bowes, and 
 Eitz-llugh. 
 
 Note 13. 
 
 the mound, 
 
 Raised by that Legion long renoun'd. 
 Whose votive shrine asserts their claim, 
 Of pious, faithful, conquering fame. — 
 
 P. 212. 
 
 Close behind the George Inn at Greta 
 Bridge, there is a well-preserved Roman en- 
 campment, surrounded with a triple ditch, 
 lying between the river Greta and a brook 
 called the Tutta. Ihe four entrances are 
 easily to be discerned. Very many Roman 
 »ltar's and monuments have U-t;n found in 
 
 the vicinity, most of which are preserved at 
 Rokeby by my friend Mr. Morritt. .Among 
 others is a small voti%-e altar with the in- 
 scription LEG. \T. VIC. P.F.F., which has 
 been rendered Lcgto sexta. vietrtx. pia. for- 
 tis, Jidelis. {" The victorious Sixth legion, 
 full of reverence, gallantry, fidelity.") 
 
 Note 14. 
 Rokeby's turrets high. — P. 212. 
 
 This ancient manor long gave name to a 
 family by whom it is said to have been pos- 
 sessed from tlie Conquest downward, and 
 who are at different times distinguished in 
 history. It was the Baron of Rokeby who 
 finally defeated tlie insurrection ol the Earl 
 of Northumberland, tempore Hen. IV. See 
 Holtnshed^s Chronicles, London, iSoS, iii., 
 p. 45. The Rokeby, or Kokesby, family con- 
 tinued to be distinguished until the great 
 Civil War, when, having embraced the cause 
 of Charles I., they suflered severely by fines 
 and confiscations The estate then passed 
 from its ancient possessors to the family of 
 the Robinsons, from whom it was purchased 
 by the father of my valued friend, the present 
 proprietor. 
 
 Note 15. 
 A stern and lone, yet Itnxly road. 
 As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode.— Y. 213. 
 
 What follows is an attempt to describe 
 the romantic glen, or rather ravine, through 
 which the Greta finds a passage between 
 Rokebv and Mortham ; the former situated 
 uptm the left bank of Greta, tl>e latter on 
 tlw right bank, about half a mile nearer to 
 its junction with the Tees. 
 
 Note 16. 
 
 -tell 
 
 How -whistU rash bids tempests roar. — 
 
 P. 214. 
 
 That this is a general superstition is well 
 known to all who have been on ship-board, 
 or who have conversed with seamen. The 
 most formidable whistler that I remember 
 to have met with was the apparition of a 
 certain Mrs. Leakey, who, about 1636, re- 
 sided, we are told, at Mynehead, in Somer- 
 set where her only son drove a considerable 
 trade between that port and Waterford, and 
 was owner of several vessels. This old gen- 
 tlewoman was of a social disposition, and so 
 acceptable to her friends, that they used to 
 say to her and to each other, it were a pity 
 such an excellent, good-natured oW lady 
 should die ; to which she was wont to reply, 
 that whatever pkasure they might find in 
 
732 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 her company just now, they would not 
 greatly like to see or converse with her 
 after death, which nevertheless she was apt 
 to think might happen. Accordingly, after 
 her death and funeral, she began to appear 
 to various persons by night and by noon- 
 day, in her own house, in the town and 
 fields, at sea and upon shore. So far had 
 she departed from her former urbanity, that 
 she is recorded to have kicked a doctor of 
 medicine for his impolite negligence in omit- 
 ting to hand her over a stile. It was also 
 her humor to appear upon the quay, and 
 call for a boat. But especially as soon as 
 any of her son's ships approached the har- 
 bor, '• this ghost would appear in the same 
 garb and likeness as wlien she was alive, 
 and, standing at the mainmast, would blow 
 with a whistle, and though it were never so 
 great a calm, yet immediately there would 
 arise a most dreadful storm, that would 
 break, wreck, and drown ship and goods." 
 When she had thus proceeded until her son 
 had neither cash to freight a vessel, nor could 
 have procured men to sail in it, she began to 
 attack the persons of his family, and actu- 
 ally strangled their only child in the cradle. 
 The rest of her story, showing how the 
 spectre looked over the shoulder of her 
 daughter in-law, while dressing her hair in 
 the looking-glass, and how Mrs. Leakey the 
 younger took courage to address her, and 
 how the beldam despatched her to an Irish 
 prelate, famous for his crimes and misfor- 
 tunes, to e.vhort him to repentance, and to 
 apprise him that otherwise he would be 
 hanged, and how the bishop was satisfied 
 with replying that if he was born to be 
 hanged, he should not be drowned ; — all 
 these, with many more particulars, may be 
 found at the end of one of John Dunton's 
 publications, called .Vthenianism, London, 
 1 710, where the tale is engrossed under the 
 title of The Apparition Evidence. 
 
 Note 17. 
 Of Erich's cap and Elmo's light. — P. 214. 
 
 "This Ericus, King of Sweden, in his 
 time was held second to none in the magi- 
 cal art ; and he was so familiar with the evil 
 spirits, which he exceedingly adored, that 
 which way soever he turned his cap, the 
 wind would presently blow that way. From 
 this occasion he was called Windy Cap; and 
 many men belived that Regnerus, King of 
 Denmark, by the conduct of this Ericus, 
 who was his nephew, did happily e.xtend 
 his piracy into the most remote parts of 
 the earth, and conquered many countries 
 and fenced cities by his cunning, and at 
 
 last was his coadjutor ; that by the consent 
 of the nobles, he should be chosen King of 
 Sweden, which continued a long time with 
 him very happily, until he died of old age."' — 
 Ol.'^us M.AGNUS, History of the Goths, 
 S-U'cdes, and Vandals, Lond., 1658, foL 
 P- 45- 
 
 Note 18. 
 The Demon frigate. — P. 214. 
 This is an allusion to a well-known nauti- 
 cal superstition concerning a fantastic vessel, 
 called by sailors the Flying Dutchman, and 
 supposed to be seen about the latitude of 
 the Cape of Good Hope. She is distin- 
 guished from earthly vessels by bearing a 
 press of sail when all others are unable, 
 from stress of weather, to show an inch of 
 canvas. The cause of her wandering is not 
 altogether certain ; but the general account 
 is, that she was originally a vessel loaded 
 with great wealth, on board of which some 
 horrid act of murder and piracy had been 
 committed ; that the plague broke out among 
 the wicked crew who had perpetrated the 
 crime, and that they sailed in vain from 
 port to port, offering, as the price of shel- 
 ter, the whole of their ill-gotten wealth; 
 that they were excluded from every liarbor, 
 for fear of the contagion which was devour- 
 ing them ; and that, as a punishment of 
 their crimes, the apparition of the ship still 
 continues to haunt those seas in which the 
 catastrophe took place, and is considered by 
 the mariners as the worst of all possible 
 omens. 
 
 Note 19. 
 
 by some desert isle or key. — P. 214. 
 
 What contributed much to the security of 
 the Buccaneers about the Windward Islands, 
 was the great number of little islets, called 
 in that country keys. These are small sandy 
 patches, appearing just above the surface of 
 the ocean, covered only with a few bushes 
 and weeds, but sometimes affording springs 
 of water, and, in general, much frequented 
 by turtle. Such little uninhabited spots 
 afforded the pirates good harbors, either for 
 refitting or for the purpose of ambush ; they 
 were occasionally the hiding-place of their 
 treasure, and often afforded a shelter to 
 themselves. .As many of the atrocities 
 which they practised on their prisoners 
 were committed in such spots, there are 
 some of these keys which even now have 
 an indifferent reputation among seamen, 
 and where they are with difficulty prevailed 
 on to remain ashore at night, on account 
 of the visionary terrors incident to places 
 which have been thus contaminated. 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 733 
 
 Note 20. 
 Before the gate of Mori ham stood. — P. 215. 
 The castle of Morthani, which Lehnd 
 terms " Mr. Rokesby"s Place, in rifa ciier., 
 scant a quarter of a mile from Greta Bridge, 
 and not a quarter of a mile beneath into 
 Tees," is a picturesque tower, surrounded by 
 buildings of different ages, now converted 
 into a farm-house and offices. The battle- 
 ments of the tower itself are singularly ele- 
 gant, the architect having broken them at 
 regular intervals into different heights ; while 
 those at the corners of the tower project into 
 octangular turrets. They are also from 
 space to space covered with stones laid 
 across them, as in modern embrasures, the 
 whole forming an uncommon and beautiful 
 effect. The surrounding buildings are of a 
 less happy form, being pointed into high 
 and steep roofs. A wall with embrasures 
 encloses the southern front, where a low por- 
 tal arch affords an entry to what was the 
 castle court. At some distance is most hap- 
 pily placed between the stems of two niag- 
 nilicent elms the monument alluded to in 
 the text. It is said to have been brought 
 from the ruins of Egastone Priory, and, 
 from the armory with which it is richly 
 carved, appears to have Ixien a tomb of the 
 Fitz-Hughs. 
 
 The situation of Mortham is eminently 
 beautiful, occupying a high bank, at the lx)t- 
 tom of which the Greta winds out of the 
 dark, narrow, and romantic dell, which the 
 text has attempted to describe, and flows 
 onward through a more open valley to meet 
 the Tees about a quarter of a mile from 
 the castle. Mortham is surrounded by old 
 trees, happily and widely grouped with Mr. 
 Morritt's new plantations. 
 
 Note 21. 
 There dig, and tomb your frecioiis heaf, 
 And bid the dead your treasure keep. — 
 
 P. 216. 
 If time did not permit the Buccaneers to 
 lavish away their plunder in their usual de- 
 baucheries, they were wont to hide it, with 
 many su|x.'rstitious solemnities, in the desert 
 islands and keys which they frequented, and 
 where much treasure, whose lawless owners 
 perished without reclaiming it, is still sup- 
 posed to Ije concealed. The most cruel of 
 mankind are often the most superstitious ; 
 and these pirates are said to liave had recourse 
 to a horrid ritual, in order to secure an un- 
 earthly guardian to their treasures. They 
 killed a negro or Spaniard, and buried him 
 with the treasure, believing that his spirit 
 would haunt the spt)t, and terrify away all 
 
 intruders. I cannot produce any other au- 
 thority on which this custom is ascribed to 
 them than that of maritime tradition, which 
 is. however, amply sufficient for the purposes 
 of poetry. 
 
 Note 22. 
 The power • » » 
 
 « « * « • 
 
 That unsubdued and lurking lies 
 To take the feloti by surprise. 
 And force him, as by magic spell, 
 In his despite his guilt to tell. — P. 216. 
 All who are conversant with the adminis- 
 tration of criminal justice, must remember 
 many occasions in which malefactors appear 
 to have conducted themselves with a species 
 of infatuation, either by making unnecessary 
 confidences respecting their guilt, or by sud- 
 den and involuntary allusions to circum- 
 stances by which it could not fail to be ex- 
 posed. A remarkable instance occurred in 
 the celebrated case of Eugene Aram. A 
 skeleton being found near Knaresborough, 
 was supposed, by the persons who gathered 
 around the spot, to be the remains of one 
 Clarke, who had disappeared some years be- 
 before, under circumstances leading to a sus- 
 picion of his having been murdered. One 
 Houseman, who had mingled in the crowd, 
 suddenly said, while looking at the skeleton, 
 and hearing the opinion which was buzzed 
 around, " That is no more Dan Clarke's 
 bone than it is mine!" — a sentiment e.\- 
 pressed so jxjsitively, and with such jx^u- 
 iiarity of manner, as to lead all who heard 
 him to infer that he must necessarily know 
 where the real body had been interred. Ac- 
 cordingly, Ijeing apprehended, he confessed 
 having assisted Eugene Aram to murder 
 Clarke, and to hide his lx>dy in Saint Rob- 
 ert's Cave. It happened to the author him- 
 self, while conversing with a person accused 
 of an atrocious crime, for the purjiose of 
 rendering him professional assistance upon 
 his trial, to hear the prisoner, after the most 
 solemn and reiterated protestations that he 
 was guiltless, suddenly, and, as it were, in- 
 voluntarily, in the course of communications, 
 make such an admission as was akogetlier 
 incompatible with innocence. 
 
 Note 23. 
 
 Brackcnbury's dismal tower. — P. 218. 
 
 This tower has been already nientioned. 
 It is situated near the north-eastern extrem- 
 ity of the wall which encloses Barnard Castle, 
 and is traditionally said to have been the 
 prison. By an odd coincidence, it bears a 
 name which we naturally connect with im- 
 
734 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 prisonment, from its being that of Sir Rob- 
 ert Brackenbury, lieutenant of the Tower of 
 London under Edward IV. and Richard III. 
 
 Note 24. 
 Nobles and knights^ so frotid of late. 
 Must fine for freedom and estate. 
 
 * * « « » 
 
 Right heavy shall his ransom be, 
 Unless that maid compound with thee. — 
 
 P. 219. 
 After the battle of Marston Moor, the 
 Earl of Newcastle retired beyond sea in dis- 
 gust, and many of his followers laid down 
 their arms, and made the best composition 
 they could with tl»e Committees of Parlia 
 ment. Fines were imposed upon them in 
 proportion to their estates and degrees of 
 delinquency, and these fines were often be- 
 stowed upon such persons as had deserved 
 well of the Commons. In some circum- 
 stances it happened, that the oppressed cav- 
 aliers were fain to form family alliances with 
 some powerful person among the triumphant 
 party. 
 
 Note 25. 
 The Indian, prowling for his prey. 
 Who hears the settlers track his way. — 
 
 P. 219. 
 The patience, abstinence, and ingenuity ex- 
 erted by the North-American Indians, when 
 in pursuit of plunder or vengeance, is the 
 most distinguished feature in tlieir charac- 
 ter ; and the activity and address wliich they 
 display in their retreat is equally surprising. 
 
 Note 26. 
 In Redcsdale his youth had heard, 
 Each art her wily dalesmen dared. 
 When Rooken-edge, and Redswair high. 
 To bugle rung and bloodhound's cry. — 
 
 P. 219. 
 
 " What manner of cattle-stealers they are 
 that inhabit these valleys in the marches of 
 both kingdoms, John Lesley, a Scotche man 
 himself, and Pishop of Ross, will inform 
 you. They sally out of their own Ijorders 
 in the night, in troops, tlirough unfrequented 
 by-ways and many intricate windings. AH 
 the day-time tliey refresh themselves and 
 their horses in lurking holes they had pitched 
 upon before, till they arrive in the dark in • 
 those places they have a design upon. As 
 soon as they have seized upon tlie lx)oty, 
 they, in like manner, return home in the 
 night, through blind ways, and fetching 
 many a compass. The more skilful any cap- 
 tain is to pass through those wild deserts, 
 crooked turnings, and deep precipices, in the 
 
 thickest mists, his reputation is the greater, 
 and he is looked upon as a man of an excel- 
 lent head. And they are so very cunning, 
 that they seldom have their booty taken from 
 them, unless sometimes when, by the help of 
 blood-hounds following them exactly upon 
 the track, they may chance to fall into the 
 hands of their adversaries. \Vlien being 
 taken, they have so much persuasive elo- 
 quence, and so many smooth, insinuating 
 words at command, that if they do not 
 move their judges, nay, and even their ad- 
 versaries (notwithstanding the severity of 
 their natures), to have mercy, yet they incite 
 them to admiration and compassion." — 
 Camden's Britannia. 
 
 The inhabitants of the valleys of Tyne 
 and Reed were, in ancient times, so inordi- 
 nately addicted to tliese depredations, that 
 in 1564, the Incorporated Klerchant-adven- 
 turers of Newcastle made a law that none 
 born in these districts should be admitted 
 apprentice. The inhabitants are stated to 
 be so generally addicted to rapine, that no 
 faith should be reposed in those proceeding 
 from "such lewde and wicked progenitors." 
 This regulation continued to stand unre- 
 pealed until 1 771. A Ixjggar. in an old play, 
 descrilx'S himself as " lx)rn in Kedesdale, in 
 Northumlx'rland, and come of a wight-rid- 
 ing surname, called the Robsons. good lionest 
 men and true, saving a little shifting for 
 their livings (jod help them .' " — a descrip- 
 tion which would have applied to most Bor 
 derers on Ixith sides. 
 
 Reidswair, famed for a skirmish to whicl 
 it gives name, [see Border Minstrelsy, vol. 
 ii., p. 15,] is on the very edge of the Cartel 
 Fell, which divides England from ."^cotlanci 
 The Rooken is a place upon Reedwater 
 Bertram, being descrited as a native of theee 
 dales, where the habits of hostile depreda- 
 tion long survived the union of the crowns, 
 may have Iseen, in some degree, prepared by 
 education for the exercise of a similar trade 
 in the wars of the Buccaneers. 
 
 Note 27. 
 Hiding his face, lest foemcn spy 
 The sparkle of his swarthy eye. — P. 220. 
 After one of the recent battles, in which 
 the Irish relDels were defeated, one of their 
 most active leaders was found in a bog, in 
 which he was immersed up to the shoulders, 
 while his head was concealed by an impend- 
 ing ledge of turf. Being detected . and 
 seized, notwithstanding his precaution, he 
 tecame solicitous to know how his retreat 
 had Ijeen discovered. " 1 caught," answered 
 the Sutherland Highlander, by whom he was 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 735 
 
 taken. " the sparkle of your eye." Those 
 who are accustomed to mark hares upon 
 their form usually discover them by the same 
 circumstance. Sir Walter Scott continued 
 to be fond of coursing hares long after he 
 had laid aside all other field sports, and he 
 used to say jocularly, that he had more 
 pleasure in being considered an excellent 
 finder, than in all his reputation as a trou- 
 veur. 
 
 Note 28. 
 Here stood a wretch, prepared to change 
 His soul's rcdevtption for revenge. — P. 221. 
 It is agreed by all the writers upon magic 
 and witchcraft, that revenge was the most 
 common motive for the pretented compact 
 between Satan and his vassals. 
 
 Note 29. 
 Of my marauding on the clowns 
 Of Calverlcy and Bradford downs. — 
 
 P. 222. 
 The troops of the King, when they first 
 took the field, were as well disciplined as 
 could be expected from circumstances. But 
 as the circumstances of Charles became less 
 favorable, and his funds for regularly paying 
 his forces decreased, habits of military li- 
 cense prevailed among them in greater ex- 
 cess. Lacy the player, who served his 
 master during the Civil War, brought out, 
 after the Restoration, a piece called The Old 
 Troop, in which he seems to have commem- 
 orated some real incidents which occurred in 
 his military career. The names of the offi- 
 cers of the Troop sufficiently express their 
 habits. We have Fleaflint Plundermaster- 
 Gt^neral, Captain Ferret-farm, and Quarter- 
 master BurnKlrop. 'i'he officers of the 
 Troop are in league with these worthies, and 
 connive at their plundering the country for 
 a suitable share in the booty. All this was 
 undoubtedly drawn from the life, which Lacy 
 had an opportunity to study. The moral of 
 the whole is comprehended in a rebuke given 
 to the lieutenant, whose disorders in the 
 country are said to prejudice the King's 
 cause more than his courage in the field 
 could recompense. The piece is by no 
 means void of farcical humor. 
 
 Note 30. 
 
 BrignaWs woods, and ScargilPs wave. 
 
 E'en no^u, o'er many a sister cave. — P. 222. 
 The banks of the Greta, below Rutherford 
 Bridge, abound in seams of grayish slate, 
 which are wrought in some places to a very 
 great depth, under ground, thus forming 
 artificial caverns, which, when the seam has 
 
 been exhausted, are gradually hidden by the 
 underwood which grows in profusion upon 
 the romantic banks of the river. In times 
 of public confusion, they might be well 
 adapted to the purposes of banditti. 
 
 Note 31. 
 When Spain waged warfare with our land. 
 — P. 224. 
 There was a short war with Spain in 
 1625-26, which will be found to agree pretty 
 well with the chronology of the jjoeni. But 
 probably Bertram held an opinion very com- 
 mon among the maritime heroes of the age, 
 that, " there was no peace beyond the Line." 
 The Spanish guarda-costas were constantly 
 employed in aggressions upon the trade and 
 settlements of the English and French ; and, 
 by their own severities, gave room for the 
 system of buccaneering, at first adopted in* 
 self-defence and retaliation, and afterwards 
 persevered in from habit and thirst of 
 plunder. 
 
 Note 32. 
 our comrades' strife. — P. 225. 
 
 The laws of the Buccaneers, and their suc- 
 cessors the Pirates, however severe and equi- 
 table, were, like other laws, often set aside 
 by the stronger party. Their quarrels about 
 the division of the spoil fill their history, 
 and they as frequently arose out of mere 
 frolic, or the tyrannical humor of their chiefs. 
 An anecdote of Teach (calfed Blackbeard), 
 shows that their habitual indifference for 
 human life extended to their companions, as 
 well as their enemies and captives. 
 
 " One night, drinking in his cabin with 
 Hands, the pilot, and another man. Black- 
 beard, without any provocation, privately 
 draws out a small pair of pistols, and cocks 
 them under the table, which being jierceived 
 by the man, he withdrew upon deck, leaving 
 Hands, the pilot, and the captain together. 
 When the pistols were ready, he blew out the 
 candles, and, crossing his hands, discharged 
 them at his company. Hands, the master, 
 was shot through the knee, and lamed for 
 life; the other pistol did no execution." — 
 Johnson's History of Pirates. Lend., 1733, 
 Svo, vol. i., p. 38. 
 
 Note 33. 
 
 Song. — Adieu for evermore,— V. 225. 
 
 The last verse of this song is taken from 
 the fragment of an old Scottish ballad, of 
 which 1 only recollected two verses when tl>e 
 first edition of Kokeby was pubhshcd. Mr. 
 Thomas Sheridan kindly pointed out to me 
 an entire copy of this beautiful song, which 
 
736 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 seems to express the fortunes of some fol- 
 lowers of the Stuart family : — 
 
 " It was a' for our rightful king 
 
 That we left fair Scotland's strand. 
 It was a' for our rightful king 
 That we e'er saw Irish land, 
 My dear, 
 That we e'er saw Irish land. 
 
 " Now all is done that man can do, 
 And all is done in vain ! 
 My love ! my native land, adieu ! 
 For I must cross the main, 
 
 My dear, 
 For I must cross the main. 
 
 " He turned lum round and right about. 
 All on the Irish shore, 
 He gave his bridle-reins a shake. 
 With, Adieu for evermore. 
 
 My dear ! 
 Adieu for evermore ! 
 
 " The soldier frae the war returns. 
 And the merchant frae the main, 
 But I hae parted wi' my love, 
 And ne'er to meet again, 
 
 My dear, 
 And ne'er to meet again. 
 
 " When day is gone and night is come, 
 And a' are boun' to sleep, 
 I think on them that's far awa' 
 The lee-lang night, and weep. 
 My dear. 
 The lee-lang night, and weep." 
 
 Note 34. 
 Rere-cross on Stanmore. — P. 227. 
 Rere-cross, Ree-cross, or Roi-cross ; that 
 is, the cross of the King, is the border mark 
 between England and Scotland. 
 
 This is a fragment of an i)ld cross, with 
 its pediment, surrounded by an intrencli- 
 ment, upon tiie very sunmiit of the waste 
 ridge of Stanmore, near a small house of 
 entertainment. The situation of the cross, 
 and the pains taken to defend it, seem to 
 indicate tiiat it was intended for a landmark 
 of importance. 
 
 Note 35. 
 Hast thou lodged our deer f — P. 227. 
 The duty of the ranger, or pricker, was 
 first to lodge or harbor the deer, i.e., to dis- 
 cover his retreat, and then to make his report 
 to his prince or master. 
 
 Note 36. 
 When Denmark's raven soar\l on high, 
 Triumphant thro' Northumbrian sky, 
 Till, hoi'ering near, her fatal croak 
 Bade Reged's Britons dread the yoke. — 
 
 P. 228. 
 About the year of God 866, the Danes, 
 
 under their celebrated leaders Inguar (more 
 properly .Agnar) and Ilubba, sons, it is said, 
 of the still more celebrated Regnar I.odbrog, 
 invaded Northumberland, bringing with them 
 the magical standard, so often mentioned in 
 poetry, called Reaken, or Rumfan, from its 
 bearing the figure of a raven : — 
 
 " Wrought by the sisters of the Danish king. 
 Of furious Ivar in a midnight hour: 
 While the sick moon at their enchanted song 
 Wrapt in pale tempest, labor'd thro' the clouds. 
 The demons of destruction then, tliey say, 
 Were all abroad, and mixing with the woof 
 Their Ijaleful power: The sisters ever sung, 
 ' Shake, standard, shake this ruin on our 
 foes.'" 
 
 Thomson and Mallet's Alfred. 
 
 The Danes renewed and extended their in- 
 cursions, and began to colonize, establishing 
 a kind of capital at Vork, from whicii they 
 spread their conquests and incursions in 
 every direction. Stanmore, which divides 
 the mountains of Westmoreland and Cum- 
 berland, was probably the boundary of tlie 
 Danish kingdom in that direction. The dis- 
 trict to the west, known in ancient British 
 history by the name of Reged, had never 
 been conquered by the Saxons, and continued 
 to maintain a precarious independence until 
 it was ceded to Malcolm, King of Scots, by 
 William the Conqueror, probably on account 
 of its similarity in language and manners to 
 the neighboring British kingdom of Strath- 
 Clyde. 
 
 Upon the extent and duration of the Dan- 
 ish sovereignty in Northumberland, the cu- 
 rious may consult the various authorities 
 quoted in the Gcsta et Vestigia Danortitn 
 extra Daniam, tom. ii. p. 40. The most 
 powerful of their Northumbrian leaders 
 seems to have been Ivar, called, from the ex- 
 tent of his conquests, Widfam ; that is, The 
 Str'ider. 
 
 Note 37. 
 Beneath the shade the Northmen came, 
 Fix'd on each vale a Runic name. — P. 228. 
 
 The heathen Danes have left several traces 
 of their religion in the upper part of Tees- 
 dale. Balder-garth, which derives its name 
 from the unfortunate son of Odin, is a tract 
 of waste land, on the very ridge of -Stanmore ; 
 and a brook, which falls into the Tees near 
 Barnard Castle, is named after the same 
 deity. A field upon the banks of the Tecs 
 is also termed Woden-Croft, from the su- 
 preme deity of the Edda. 
 
 Note 38. 
 Who has not lieard how brave ONeale 
 In English blood imbrued his steel? — P. 229, 
 The O'Neale here meant, for more than 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 737 
 
 one succeeded to the chieftainship during the 
 reign of Elizabeth, was Hugh, the grandson 
 of Con O'Neale, called Con Bacco, or the 
 Lame. His father, Matthew 0"Kelly, was 
 illegitimate, and, being the son of a black- 
 smith's wife, was usually called Matthew the 
 blacksmith. His father, nevertheless, des- 
 tined his succession to him ; and he was 
 created, by Elizabeth, Baron of Dungannon. 
 I'pon the death of Con Bacco, this Matthew 
 was slain by his brother. Hugh narrowly 
 escaped the same fate, and was protected by 
 the English. Shane O'Neale, his uncle, 
 called Shane Dymas, was succeeded by 'Fur- 
 lough Lynogh O'Neale ; after whose death 
 Hugh, having assumed the chieftainship, be- 
 came nearly as formidable to the English as 
 any by whom it had been possessed. He re- 
 telled repeatedly, and as often made submis- 
 sions, of which it was usually a condition 
 that he should not any longer assume the 
 title of O'Neale ; in lieu of which he was 
 created Earl of Tyrone. But this condition 
 he never observed longer than until the pres- 
 sure of superior force was withdrawn. His 
 baffling the gallant Earl of Essex in the 
 field, and over-reaching him in a treaty, was 
 tiie induction to that nobleman's tragedy. 
 I.ord Mount joy succeeded in finally subju- 
 gating O'Neale ; but it was not till the suc- 
 cession of James, to whom he made personal 
 submission, and was received with civility at 
 court. 
 
 Note 39. 
 
 But chief arose his victor fride. 
 When that brave Marshal fought and 
 died. 
 
 — P. 229. 
 
 The chief victory which Tyrone obtained 
 over the English was in a battle fought near 
 Blackwater, while he besieged a fort garri- 
 soned by the English, which commanded the 
 passes into his country. 
 
 Tyrone is said to have entertained a per- 
 sonal animosity against the knight-marshal, 
 Sir Henry Bagnal, whom he accused of de- 
 taining the letters which he sent to Queen 
 Elizabeth, explanatory of his conduct, and 
 offering terms of submission. The river, 
 called by the English, Blackwater, is termed 
 in Irish, Avon-Duff, which has the same sig- 
 nification. Both names are mentioned by 
 Spenser in his " Marriage of the Thames and 
 the Medway.'' But I understand that his 
 verses relate not to the Blackwater of Ulster, 
 but to a river of the same name in the south 
 of Ireland: — 
 " Swift Avon-Duff, which of the Englishmen 
 Is called Blackwater." 
 
 Note 40. 
 The Tanist he to great O'Neale. — P. 229. 
 
 " Eudox. What is that which you call 
 Tanist and Tanistry ? These be names and 
 terms never heard of nor known to us. 
 
 " Ircn. It is a custom amongst all the 
 Irish, that presently after the death of one 
 of their chiefe lords or captaines, they doe 
 presently assemble themselves to a place 
 generally appointed and knowne unto them, 
 to choose another in his stead, where they do 
 nominate and elect, for the mo^t part not 
 the eldest sonne, nor any of the children of 
 the lord deceased, but the next to him in 
 blood, that is, the eldest and worthiest, as 
 commonly the next brother unto him, if he 
 have any, or the next cousin, or so forth, as 
 any is elder in that kindred or sept ; and 
 then next to them doe they chose the next of 
 the blood to be Tanist, who shall next suc- 
 ceed him in the said captainry, if be live 
 thereunto. 
 
 " Eudox. Do they not use any ceremony 
 in the election, for all barbarous nations are 
 commonly great observers of ceremonies and 
 suf>erstitious rites 1 
 
 " Iren. They use to place him that shall 
 be their captaine upon a stone, always re- 
 served to that purpose, and placed commonly 
 upon a hill. In some of which I have seen 
 formed and engraven a foot, which they say 
 was the measure of their first captaine's foot ; 
 whereon hee standing, receives an oath t<> 
 preserve all the ancient former customes of 
 the countrey inviolable, and to deliver up the 
 succession peaceably to his Tanist, and then 
 hath a wand delivered unto him by some 
 whose proper office that is ; after which, de- 
 scending from the stone, he turneth himself 
 round, thrice forwards and thrice backwards. 
 
 " Eudox. But how is the Tanist chosen ? 
 
 " Ircn They say he setteth but one foot 
 upon the stone, and receiveth the like oath 
 that the captaine did." — Spenser's Virm 
 of the State of Ireland, apud Works, Lond., 
 1S05, Svo, vol. viii. p. 306. 
 
 The Tanist, tlierefore, of O'Neale, was 
 the heir-apparent of his power. This kind 
 of succession appears also to have regulated, 
 in very remote times, the succession to the 
 crown of Scotland. It would have been im- 
 prudent, if not impossible, to have asserted a 
 minor's right of succession in those stormy 
 days, when the principles of policy were 
 summed up in my friend Mr. Wordsworth's 
 lines : — 
 
 " the good old rule 
 
 Sufficeth them ; the simple plan. 
 
 That they should take who have the power. 
 And they should keep who can." 
 
738 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note 41. 
 With wild majestic port and tone. 
 Like envoy of some barbarous throne. — 
 
 P. 230. 
 The Irish chiefs, in their intercourse with 
 the EngUsh, and with each other, were wont 
 to assume the language and style of indepen- 
 dent royalty. 
 
 Note 42. 
 His foster-father -was his guide. — P. 230. 
 There was no tie more sacred among the 
 Irish than that which connected the foster- 
 father, as well as the nurse herself, with the 
 child they brought up. 
 
 Note 43. 
 Great Nial of the Pledges Nine. — P. 231. 
 Neal Naighvallach, or Of the Nine Hos- 
 tages, is said to have been Monarch of all 
 Ireland during the end of the fourth or be- 
 ginning of the fifth century. He exercised 
 a predatory warfare on the coast of England 
 and of Bretagne, or Armorica ; and from 
 the latter country brought off the celebrated 
 Saint Patrick, a youth of sixteen, among 
 other captives, whom he transported to Ire- 
 land. Neal derived his epitliet from nine 
 nations, or tribes, whom he held under his 
 subjection, and from whom he took hostages. 
 
 Note 44. 
 Shane-Dymas zcild. — P. 231. 
 
 This Shane-Dymas, or John the Wanton, 
 held the title and power of O'Neale in the 
 earlier part of Elizabeth's reign, against 
 whom he rebelled repeatedly. 
 
 " This chieftain is handed down to us as 
 the most proud and profligate man on earth. 
 He was immoderately addicted to women 
 and wine. He is said to have had 200 tuns 
 of wine at once in his cellar at Dandram, 
 but usquebaugh was his favorite liquor. He 
 spared neither age nor condition of the fair 
 sex. Altho' so illiterate that he could not 
 write, he was not destitute of address, his 
 understanding was strong, and his courage 
 daring. He had 600 men for his guard ; 
 4,000 foot, 1,000 horse for the field. He 
 claimed superiority over all the lords of 
 Ulster, and called himself king thereof." — 
 Camden. 
 
 When reduced to extremity by the English, 
 and forsaken by his allies, this Shane-Dymas 
 fled to Clandeboy, then occupied by a colony 
 of Scottish Highlanders of the family of 
 MacDonell. He was at first courteously re- 
 ceived, but by degrees they began to quarrel 
 about the slaughter of some of their friends 
 whom Shane-Dymas had put to death, and 
 
 advancing from words to deeds, fell upon 
 him with their broadswords, and cut him to 
 pieces. .After his death a law was made 
 that none should presume to take the name 
 and title of O'Neale. 
 
 Note 45. 
 
 Gcraldinc. — P. 231. 
 
 The O'Neales were closely allied with this 
 powerful and warlike family ; for Henry 
 C)wen O'Neale married the daughter of 
 Thomas Earl of Kildare, and their son Con- 
 More married his cousin-german, a daughter 
 of Gerald Earl of Kildare. This Con-More 
 cursed any of his posterity who should learn 
 the English language, .sow corn, or build 
 houses, so as to invite the English to settle 
 in tiieir country. Others ascribe this an- 
 athema to his son Con-Bacco. Fearflatha 
 O'Gnive. bard to the O'Neales of Clannaboy, 
 complains in the same spirit of the towers 
 and ramparts with which the strangers had 
 disjigured the fair sporting fields of Erin. — 
 See Walker's Irish Bards, p. 140. 
 
 Note 46. 
 
 his page, the next degree 
 
 In that old time to chivalry. — P. 231. 
 
 Originally, the order of chivalry embraced 
 three ranks : — i. The Page ; 2. The Squire; 
 3. The Knight; — a gradation which seems 
 to have been imitated in the mystery of free- 
 masonry. But, before the reign of Charles 
 1., the custom of serving as a scjuire had 
 fallen into disuse, though the order of the 
 page was still, to a certain degree, in observ- 
 ance. This state of servitude was so far 
 from inferring anything degrading, that it 
 was considered as the regular school for ac- 
 quiring every quality necessary for future 
 distinction. 
 
 Note 47. 
 Seetn'd half ahandon'd to decay. — P. 236. 
 
 The ancient castle of Kokcby stood exactly 
 upon the site of the present mansion, by 
 wliich a part of its walls is enclosed. It is 
 surrounded by a profusion of fine wood, and 
 the park in which it stands is adojned by 
 the junction of the Greta and of the Tees. 
 The title of Baron Rokeby of Armagh was, 
 in 1777, conferred on the Kight Reverend 
 Richard Robinson, Primate of Ireland, de- 
 scended of the Robinsons, formerly of 
 Rokeby, in Yorkshire. 
 
 Note 4S. 
 
 The Felon So7v. — P. 23S. 
 
 The ancient minstrels had a comic as well 
 as a serious strain of romance ; and although 
 
ROKEBY. 
 
 739 
 
 the examples of the latter are by far the most 
 numerous, they are, perhaps, the less valu- 
 able. The comic romance was a sort of 
 parody upon the usual subjects of minstrel 
 poetry. If the latter described deeds of heroic 
 achievement, and the events of the battle, 
 the tourney, and the chase, the former, as in 
 the Tournament of Tottenliam, introduced a 
 set of clowns debating in the field, with all 
 the assumed circumstances of chivalry. One 
 of the very best of these mock romances, and 
 which has no small portion of comic humor, 
 is the Hunting of the Felon Sow of Kokeby 
 by the Friars of Richmond. 
 
 Note 49. 
 
 The Filea of O' Ncale was he. — P. 239. 
 
 Tlie Filea, or Ollamh Re Dan, was the 
 proper bard, or, as the name literally implies, 
 poet. Each chieftain of distinction had one 
 or more in his service, whose office was usually 
 hereditary. The late ingenious Mr. Cooper 
 Walker, has assembled a curious collection 
 of particulars concerning this order of men, 
 in his Historical Memoirs of the Irish Bards. 
 Tiiere were itinerant bards of less elevated 
 rank, but all were held in the highest venera- 
 tion. 
 
 Note 50. 
 Ah, Clandehoy ! thy friendly floor 
 Slieve-Donard 's oak shall light no more. — 
 
 P. 239. 
 
 Clandeboy is a district of Ulster, formerly 
 possessed by the sept of the O'Neales, and 
 Slieve-Donard a romantic mountain in the 
 same province. The clan was ruined after 
 Tyrone's great rebellion, and their places of 
 abode laid desolate. The ancient Irish, wild 
 and uncultivated in other respects, did not 
 yield even to their descendants in practising 
 t!ie most free and extended hospitality. 
 
 Note 51. 
 On Marwood Chase and Toller Hill. — 
 
 P. 239. 
 
 Marwood Chase is the old park extending 
 along the Durham side of the Tees, attached 
 to Barnard Castle. Toller Hill is an emi- 
 nence on the Yorkshire side of the river, 
 commanding a superb view of the ruins. 
 
 Note 52. 
 
 "And Scotland'' s vaunted Hawthornden, 
 
 And, silenced on Icrnian shore, 
 
 M^Curtin's harp should charm no more." 
 
 — P. 240. 
 
 Drummond of Hawthornden was in the 
 
 zenith of his reputation as a poet during 
 
 the Civil War. He died in 1649, at the 
 
 age of sixty-four. M'Curtin was hereditary 
 Ollamh or bard of North Munster, and Fil^ 
 to Donough, Earl of Thomond and Presi- 
 dent of Munster. When Lord Thomond 
 joined Elizabeth's forces, M'Curtin satirized 
 him in a poem in which he said, " How am 
 I afflicted that the descendant of the great 
 Brion Boiromh cannot furnisJi me with a 
 theme worthy the honor and glory of his 
 exalted race." The Earl vowed vengeance, 
 and the bard fled to County Cork. But, 
 once coming in Thomond's way, he pre- 
 tended to be suddenly seized with the pangs 
 of death. His wife, entering into the spirit 
 of the comedy, bewailed him, and told the 
 Earl that it was her husband's dying request 
 to be pardoned. " That nobleman," says 
 Walker, in his " Memoirs of the Irish Bards," 
 " was moved to compassion, and not only 
 declared that he most heartily forgave him, 
 but opening his purse, presented the fair 
 mourner with some pieces to inter him. 
 This instance of his lordship's pity and 
 generosity gave courage to the trembling 
 bard ; who suddenly springing up, recited an 
 extemporaneous ode in praise of Donough, 
 and re-entering into his service, became once 
 more his favorite." 
 
 Note 53. 
 Littlecotlcl Hall. — P. 244. 
 This ballad is founded on a fact ; — the 
 horrible murder of an infant by Wild Day- 
 rell, as he was called. He gave the house 
 and lands as a bribe to the judge (Popham) 
 in order to save his life. A few months 
 after Dayrell broke his neck by a fall from 
 his horse. 
 
 Note 54. 
 As thick a smoke these hearts have given 
 At Hallorw-tide or Christmas-even. — P. 245. 
 Such an exhortation was, in similar cir- 
 cumstances, actually given to his followers 
 by a Welsh chieftain. 
 
 Note 55. 
 
 Cer Hexham's altar hung my glove. — 
 
 P- 253- 
 
 This custom among the Redesdale and 
 Tynedale Borderers of duelling, which often 
 resulted in petty warfare, the contending 
 parties mustering their adherents, was found 
 and is mentioned in the interesting life of 
 Barnard Gilpin. 
 
 " It happened that a quarrel of this kind 
 was on foot when Mr. Gilpin was at Koth- 
 burv. in those parts. During the two or 
 three first days of his preaching, the contend- 
 
740 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 ing parties observed some decorum, and never 
 appeared at church together. At length, 
 however, they met. One party had been 
 early at church, and just as Mr. Gilpin be- 
 gan his sermon, the other entered. They 
 stood not long silent. InHamed at the sight 
 of each other, they began to clash their wea- 
 pons, for they were all armed with jave- 
 lins and swords, and mutually apjiroached. 
 Awed, however, by the sacredness of the 
 place, the tumult in some degree ceased. 
 Mr. Clilpin proceeded; when again the com- 
 batants began to brandish their weapons, 
 and draw towards eacii other. As a fray 
 seemed near, Mr. fiilpin stopped from tlie 
 pulpit, went iK-tween them, and addressed 
 the leaders, put an end to the quarrel, for 
 the present, but could not effect an entire 
 reconciliation. They promised him, how- 
 ever, that till tlie sermon was over they 
 would make no more disturbance. He tlien 
 went again into the pulpit, and spent the 
 rest of the time in endeavoring to make them 
 ashamed of what they had done. His lx> 
 havior and discourse affected them so 
 much, that, at his further entreaty, they 
 promised to fortx^ar all acts of hostility while 
 he continued in the country. And so much 
 respected was he among them, that whoever 
 was in fear of his enemy used to resort wliere 
 Mr. Gilpin was, esteeming his presence the 
 best protection. 
 
 " One Sunday morning, coming to a church 
 in those parts, before the jaeople were assem- 
 bled, he observed a glove hanging up, and 
 was informed by the sexton that it was meant 
 as a challenge to any one who should take 
 it down. Mr. Gilpin ordered the sexton to 
 reach it to \\\w\ ; but upon his utterly re- 
 fusing to touch it, he took it down himself, 
 and put it into his breast. When the people 
 were assembled, he went into the pulpit, and, 
 Ixifore he concluded his sermon, took occa- 
 sion to rebuke them severely for tiiese inhu- 
 man challenges. ' I hear,' saith he, * that one 
 among you hath hanged up a glf)ve, even in 
 this sacred place, threatening to light any 
 one who taketh it down : see, i have taken it 
 down : ' and, pulling out the glove, he held 
 it up to the congregation, and tlien showed 
 them how unsuitable such savage practices 
 were to the profession of Christianity, using 
 such persuasives to mutual love as he 
 tlKJught would most aflCct them." — Life 
 of Barnard Gilpin, Loud., 1753, Svo, p. 
 177- 
 
 Note 56. 
 A horseman arm\I, at Jicadlons; sfrrd. — 
 
 P. 256. 
 
 'J'liis, and what follows, is taken from a 
 real achievement of Major Rotert I'hilipson, 
 called from his desperate and adventurous 
 courage, Robin the Devil. 
 
 THE r.RTD.\L OF TRTERMATN. 
 
 Note 1. 
 The Baron of Triermain. — r..2f)-;. 
 Trikkmain was a fief of the Barony of 
 Gilsland in Cumterland; it was possessed 
 by a Saxon family at the time of the Con- 
 quest, but, '' after the deatii of Gilmore, Lord 
 of Tryermaine and Torcrossock, Hutert 
 Vaux gave Tryermaine and Torcrossock to 
 his second son, Ranulph Vaux; which Ran- 
 ulj)h afterwards became heir to his elder 
 brother Robert, the founder of I-anercost, 
 who died, without issue. Ranulph, being 
 Lord of all Gilsland, gave Gilmore's lands 
 to his younger son, named Roland, and let 
 the Barony descend to his eldest son l^otert, 
 son of Ranulph. Ronald had issue Alexan- 
 der, and he Ranulph, after whom succeeded 
 Robert, and they were named Rolands suc- 
 cessively, that were lords tliereof, until tlie 
 reign of Edward the Fourth. That house 
 
 gave for arms. Vert [Argent, not vert], a 
 bend dexter, chequy, or, and gules." — ■ 
 Burn's Antiquities of Westtnoreland and 
 Cumberland, vol. ii., p. 4S2. 
 
 Note 2. 
 He passed red PenritlC s Table Round. — 
 
 P. 264. 
 A circular intrenchment, about half a mile 
 from I'enrinth, is thus popularly termed. 
 'J'he circle within the ditch is about one htm- 
 drcd and sixty paces in circumference, with 
 openings, or approaches, directly opposite 
 to each other. As this ditch is on the inner 
 side, it could not te intended for the purpose 
 of defence, and it has reasonably been con- 
 jectured that tlie enclosure was designed for 
 tlie solemn exercise of feats of chivalry, and 
 tlie embankment around for the convenience 
 of tlve spectators. 
 
THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 
 
 74« 
 
 Note 3. 
 Mayburgli's mound. — P. 264. 
 Higher up the river Eaniont than Arthur's 
 Round Table, is a prodigious enclosure of 
 great antiquity, formed by a collection of 
 stones upon the top of a gently sloping hill, 
 called Mayburgh. In the plain which it 
 encloses there stands erect an unhewn stone 
 of twelve feet in height. Two similar 
 masses are said to have been destroyed 
 during the memory of man. Tiie whole 
 appears to be a monument of Druidical 
 times. 
 
 Note 4. 
 77/1// sable tarn. —. P. 265. 
 The small lake called Scales-tarn lies so 
 deeply embossed in the recesses of the huge 
 mountain called Saddleback, more poetically 
 Glaramara, is of such great depth, and so 
 completely hidden from the sun, that it is 
 said its beams never reach it, and that the 
 reflection of the stars may be seen at mid- 
 day. 
 
 Note 5. 
 TIu terrors of TintadgeP s spear. — P. 266. 
 Tintadgel Castle, in Cornwall, is reported 
 to have been the birthplace of King Arthur. 
 
 Note 6. 
 Scattering a shower offiery dew. — P. 269. 
 The author has an indistinct recollection 
 of an adventure, somewhat similar to that 
 which is here ascribed to King Arthur, hav- 
 ing tefallen one of the ancient Kings of 
 Denmark. The lu»rn in which the burning 
 liquor was presented to that Monarch, is 
 said still to Ixj preserved in the Koyal 
 Museum at Cojxjnhagen. 
 
 Note 7. 
 The monarch, breathless and amazed. 
 Back on the fatal castle gazed — 
 Nor tower nor donjon could he spy. 
 Darkening against the morning sky. — 
 
 P. 209. 
 
 — " We now gained a view of the Vale of 
 St. John's, a very narrow dell, hemmed in 
 by mountains, through which a small brook 
 makes many meanderings, washing little en- 
 closures of grass-ground, which stretch up 
 the rising of the hills. In the widest part of 
 the dale you are struck with the appearance 
 of an ancient ruined castle, which seems to 
 stand upon the summit of a little mount, the 
 mountains around forming an amphitheatre. 
 The massive bulwark shows a front of vari- 
 ous towers, and makes an awful, rude, and 
 
 Gothic appearance, with its lofty turrets 
 and rugged battlenjents ; we traced the gal 
 leries, the bending arches, the buttresses. 
 The greatest antiquity stands characterized 
 in its architecture : the inhabitants near it 
 assert it is an antediluvian structure. 
 
 " The traveller's curiosity is roused, and 
 he prepares to make a nearer approach, when 
 that curiosity is put upon the rack by his 
 being assured that, if he advances, certain 
 genii who govern the place, by virtue of their 
 supernatural art and necromacy,,will strip it 
 of all its beauties, and by enchantment trans- 
 form the magic walls. The vale seems 
 adapted for the habitation of such beings; 
 its gloomy recesses and retirements look like 
 the haunts of evil spirits. There was no 
 delusion in the report ; we were soon con- 
 vinced of its truth; for this piece of an- 
 tiquity, so venerable and noble in its aspect, 
 as we drew near, changed its figure, and 
 proved no other than a shaken massive pile 
 of rocks, which stand in the midst of this 
 little vale, disunited from the adjoining 
 mountains, and have so nmch the real form 
 and resemblance of a castle, that they bear 
 the name of the Castle Kocks of St. John." 
 — Hutchinson's Excursion to the Lakes, 
 
 p. 121. 
 
 Note 8. 
 Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought. — 
 
 P. 270. 
 
 Arthur is said to have defeated the Saxons 
 
 in twelve pitched battks, and to have 
 
 aciiieved the other feats alluded to in the 
 
 text. 
 
 Note 9. 
 Theflirwer of chivalry. 
 There Galaad sat with manly grace, 
 Yet maiden meekness in his face ; 
 There Morolt of the iron tnace, 
 
 And love-lorn Tristrem thetv. — 
 P. 270. 
 The characters named in the stanza are 
 all of them more or less distinguished in the 
 romances which treat of King Artiiur and 
 his Round Table, and their nanws are strung 
 together, according to the established cus- 
 toms of minstrels u|K)n such occasions, for 
 example, in the ballad of the Marriage of 
 Sir Gawaine : — 
 
 " Sir Ijancelot, Sir Stephen boldc, 
 They rode with him tluit tLiye, 
 And fiiremost of the comixinye, 
 There rode the slewarde Kayt;. 
 
 " Soe did Sir Banier, and Sir Bore, 
 And eke .Sir (jarmtte keen, 
 Sir Tristrem, ton, that gentle kniirht, 
 To the forest, fresh and greene." 
 
742 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note io. 
 
 Lancelot^ that evermore 
 
 Looked stolen-wise on the Queen. — P. 270. 
 Upon this delicate subject liear Richard 
 Robinson, citizen of London, in his Asser- 
 tion of King Arthur : " But as it is a thing 
 sufficiently apparent that she (Guenever, 
 wife of King Arthur) was beautiful, so it is 
 a thing doubted whether she was chaste, yea 
 or no. Truly, so far as I can with honestic, 
 I would spare the impayred honour of noble 
 women. But yet the truth of the historic 
 pluckes me by the eare, and willeth not 
 onely, but commandeth me to declare what 
 the ancients have deemed of her. To wrestle 
 or contend witli so great authoritie were 
 indeed unto niei a controversie, and that 
 greate." — >4jj<?r//fl« of King Arthttre. Im- 
 printed by John Wolfe, London, 1582. 
 
 Note 11. 
 There were two who loved their neighbor^ 
 
 wives. 
 And one who loved his own. — P. 271. 
 
 " In our forefathers' tyme, wh n Papistrie, 
 as a standyng poole, covered and overflowed 
 all England, fewe books were read in our 
 tongue, savyingcertaine bookes of chevalrie, 
 as they said, for pastime and pleasure : which, 
 as some say, were made in the monasteries, 
 by idle monks or wanton chanons. As one, 
 for example. La Morte d'Arthure ; the whole 
 pleasure of whicli book standeth in two 
 speciall poyntes, in open manslaughter and 
 bold bawdrye; in which booke they be 
 counted the noblest knightes that do kill 
 
 most men without any quarrell, and commit 
 foulest adoulteries by subtlest shiftes ; as Sir 
 Lancelot with the wife of King Arthur, his 
 master ; Sir Tristram, with the wife of King 
 Marke, his uncle ; Sir Lamerocke, with the 
 wife of King Lote, that was his own aunt. 
 This is good stuffe for wise men to laugh at ; 
 or honest men to take pleasure at ; yet 1 
 know when God's Bible was banistied the 
 Court, and La Morte d'Arthure received 
 into the Prince's chamber." — Ascham's 
 Schoolmaster. 
 
 Note 12. 
 IVho won the cup of gold. — P. 271. 
 
 See the comic tale of the Boy and the 
 Mantle, in tiie third volume of Percy's Kel- 
 iques of Ancient Poetry, from the Breton or 
 Norman original of which Ariosto is sup- 
 posed to have taken his tale of the Enchanted 
 Cup. 
 
 Note 13. 
 Whose logic is from Single-speech. — P. 275. 
 
 See " Parliamentary Logic, etc.," by the 
 Hon. W. G. Hamilton (1808), commonly 
 called " Single-Speech Hamilton." 
 
 Note to the Poem. 
 Scott composed this poem with the inten- 
 tion that the public should attribute it to 
 his friend Mr. Erskine (Lord Kinedder). 
 The joke succeeded : but on the third edition 
 being published, Lord Kinedder avowed the 
 true author, the deception having gone 
 further than either he or Scott intended. 
 We mention this fact in order to explain the 
 preface. — Ed. 
 
 THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Note i. 
 
 Thy rugged halls, Artornish .' rung — 
 
 P. 291. 
 
 The ruins of the Castle of Artornish are 
 situated upon a promotory, on the Morven, 
 or mainland side of the Sound of Mull, a 
 name given to the deep arm of tiie sea which 
 divides that island from the continent. The 
 situation is wild and romantic in the highest 
 degree, having on the one hand a high and 
 precipitouschain of rocks overhangingthe sea, 
 and on the other the narrow entrance to the 
 beautiful salt-water lake, called [,och Alline, 
 which is in many places finely fringed with 
 copsewood. The ruins of .Artornish are not 
 now very considerable, and consist chiefly of 
 
 the remains of an old keep, or tower, witli 
 fragments of outward defences. But. in 
 former days, it was a place of great conse- 
 quence, teing one of the princijial strong- 
 holds, whicli the Lords of the Isles, during 
 the period of their stormy independence, 
 possessed upon the mainland of .Vrgyleshire. 
 It is almost opposite to the Bay of Aros, in 
 the Island of Mull, where there was another 
 castle, the occasional residence of the Lords 
 of the Isles. 
 
 Note 2. 
 Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark 
 Will long pursue the miiistrcPs bark. — 
 
 P. 2gi. 
 The seal displays a taste for music, which 
 
THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 743 
 
 could scarcely be expected from his habits 
 and local predilections. Th6y will long fol- 
 low a boat in which any musical instrument 
 is played, and even a tune simply whistled 
 has attractions for them. The Dean of the 
 Isles says of Heiskar, a small, uninhabited 
 rock, about twelve (Scottish) miles from the 
 lsl(,' of Uist, that an infinite slaughter of 
 st'als takes place there. 
 
 Note 3. 
 
 a turrets airy head, 
 
 :^! nder and steep, and battled round, 
 I > .-rlook'd, dark Mull! thy rnii^ltty Sound. 
 — P. 292. 
 'I'he Sound of Mull, which divides that 
 islind from the continent of Scotland, is one 
 ol the most striking scenes which the Heb- 
 rides aftord to the traveller. .Sailing from 
 01).in to Aros, or Tombermory, through a 
 narrow channel, yet deep enough to bear 
 vessels of the largest burden, he has on his 
 left the bold and mountainous shores of 
 Mull ; on the ri'^ht those of that district of 
 Argyleshire called Morven, or Morvern, 
 successively indented by deep saltwater 
 lochs, running up many miles inland. To 
 the southeastward arise a prodigious range 
 of mountains, among which Cruachan-Ben is 
 pre-eminent. And to the northeast is the 
 no less huge and picturesque range of the 
 Ardnamurciian hills. Many ruinous castles, 
 situated generally upon cliffs overhanging 
 the ocean, add interest to the scene. 
 
 Note 4. 
 
 Tlie heir of mighty Somerkd. — P. 292. 
 
 .Somerled was thane of .-Vrgyle and Lord 
 of the Isles, about the middle of the twelfth 
 century. He seems to have exercised his 
 authority in both capacities, independent of 
 the crown of Scotland, against which he 
 often stood in hostility. He made various 
 incursions upon the western lowlands during 
 the reign of Malcolm IV'., and seems to 
 Imve made peace with him upon the terms 
 of an independent prince, about the year 
 11^7. In 1 164 he resumed the war against 
 M.ilcolm, and invaded Scotland with a large, 
 but probably a tumultuary army, collected 
 in the isles, in the mainland of Argyleshire, 
 and in the neighljoring provinces of Ireland. 
 He was defeated and slain, in an engagement 
 with a very inferior force, near Renfrew. 
 This chieftain married a daughter of Olaus. 
 King of Man. The Lords of the Isles de- 
 scended from his eldest son, Ronald, and the 
 Lords of Lorn from his second son, Dougal, 
 whence they took their surname of Mac- 
 Dougal. 
 
 Note 5. 
 Lord of the Isles. — P. 292. 
 The representative of this independent 
 principality, for such it seems to have been, 
 though acknowledging occasionally the pre- 
 eminence of the Scottish crown, was, at the 
 period of the poent, Angus, called Angus 
 Og : but the name has been eufhoniir qratia, 
 e.\changed for that of Ronald, which fre- 
 quently occurs in the genealogy. Angus 
 was a protector of Robert Hruce, whom he 
 received in his Castle of Dunnaverty, during 
 the time of his greatest distress. 
 
 Note 6. 
 The House of Lorn. — P. 293. 
 The House of Lorn, as we observed in a 
 former note, was, like the Lord of the Isles, 
 descended from a son of Somerled, slain at 
 Renfrew, in 1164. This son obtained the 
 succession of his mainland territories, com- 
 prehending the greater part of the three dis- 
 tricts of Lorn, in Argyleshire, and of course 
 might rather be considered as petty princes 
 than feudal barons. They assumed the 
 patronymic appellation of MacDougal, by 
 which they are distinguished in the history 
 of the Middle Ages. 
 
 Note 7. 
 Ait'alxd before the rushing proiv. 
 The mimic fires of ocean glarw, 
 Those lightnings of the wave. 
 
 — ^- 295- 
 The phenomenon called by sailors Sea-fire, 
 is one of the most beautiful and interesting 
 which is witnessed in the Hebrides. At 
 times the ocean appears entirely illuminated 
 around the vessel, and a long train of lam- 
 bent coruscations are perpetually bursting 
 ufxin the sides of the vessel, or pursuing her 
 wake through the darkness. 
 
 Note 8. 
 That keen knight, De Argentine. — P. 29S. 
 Sir Egidius, or Giles de Argentine, was 
 one of the most accomplished knights of the 
 jjeriod. He had served in the wars of Henry 
 of Luxemburg with such high reputation 
 that he was, in popular estimation, the third 
 worthy of the age. Those to whom fame 
 assigned precedence over him were, Henry 
 of Luxemburg himself, and Robert Uruce. 
 Argentine had warred in Palestine, encoun- 
 tered thrice with the Saracens, and had slain 
 two antagonists in each engagement : — an 
 easy matter, he said, for one Christian 
 knight to slay two Pagan dogs. 
 
744 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note 9. 
 " Fill me the mighty cup .' " he said, 
 " Erst own'd by royal SomcrledT — 
 
 P. 29S. 
 
 A Hebridean drinking cup of ti\e most 
 ancient and curious workmanslii]), lias huxn 
 long preserved in the Castle of Dunvegan. in 
 Skye, the romantic seat of Mac-Leod of Mac- 
 Leod, the chief of that ancient and powerful 
 clan. The horn of Rorie More, preserved in 
 the same family, and recorded by Dr. John- 
 son, is not to be compared with this piece of 
 antiquity, which is one of the greatest curi- 
 osities in .Scotland. 
 
 Note to. 
 
 " the rebellious Scottish crew, 
 
 Who to Kath-Kriii''s shelter drciv. 
 With Carrick's outlaw d chiefs — 
 
 P. 299. 
 It must be rememtered by all who have 
 read the .Scottish liistory, that after he had 
 slain Comyn at Dumfries, and asserted his 
 right to the .Scottish crown, Koljert Hruce 
 was reduced to the greatest extremity by 
 the English and their adherents. He was 
 crowned at Scone by the general consent of 
 the Scottish barons, but his authority en- 
 dured but a short time. According to the 
 phrase said to have been used by his wife, 
 he was for that year " a summer king, but 
 not a winter one." 
 
 Note ii. 
 The Broach of Lome. — P. 299. 
 Robert Bruce, after his defeat at Methven, 
 Ixiing hard pressed by the English, endeav- 
 ored, with the dispirited remnant of his 
 followers, to escape from Hreadalbane and 
 the mountains of Perthshire into the Argyle- 
 shire Iligiilands. But he was encountered 
 and repulsed, after a very severe engage- 
 ment, by the Lord of Lorn. Bruce's jx-r- 
 sonal strength and courage were never 
 displayed to greater advantage than in this 
 conflict. There is a tradition in the family 
 of the Mac-Dongals of Lorn, that their 
 chieftain engaged in jx-rsonal battle with 
 Bruce himself, while the latter was employed 
 in protecting the retreat of his men; that 
 Mac-Dougal was struck down by the king, 
 whose strength of lx)dy was equal to his 
 vigor of mind, and would have lj«!cn slain on 
 the spot, had not two of Lorn's vassals, a 
 father and son, whom tradition terms Mac- 
 Keoch, rescued him by seizing tlie mantle of 
 the monarch, and dragging liim from above 
 his adversary. Brure rid iiimself of these 
 ices by two blows of his redoubted battle- 
 
 axe, but was so closely pressed by the other 
 followers of L(trn that he was forced to 
 abandon the mantle, and broach which 
 fastened it, clasped in the dying grasp of the 
 Mac-Keochs. A studded broach, said to 
 have been that which King Robert lost upon 
 this occasion, was long preserved in the 
 family of Mac-Dougal, and was lost in a 
 fire which consumed their temporary resi- 
 dence. 
 
 f ireat art and expense were Ix'stowed upon 
 the broach wiiich secured the plaid, .'^ome 
 were as broad as a platter, engraved with 
 curious designs and decorated with crystals 
 or more valuable stones. 
 
 Note 12. 
 When Comyn fell beneath the knife 
 Of that fell homieidethe Bruce.— V. 296. 
 
 Vain Kirkpntrick^s bloody dirk. 
 Making sure of murders work. — P. 300. 
 
 Every reader must recollect that the prox- 
 imate cause of Bruce's asserting his right to 
 the crown of .Scotland, was the death of 
 John, called the Red Comyn. The causes of 
 tliis act of violence, equally extraordinary 
 from the high rank, Ijoth of the perj)etrator 
 and sufferer, and from the place where the 
 slaughter was connnitted, are variously re- 
 lated by the ."Scottish and Fluglish historians, 
 and cannot now Ix' ascertained. The fact 
 that they met at the high altar of the Minor- 
 ites, or (ireyfriar"s Church in Dumfries, that 
 their difference broke out into high and in- 
 sulting language, and that Bruce drew his 
 dagger and stablx;d Comyn, is certain. 
 Rushing to the door of the church, Bruce 
 met two powerful barons, Kirkpatrick of 
 Closcburn, and James de Lindsay, who ea- 
 gerly asked him what tidings? '"Bad tid- 
 ings," answered Bruce; *• I doubt I have 
 slain Comyn." " I^oubtest thou ? " said 
 Kirkpatrick; "I make sicker" (i.e. sure). 
 With these words, he and Lindsay rushed 
 into the church, and despatched the wounded 
 Comyn. The Kirkjiatricks of Closehurn 
 assumed in memory of this deed, a hand 
 holding a dagger, with the memorable words, 
 " I make sicker." 
 
 Note 13. 
 Barendo7vn fled fast away, 
 Fled the fiery De la J la ye. — P. 300. 
 
 These knights are enumerated by Barbour 
 among the small number of Bruce's adhe- 
 rents, who remained in arms with him after 
 the battle of Methven. 
 
THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 745 
 
 Note 14. 
 WiJs'l not enough to Ronald's bower 
 I brought thee like a paramour. — P. 303. 
 It was anciently customary in the High- 
 lands to bring the bride to the house of the 
 husband. Nay, in some cases, the complais- 
 ance was stretched so far that she remained 
 there ujwn trial for a twelvemonth ; and the 
 bridegroom, even after this period of co- 
 habitation, retained an option of refusing to 
 fulfil his engagement. It is said that a 
 desperate feud ensued Ixitween the clans of 
 Mac-Donald of Sleate and Mac-Leod, owing 
 to the former chief having availed himself 
 of this license to send back to Dunvegan a 
 sister or daughter of the latter. MacLeod, 
 resenting the indignity, observed, that since 
 there was no wedding bonfire, there should 
 be one to solemnize the divorce. Accord- 
 ingly, he burned and laid waste the terri- 
 tories of Mac-Donald, who retaliated, and a 
 deadly feud, with all its accompaniments, 
 took place in form. 
 
 Note 15. 
 Since matchless Wallace first had been 
 In mock'ry crowned with wreaths of green. — 
 
 P. 303- 
 Stow gives the following curious account 
 of the trial and execution of this celebrated 
 patriot : " William Wallace, who had oft- 
 times set Scotland in great trouble, was 
 taken and brought to London, with great 
 numbers of men and women wondering upon 
 him. He was lodged in the house of Wil- 
 liam Delect, a citizen of London, in Fen- 
 church -Street. On the morrow, being the 
 eve of St. Bartholomew, he was brought on 
 horseback to Westminster. Jolm Legrave 
 and Jeffrey, knights, the mayor, sheriffs, and 
 aldermen of London, and many others, both 
 on horseback and on foot, accompanying 
 him, and in the great hall at Wesminster, he 
 being placed on the south Ijench, crowned 
 with laurel, for that he had said in times 
 past that he ought to tear a crown in that 
 hall, as it was commonly reported, and being 
 impeached for a traitor by .Sir Peter Mal- 
 orie, the king's justice, he answered, that he 
 was never traitor to the King of England, 
 but for other things whereof he was accused, 
 he confessed them ; and was after headetl and 
 quartered." — Stow, 67/ r. p. 209. There is 
 something singularly doubtful about the 
 mode in which Wallace was taken. That he 
 was betrayed to the English is indubitable ; 
 and popular fame charges Sir John Menteith 
 with the indelible infamy. " Accursed." says 
 Arnold Blair, " be the day of nativity of 
 John de Menteith, and may his r.ame be 
 
 struck out of the book of life." But John 
 de Menteith w.os all along a zealous favorer 
 of the English interest, and was governor of 
 Dumbarton Castle by commission from 
 Edward the First; and therefore, as the 
 accurate Lord Ilailes has oteerved, could 
 not be the friend and confidant of Wallace, 
 as tradition states him to be. Tlie truth 
 seems to be, that Menteith, thoroughly en- 
 gaged in the English interest, pursued 
 Wallace closely, and made him prisoner 
 through the treachery of an attendant, whom 
 Peter Langtoft calls Jack Short. The in- 
 famy of seizing Wallace must rest, therefore, 
 between a degenerate Scottish nobleman, the 
 vassal of England, and a domestic, the ob- 
 scure agent of his treachery; between Sir 
 John Menteith, son of Walter, Earl of Men- 
 teith, and the traitor Jack Short. 
 
 Note 16. 
 Was not the life of Athole shed. 
 To soothe the tyranfs sickened bed ? — 
 
 P- 303- 
 John de Strathbogie, Earl of Athole, had 
 attempted to escape out of the kingdom, but 
 a storm cast him upon the coast, when he was 
 taken, sent to London, and e.xecuted with 
 circumstances of great barbarity, being first 
 half strangled, then let down from the gal- 
 lows while yet alive, barbarously dismem- 
 bered, and his body burnt. It may surprise 
 the reader to learn that this was a mitigated 
 punishment ; for in respect that his mother 
 was a granddaughter of King John, by his 
 natural son, Richard, he was not drawn on 
 a sledge to execution, " that point was for- 
 given," and he made the passage on horse- 
 back. Matthew of Westminster tells us that 
 King Edward, then extremely ill, received 
 great ease from the news that his relative 
 was apprehended. "Quo audito, Rex An- 
 glice, etsi gravissimo morbo tunc langueret, 
 Icrius tainen tulit dolorem:' To this sin- 
 gular expression the text alludes. 
 
 Note 17. 
 While I the blessed cross advance. 
 And expiate this unhappy chance, 
 In Palestine with sword and lance. — 
 
 P. 304. 
 Bruce uniformly professed, and probably 
 felt, compunction for having violated the 
 sanctuary of the church by the slaughter of 
 Comyn; and finally, in his last hours, in 
 testimony of his faith, penitence, and zeal, 
 he requested James Lord Douglas to carry 
 his heart to Jerusalem, to be there desposited 
 in the Holy Sepulchre. 
 
746 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note iS. 
 De Bruce .' I rose ivith pur /rose dread 
 To speak my curse upon thy head. — P. 304. 
 So soon as the notice of Comyn's slaughter 
 reached Rome, Bruce and his adherents were 
 excommunicated. It was pubhshed first by 
 the Archbishop of York, and renewed at 
 different times, particularly by Lambyrton, 
 Bishop of St. Andrews, in 130S, but it does 
 not appear to have answered the purpose 
 which the English monarch expected. In- 
 deed, for reasons which it may be difficult to 
 trace, the thunders of Rome descended upon 
 the Scottish mountains with less effect than 
 in more fertile countries. I'robably the 
 comparative poverty of the benefices occa- 
 sioned that fewer foreign clergy settled in 
 Scotland, and the interests of the native 
 churchmen were linked with that of their 
 country. Many of the Scottish prelates, 
 Lambyrton the primate particularly, de- 
 clared for Bruce, while he was yet under the 
 ban of the church, though he afterwards 
 again changed sides. 
 
 Note 19. 
 A hunted wanderer on the ivild, 
 On foreign shores a man exiled. — P. 304. 
 This is not metaphorical. The echoes of 
 Scotland did actually 
 
 " ring 
 
 With the bloodliounds that bay'd for lier fugi- 
 tive king." 
 \ very curious and romantic tale is told by 
 Barbour upon this subject, which may be 
 abridged as follows : — 
 
 When Bruce had again got footing in 
 Scotland, in the spring of 1306, he continued 
 to be in a very weak and precarious condi- 
 tion, gaining, indeed, occasional advantages, 
 but obliged to fly before his enemies when- 
 ever they assembled in force. Upon one 
 occasion, while he was lying with a small 
 party in the wilds of Cumnock, in Ayrshire, 
 Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, with 
 his inveterate foe, John of Lorn, came 
 against him suddenly with eight hundred 
 Highlanders, besides a large body of men- 
 at-arms. They brought with them a slough- 
 dog, or blood-hound, which, some say, had 
 been once a favorite with the Bruce himself, 
 and therefore was least likely to lose the 
 trace. 
 
 Bruce, whose force was under four hundred 
 men, continued to make head against the 
 cavalry, till the men of Lorn had nearly cut 
 off his retreat. Perceiving the danger of his 
 situation, he acted as the celebrated and ill- 
 requited Mina is said to have done in similar 
 
 circumstances. He divided his force into 
 three parts, appointed a place of rendezvous 
 and commanded them to retreat by different 
 routes. But when John of Lorn arrived at 
 the spot where they divided, he caused the 
 hound to be put upon the trace, which im- 
 mediately directed him to the pursuit of that 
 party which Bruce headed. This, therefore, 
 Lorn pursued with his whole force, paying 
 no attention to the others. The king again, 
 suMivided his small Ixjdy into three parts, 
 and with the same result, for the pursuers 
 attached themselves exclusively to that which 
 he led in person. He then caused his fol- 
 lowers to disperse, and retained only his 
 foster-ljrother in his company. The slough- 
 dog followed the trace, and, neglecting the 
 others, attached himself and his attendants 
 to the pursuit of the king. Lorn became 
 convinced that his enemy was nearly in his 
 power, and detached five of his most active 
 attendants to follow him and interrupt his 
 flight. They did so with all tiie agility of 
 mountaineers. " What aid wilt thou make?" 
 said Bruce to his single attendant, when 
 he saw the five men gain ground on him. 
 " The best I can," replied his foster-brother. 
 " Then," said Bruce, " here I make my stand." 
 The five pursuers came up fast. The king 
 took three to himself, leaving the other two 
 to his foster-brother. He slew the first who 
 encountered him; but observing his foster- 
 brother hard pressed, he sprung to his assist- 
 ance, and despatched one of his assailants. 
 Leaving him to deal with the survivor, he 
 returned upon the other two, both of whom 
 he slew before his foster-brother had de- 
 spatched his single antagonist. When this 
 hard encounter was over, with a courtesy, 
 which in the whole, work marks Bruce's 
 character, he thanked his foster-brother for 
 his aid. " It likes you to say so," answered 
 his follower; " but you yourself slew four of 
 the five." — •' True," said the king, " but only 
 because I had better opportunity than you. 
 They were not apprehensive of me when 
 they saw me encounter three, so I had a mo- 
 ment's time to spring to thy aid, and to re- 
 turn equally unexpectedly upon my own oj> 
 poncnts." 
 
 In the meanwhile I^orn's party approached 
 rapidly, and the king and his foster-brother 
 Ijetook themselves to a neighboring wood. 
 Here they sat down, for Bruce was exhausted 
 by fatigue, until the cry of the slough-hound 
 came so near that his foster-brother entreated 
 Bruce to provide for his safety by retreating 
 further. " I liave heard." answered the king, 
 " that whosoever will wade a bow-shot length 
 down a running stream, shall make the 
 slough-liound lose scent. Let us try the 
 
THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 747 
 
 experiment, for were yon devilish hound 
 silenced 1 should care little for the rest." 
 
 Lorn in the meanwhile advanced, and found 
 the ixidies of his slain vassals, over whom he 
 made his moan, and threatened the most 
 deadly vengeance. Then he followed the 
 hound to the side of the brook down which 
 the king had waded a great way. Here the 
 hound was at fault, and John of Lorn, after 
 long attempting in vain to recover Bruce's 
 trace, relinquished the pursuit. 
 
 •' Others," says Darbour, " afiirm that upon 
 this occasion the king's life was saved by an 
 excellent archer who accompanied him, and 
 who perceiving that they would be finally 
 taken by means of the blood-hound hid him- 
 self in a thicket, and shot him with an arrow. 
 In which way," adds the metrical biog- 
 rapher, •' this escape hapi:)ened I am uncer- 
 tain, Init at that brook the king escaped from 
 his pursuers." 
 
 Ni>TE 20. 
 " Alas ! dear youth, the unlia/'py time" 
 
 Answer d the Bruce, '• tnust hear the crime. 
 Since guiltier far than you, 
 
 Even /" — he paused: for Falkirk'' s woes 
 
 Upon his conscious soul arose. — P. 306. 
 
 I have followed the vulgar and inaccurate 
 tradition, that Bruce fought against Wal- 
 lace, and the array of Scotland, at the fatal 
 battle of Falkirk. The story which seems to 
 Imve no better authority than that of Blind 
 Harry, bears, that having made much slaugh- 
 ter during the engagement, he sat down to 
 dine with the conquerors without washing 
 the filthy witness from his hands. 
 
 " Fasting he was, and had been in great need, 
 Blooded were all his weapons, and his weed ; 
 Southeron lords scorn'd him in terms rude. 
 And said. Behold yon Scot eats his own blued. 
 
 " Then rued he sore, Utr reason bad be known, 
 That blood and land alike should be his own ; 
 With them he long was, ere he got away, 
 But contrair Scots he fought not from that 
 day." 
 
 The account given by most of our histo- 
 rians, of the conversation between Bruce and 
 Wallace over the Garron River, is equally 
 apocryphal. There is full evidence that 
 Bruce was not at that time on the English 
 side, nor present at the battle of Falkirk ; 
 nay, that he acted as a guardian of Scotland, 
 along with John Comyn, in the name of 
 Baliol, and in opposition to the English. 
 
 Note 21. 
 These are the sai'age wilds that lie 
 North of Strathncirdill and Dunskye. — 
 P. 307. 
 The extraordinary piece of scenery which 
 
 I have here attempted to describe is. I think, 
 unparalleled in any part of Scotland, at least 
 in any which 1 have happened to visit. It 
 lies just upon the frontier of the Laird of 
 Mac-I^eod's country, which is therealxiuts 
 divided from the estate of Mr. Mac-.Allister 
 of Strath-Aird. caUed Strathnardill by the 
 Dean of the Isfes. 
 
 Note 22. 
 And mermaid^ s alabaster grot. 
 Who bathes her limbs in sunless well. 
 Deep in Strathaird's enchanted cell. — 
 
 P. 31 1. 
 Imagination can hardly conceive anything 
 more beautiful than the extraordinary grotto 
 discovered not many years since upon the 
 estate of Ale.xander Mac-Allister, Esq., of 
 Strathaird. It has since been much and de- 
 servedly celebrated, and a full account of its 
 beauties has Ix-en published by Dr. Mac-Leay 
 of Oban. The general impression may per- 
 haps be gathered from the following extract 
 from a journal, which, written under the 
 feelings of the moment, is likely to be more 
 accurate than any attempt to recollect the 
 impressions then received : — '■ The first en- 
 trance to this celebrated cave is rude and un- 
 promising ; but the light of the torches, with 
 which we were provided, was soon reflected 
 from the roof, Hoor, and walls, which seem 
 as if they were sheeted with marble, partly 
 smooth, partly rough with frost-work and 
 rustic ornaments, and partly seeming to be 
 wrought into statuary. The floor forms a 
 steep and difficult ascent, and might be fan- 
 cifully compared to a sheet of water, which, 
 while it rushed whitening and foaming down 
 a declivity, had been suddenly arrested and 
 consolidated by the spell of an enchanter. I'p- 
 on attaining the sunmiit of this ascent, tlie 
 cave opens into a splendid gallery, adorned 
 with the most dazzling crystallizations, and 
 finally descends with rapidity to the brink of a 
 pool of the most limpid water, about four or 
 five yards broad. There opens beyond this 
 pool a portal arch, formed by two colunms of 
 white spar, with beautiful chasing upon the 
 sides, which promises a continuation of tlie 
 cave. One of our sailors swam across, for 
 there is no other mode of passing, and in- 
 formed us (as indeed we partly saw by the 
 light he carried) that the enchantment of 
 Mac-.AUisters cave terminates with this por- 
 tal, a little beyond which there was only a 
 rude cavern, speedily choked with stones and 
 earth. But the pool, on the brink of which 
 we stood, surrounded by the most fanciful 
 mouldings, in a substance resembling white 
 marble, and distinguished by the depth and 
 
748 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 purity of its waters, might have been the 
 bathing grotto of a naiad. The groups of 
 combined figures projecting, or embossed, by 
 which the pool is surrounded, are exquisitely 
 elegant and fanciful. A statuary miglit catch 
 beautiful hints from the singular and roman- 
 tic disposition of those stalactites. There is 
 scarce a form or group on which active fancy 
 may not trace figures or grotesque orna- 
 ments, which have been gradually moulded 
 in this cavern by the dropping of the calca- 
 reous water hardening into petrifactions. 
 Many of those fine groups have been injured 
 by the senseless rage of appropriation of 
 recent tourists ; and the grotto had lost (1 
 am informed), through the smoke of torches, 
 something of that vivid silver tint which was 
 originally one of its chief distinctions. But 
 enough of beauty remains to compensate for 
 all that may be lost." — Dr. Mac-Allister of 
 Strathaird has, with great propriety, built up 
 the exterior entrance to this cave, in order 
 that strangers may enter properly attended 
 by a guide, to prevent any repetition of the 
 wanton and selfish injury which this singular 
 scene has already sustained. 
 
 Note 23. 
 Yet to no sense of selfish wrongs. 
 Bear witness with me, Heaven, belongs 
 My Joy o'er Edward's bier. — P. 314. 
 The generosity which does justice to the 
 character of an enemy, often marks Bruce's 
 sentiments, as recorded by the faithful Bar- 
 bour. He seldom mentions a fallen enemy 
 without praising such good qualities as he 
 might possess. I shall only take one in- 
 stance. Shortly after Bruce landed in Car- 
 rick, in 1306, Sir Ingram Bell, the English 
 governor of Ayr, engaged a wealthy yeoman, 
 who had hitherto been a follower of Bruce, 
 to undertake the task of assassinating him. 
 The king learned this treachery, as he is said 
 to have done other secrets of the enemy, by 
 means of a female with whom he had an in- 
 trigue. Shortly after he was possessed of 
 this information, Bruce, resorting to a small 
 thicket at a distance from his men, with 
 only a single page to attend him, met tlie 
 traitor, accompanied by two of his sons. 
 They approached him with their wonted 
 familiarity, but Bruce, taking his page's lx)w 
 and arrow, commanded them to keep at a 
 distance. As they still pressed forward with 
 professions of zeal for his person and ser- 
 vice, he, after a second warning, shot the 
 father with the arrow ; and being assaulted 
 successively by the two sons, despatched first 
 one, who was armed with an axe, then as the 
 other charged him with a sjxiar, avoided the 
 thrust, struck the head from the sjoear, and 
 
 cleft the skull of the assassin with a blow of 
 his two-handed sword. 
 
 Note 24. 
 
 And Ronin''s mountains dark have sent 
 Their hunters to the shore. — P. 315. 
 
 Ronin (popularly called Kum, a name 
 which a poet may be pardoned for avoiding 
 if possible) is a very rough and mountainous 
 island, adjacent to those of Eigg and Canna 
 or Cannay. There is almost no arable ground 
 upon it, so that, except in the plenty of the 
 deer, which of course are now nearly extir- 
 pated, it still deserves the description be- 
 stowed by the arch-dean of the isles ; " Konin, 
 si.xteen myle north-wast from the ile of Coll, 
 lyes ane ile callit Ronin lie, of sixteen myle 
 long, and six in bredthe in the narrowest, ane 
 forest of heigh mountains, an abundance of 
 little deir in it, quliilk deir will never be slane 
 dounewith, but the principal saittis man Ije 
 in the height of the hill, because the deir will 
 be callit upwart ay be the tainchell or with- 
 out tynchel they will pass upwart jxjrforce. 
 In this ile will be gotten about Britane als 
 many wild nests upon the plane mure as 
 men pleasis to gadder, and yet by reason the 
 fowls has few to start them except deir. This 
 ile lyes from the west to the eist in lenth, 
 and pertains to M'Kenabrey of Colla. Many 
 solan geese are in this ile." — Monro's De- 
 scription of the Western Isles, ip. i8. 
 
 Note 25. 
 On Seooreigg next a warning light 
 Summon' d her warriors to the fight ; 
 A numerous race, ere stern Alacleod 
 O'er their bleak shores in vengeance strode. 
 -P. 315 
 
 These, and the folio vying lines of the stanza, 
 refer to a dreadful tale of feudal vengeance, 
 of which unfortunately there are relics that 
 still attest the truth. Scoor-Eigg is a high 
 peak in the centre of the small Isle of Eigg, 
 or Egg. It is well known to mineralogists, 
 as affording many interesting specimens, 
 and to others whom chance or curiosity may 
 lead to the island, for the astonishing view 
 of the mainland and neighlx)ring isles, which 
 it commands. The following account is ex- 
 tracted from the poet's own journal kept 
 during his tour through the Scottish Islands. 
 
 26M August, 1S14 . — At seven this morn- 
 ing we were in the sound which divides the 
 Isle of Rum from that of Egg. The latter, 
 although hilly and rocky, and traversed by a 
 remarkably high and barren ridge, called 
 .Scoor-Rigg, has, in point of soil, a much 
 more promising ajjpcarance. Southward of 
 both lies the Isle of Muich, or Muck, a low 
 
THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 749 
 
 and fertile island, and though the least, yet 
 probably the most valuable of the three. 
 We manned the boat and rowed along the 
 shore of Egg in quest of a cavern, which had 
 been the memorable scene of a horrid feudal 
 vengeance. We had rounded more than half 
 the island, admiring the entrance of many a 
 bold natural cave, which its rocks e.xhibited, 
 without finding that which we sought, until 
 we procured a guide. Nor, indeed, was it 
 surprising that it should have escaped the 
 search of strangers, as there are no outward 
 indications more than might distinguish the 
 entrance of a fox-earth. This noted cave 
 has a very narrow opening, through which 
 one can hardly creep on his knees and hands. 
 It rises steep and lofty within, and runs into 
 the bowels of the rock to the depth of two 
 hundred and fifty-five measured feet ; the 
 height at the entrance may be about three 
 feet, but rises within to eighteen or twenty, 
 and the breadth may vary in the same pro- 
 portion. The rude and stony bottom of 
 this cave is strewed with the Ix)nes of men, 
 women, and children, the sad relics of the 
 ancient inhabitants of the island, two hun- 
 ilred in numter, who were slain on the fol- 
 lowing occasion : — The Mac-Donalds of the 
 Isle of Egg, a people dependent on Clan- 
 Kanald, had done some injury to the I.aird 
 of Mac-Ix'od. The tradition of the isle says, 
 that it was by a personal attack on the chief- 
 tain, in which his back was broken. But 
 that of the other isles tears more probably, 
 that the injury was offered to two or three 
 of the Mac-Leods, who, landing upon Eigg, 
 and using some freedom with the young 
 women, were seized by the islanders, bound 
 hand and foot, and turned adrift in a boat 
 which the wind and waves safely conducted 
 to Skye. 'I'o avenge the offence given, Mac- 
 Leod sailed with such a body of men as 
 rendered resistance hopeless. The native-s, 
 fearing his vengeance, concealed themselves 
 in this cavern, and, after a strict search, the 
 Mac-I.eods went on lx)ard their galleys, after 
 doing what mischief they could, concluding 
 the inhabitants had left the isle, and betaken 
 themselves to the Long Island, or some of 
 Clan-Kanald's other possessions. But next 
 morning they espied from the vessels a man 
 upon the island, and immediately landing 
 again, they traced his retreat by the marks 
 of his footsteps, a light snow teing un- 
 happily on the ground. Mac-I.eod then 
 surrounded tiie cavern, summoned the sub- 
 terranean garrison, and demanded that the 
 individuals who had offended him should be 
 delivered up to him. This was [leremptorily 
 refused. The chieftain then caused his peo- 
 ple to divert the course of a rill of water. 
 
 which, falling over the entrance of the cave, 
 would have prevented his purposed ven- 
 geance. He then kindled at the entrance of 
 the cavern a huge fire, composed of turf and 
 fern, and maintained it with unrelenting 
 assiduity, until all within were destroyed by 
 suffocation. The date of this dreadful deed 
 must have been recent, if one may judge 
 from the fresh appearance of those relics. I 
 brought off, in spite of the prejudice of our 
 sailors, a skull from among the numerous 
 specimens of mortality which the cavern 
 afforded. Before re-embarking we visited 
 another cave, opening to the sea, but of a 
 character entirely different, being a large 
 open vault, as high as that of a cathedral, 
 and running back a great way into the rock 
 at the same height. 'I'he height and width 
 of the opening gives ample light to the 
 whole. Here, after 1745, ^*'hcn the Catholic 
 priests were scarcely tolerated, the priest of 
 Eigg used to perform the Roman Catholic 
 service, most of the islanders being of that 
 persuasion. A huge ledge of rocks rising 
 about half-way up one side of the vault, 
 served for altar and pulpit ; and the ap|)ear- 
 ance of a priest and Highland congregation 
 in such an extraordinary place of worship, 
 might have engaged the pencil of SaWator-'' 
 
 Note 26. 
 Scenes sung by him who sings no more. — 
 
 P. 316. 
 The ballad entitled, " Macphail of Colon- 
 say, and the Mermaid of Corrievrekin " [see 
 Border Minstrelsy, vol. iv., p. 285], was com- 
 posed by John Leyden, from a tradition 
 which he found while making a tour through 
 the Hebrides about iSoi, soon before his 
 fatal departure for India, where, after having 
 made further progress in t)riental literature 
 than any man of letters who had embraced 
 those studies, he died a martyr to his zeal 
 for knowledge, in the island of Java, im- 
 mediately after the landing of our forces 
 ne.ar Batavia, in August, iSii. 
 
 Note 27. 
 f// Tarbafs western lake they bore. 
 Then drai^c^d their bark the isthmus o'er. — 
 
 r. 316. 
 
 The peninsula of Cantire is joined to 
 South Kn.-ipdale by a very narrow isthmus ; 
 formed by the western and eastern I.och of 
 Tarbat. These two salt water lakes, or bays, 
 encroach so far upon the land, and the ex- 
 t.oniities come so near to each other, that 
 there is not alxtve a mile of land to divide 
 them. 
 
750 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note 28. 
 The sun, ere yet he sunk behind 
 Bcn-Ghoil, '■^ the Mountain of the Wind," 
 Gai'e his grim peaks a greeting kind, 
 
 And bade Loch Kanza smile. — ■ P. 316. 
 Loch Kanza is a beautiful ba)', on the 
 northern extremity of Arran, opening towards 
 East Tarbat Loch. It is well described by 
 Pennant : " The approach was magnificent ; 
 a fine bay in front about a mile deep, having 
 a ruined castle near the lower end, on a low 
 far-projecting neck of land, tiiat forms an- 
 other harbor, witii a narrow passage ; but 
 within has three fathom of water, even at 
 the lowest ebb. Beyond is a little plain 
 watered by a stream, and inhabited by the 
 p2uple of a small village. The whole is en- 
 vironed with a theatre of mountains ; and 
 in the background the serrated crags of 
 Grianan-Athol soar above." — I'enn.\nt's 
 Tour tothe Western Isles, pp. 191, 192. Ben- 
 Ghaoil, " the mountain of the winds," is 
 generally known by its English, and less 
 poetical, name of Goatfield. 
 
 Note 29. 
 Each to Loch Ranza's margin spring ; 
 That blast was winded by the king .' — 
 
 P. 318. 
 
 The passage in Barbour, describing the 
 landing of Bruce, and his being recognized 
 bv Douglas and those of his followers wiio 
 had preceded him, by the sound of his liorii, 
 is in the original singularly simple and af- 
 fecting. The king arrived in .Arran with 
 thirty-three small row-boats. lie interro- 
 gated a female if there had arrived any war- 
 like men of late in that country. " Surely, 
 sir," she replied, '• I can tell you of many 
 who lately came hither, discomfited the 
 English governor, and bk>ckaded his castle 
 of Brodick. They maintain themselves in 
 a wood at no great distance." The king, 
 truly conceiving tliat this must be Douglas 
 and iiis followers, who had lately set forth to 
 try their fortune in Arran, desired the woman 
 to conduct him to the wood. She obeyed. 
 
 " The king then blew his horn on liiRh; 
 A'ld gert * his men that were him by, 
 Hold them still, and all privy ; 
 And syne aeain his horn blew he. 
 James of Dowglas heard him blow, 
 And at the last alone gan know. 
 And said, ' Soothly yon is the king; 
 I know long while since his blowing.' 
 The third time therewithal he blew, 
 And then Sir Robert P.oid it knew ; 
 And said, ' Yon is the king, but dread. 
 Go we forth till him, better speed. 
 
 * Caused. 
 
 Then went they till the king in hye, 
 And him inclined courteously. 
 And blithely welcomed them the king, 
 And was joyful of their meeting, 
 And kissed them ; and speared t syne 
 How they h:id fared in hunting ? 
 And they him told all, hut lesing. t 
 .Syne laud they God of their meeting, 
 .Syne with the king till his harbourye 
 Went both joyfu' and jolly." 
 
 Barbour's Bruce, Book v., pp. 115, 116. 
 
 Note 30. 
 — — his brother blamed. 
 But shared the iveakness, while ashamed. 
 With haughty laugh his head he turn'd. 
 And dasVd away the tear he scorn\l — 
 
 P. 319. 
 The kind and yet fiery character of Edward 
 Bruce is well painted by Barbour, in tlie ac- 
 count of his behavior after tlie battle of 
 Bannockburn. Sir Walter Ross, one of tlie 
 very few Scottish nobles who fell in that 
 battle, was so dearly beloved by Edward, 
 that he wished the victory had been lost, so 
 Ross had lived. 
 
 Note 31. 
 Thou heard\'!t a wretched female plain 
 In agony of travail-pain. 
 And thou didst bid thy little band 
 Upon the instant turn and stand. 
 Ami dare the itunst that foe might do. 
 Rather than, like a knight untrue. 
 Leave to pursuers merciless 
 A woman in her last distress. — P. 320. 
 'I'his incident, which illustrates so h.appily 
 the chivalrous generosity of Bruce"s charac- 
 ter, is one of the many simple and natural 
 traits recorded by Barbour. It occurred 
 during the expedition which Bruce made 
 to Ireland, to support the pretensions of 
 his brother Edward to the throne of that 
 kingdom. 
 
 Note 32. 
 O'er chasms he pass'' d where fractures ii'idc 
 Craved wary eye and ample stride. — 
 
 The interior of the island of Arran abounds 
 with Ix-antiful Highland scenery. The hills, 
 being very rocky and precipitous, afford some 
 cataracts of great height, though of incon- 
 siderable breadth. There is one pass over 
 the river Machrai, renowed for the dilemma 
 of a poor woman, who, being tempted by the 
 narrowness of the ravine to step across, suc- 
 ceeded in making the first movement, but 
 took fright when it Ixicame necessary to 
 move the other foot, and remained in a pos- 
 
 t Asked. 
 
 Without falsehood. 
 
THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 751 
 
 ture equally ludicrous and dangerous, until 
 some chance passenger assisted her to extri- 
 cate herself. It is said she remained there 
 some hours. 
 
 Note 33. 
 Old Brodick^ s gothic towers were seen. 
 From Hastings, late their English Lord, 
 Douglas had won them by the sword. — 
 
 Brodick or Brathwick Castle, in the Isle 
 of Arran, is an ancient fortress, near an open 
 roadstead called Brodick-Bay, and not far 
 distant from a tolerable harbor, closed in 
 by the Island of Lamlash. This important 
 place had lx«n assailed a short time before 
 Bruces arrival in the island. James Lord 
 Douglas, who accompanied Bruce to his re- 
 treat in kachrine, seems, in the spring of 
 1306, to have tired of his abode there, and 
 set out accordingly, in the phrase of the 
 times, to see what adventure God would send 
 him. Sir Robert Boyd accompanied him ; 
 and his knowledge of the localities of Arran 
 appears to have directed his course thither. 
 They landed in the island privately, and ap- 
 pear to have laid an ambush for Sir John 
 Hastings, the English governor of Brodwick, 
 and surprised a considerable supply of arms 
 and provisions, and nearly took the castle it- 
 self. Indeed, that they actually did so, has 
 been generally averred by historians, although 
 it does not appear from tlie narrative of Bar- 
 bour. On the contrary, it would seem that 
 they took shelter within a fortification of 
 the ancient inhabitants, a rampart called 
 Tor an Schian. When they were joined by 
 Bruce, it seems probable that they gained 
 Brodick Castle. At least tradition says that 
 from the battlements of the tower he saw 
 the supposed signal-fire on Turnberry-nook. 
 . . . The castle is now much modernized, 
 but has a dignified appearance, being sur- 
 rounded by flourishing plantations. 
 
 Note 34. 
 Oft, too, -with unaccitstomed ears, 
 A languai;e much mimeet he hears. — 
 
 P. 323. 
 Barbour, with great simplicity, gives an 
 anecdote, from which it would seem that 
 the vice of profane swearing, afterwards too 
 general among the Scottish nation, was, at 
 this time, confined to military men. As 
 Douglas, after Bruce's return to Scotland, 
 was roving about the mountainous country 
 of Tweeddale, near the water of Line, he 
 chanced to hear some persons in a farm- 
 house says, "///«? deviir Concluding, from 
 this hardy expression, that the house con- 
 tained warlike guests, he immediately as- 
 
 sailed it, and had the good fortune to make 
 prisoners Thomas Randolph, afterwards 
 the famous Earl of Murray, and Alexan- 
 der Stuart, Lord Bonkte. Both were then 
 in the English interest, and had come into 
 that country with the purpose of driving out 
 Douglas. They afterwards ranked among 
 Bruce's most zealous adherents. 
 
 Note 35. 
 
 Now ask you whence that wondrous light. 
 
 Whose fairy glow beguiled their .sight ! 
 
 It ne'er was known^ — P. 326. 
 
 The following are the words of an ingen- 
 ious correspondent, to whom I am obliged 
 for much information respecting Turnberry 
 and its neighborhood. '• The only tradition 
 now remembered of the landing of Robert 
 the Bruce in Carrick. relates to the fire seen 
 by him from the Isle of Arran. It is still 
 generally reported, and religiously believed 
 by many, that this fire was really the work 
 of supernatural power, unassisted by the 
 hand of any mortal being : and it is said, 
 that, for several centuries, the flame rose 
 yearly, on the same hour of the same night 
 of the year, on which the king first saw it 
 from the turrets of Brodick Castle ; and 
 some go so far as to say, that if the exact 
 time were known, it would be still seen. 
 That this superstitious notion is very an- 
 cient, is evident from the place where the lire 
 is said to have apjaeared being called the 
 Bogles' Brae, beyond the remembrance of 
 man. In support of this curious belief, it is 
 said that the practice of burning heath for 
 the improvement of land was then unknown ; 
 that a spunkie (Jack o'lanthorn) could not 
 have Ijeen seen across the breadth of the 
 Forth of Clyde, between Ayrshire and Arran ; 
 and that the courier of Bruce was his kins- 
 man, and never suspected of treachery." — 
 Letter from Mr. Joseph Train, of Newton 
 Stewart. 
 
 Note 36. 
 The Bruce hath won his father's hall ! — 
 
 P- lio. 
 
 I have followed tlie flattering and pleasing 
 tradition, that the Bruce, after his descent 
 upon the coast of Ayrshire, actually gained 
 possession of his maternal castle. But the 
 tradition is not accurate. The fact is, that 
 he was only strong enough to alarm and 
 drive in the outposts of the English garri- 
 son, then commanded, not by Clifford, as 
 assumed in the text, but by Percy. Neither 
 was Clifford slain upon this occasion, though 
 he had several skirmishes with Bruce. He 
 fell afterwards in the battle of Bannock- 
 burn. Bruce, after alarming the castle of 
 
752 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Turnberry, and surprising some part of the 
 garrison, who were quartered without the 
 walls of the fortress, retreated into the moun- 
 tainous part of Carrick, and there made him- 
 self so strong, that the English were obliged 
 to evacuate Turnberry, and at length tiie 
 Castle of Ayr. Many of his benefactions 
 and royal gifts attest his attachment to the 
 hereditary followers of his house, in this 
 part of the country. 
 
 Note 37. 
 When Bruce' s banner had victorious flow' d, 
 O'er Loudoun^ s mountain, and in Ury's 
 
 vale. — ¥.2,2,1. 
 
 The first important advantage gained by 
 Bruce, after landing at Turnberry, was over 
 Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, the 
 same by whom he had been defeated near 
 Methven. They met, as has teen said, by 
 appointment, at Loudonhill, in the west of 
 Scotland. Pembroke sustained a defeat ; and 
 from that time Bruce was at the head of a 
 considerable flying army. Yet he was subse- 
 quently obliged to retreat into Aberdeen- 
 shire, and was there assailed by Comyn, Earl 
 of Buchan, desirous to avenge the death of 
 his relative, the Red Comyn, and supported 
 by a body of English troops under Philip 
 de Mowbray. Bruce was ill at the time of a 
 scrofulous disorder, but took horse to meet 
 his enemies, although obliged to be sup- 
 ported on either side. He was victorious, 
 and it is said that the agitation of his spirits 
 restored his health. 
 
 Note 38. 
 When English blood oft deluged Douglas- 
 dale. — P. 331. 
 
 The " good Lord James of Douglas," dur- 
 ing these commotions, often took from the 
 English his own castle of Douglas ; but being 
 unable to garrison it, contented himself with 
 destroying the fortifications, and retiring 
 into the mountains. As a reward to his 
 patriotism, it is said to have been prophesied, 
 that how often soever Douglas Castle should 
 be destroyed, it should always again rise 
 more magnificent from its ruins. Upon one 
 of these occasions he used fearful cruelty, 
 causing all the store of provisions, which the 
 English had laid up in his castle, to be 
 heaped together, bursting the wine and Ijeer 
 casks among the wheat and flour, slaughter- 
 ing the cattle upon the same spot, and upon 
 the top of the whole cutting the throats 
 of the English prisoners. This pleasantry 
 of the " good Lord James " is commemorated 
 under the name of the Douglas's Larder. 
 
 Note 39. 
 And fiery Edward routed stout St. fohn.—^ 
 
 P- 331- 
 
 "John de .St John, with 15,000 horsemen, 
 had advanced to oppose the inroad of the 
 Scots. By a forced march he endeavored to 
 surprise them, but intelligence of his motions 
 was timeously received. The courage of 
 Edward Bruce, approaching to temerity, 
 frequently enabled him to achieve what men 
 of more judicious valor would never have at- 
 tempted. He ordered the infantry, and the 
 meaner sort of his army, to entrench them- 
 selves in strong narrow ground. He him- 
 self, with fifty horsemen well harnessed, 
 issued forth under cover of a thick mist, sur- 
 prised the English on their march, attacked 
 and disix-rsed them." — Dalkympli'.'s r:/«- 
 nals of Scotland, quarto, Edinburgh, 1779, 
 p. 25. 
 
 Note 40. 
 When Randolph's war-cry swell' d the south- 
 
 erngalc. — \\22\. 
 
 Thomas Randolph, Bruce's sister's son, 
 a renowned Scottish chief, was in the early 
 part of his life not more remarkable for con- 
 sistency than Bruce himself. He espoused 
 his uncle's party when liruce first assumed 
 the crown, and was made prisoner at the 
 fatal battle of Methven, in which his rela- 
 tive's hoiKJS apjxiared to be ruinetl. Ran- 
 dolph accordingly not only submitted to the 
 English, but took an active part against 
 Bruce ; appeared in arms against him : and 
 in the skirmish where he was so closely pur- 
 sued by the bloodhound, it is .said his nephew 
 took his standard with his own hand. But 
 Randolph was afterwards made prisoner by 
 Douglas in Tweeddale, and brought before 
 King Rolxjrt. Some harsh language was 
 exchanged between the uncle and nephew, 
 and the latter was committed for a time 
 to close custody. Afterwards, however, 
 they were reconciled, and Randolph was 
 created Earl of Moray about 1312. After 
 tliis jjeriod he eminently distinguished him- 
 self, first by the surprise of Edinburgh 
 Castle, and afterwards by many similar en- 
 terprises, conducted with equal courage and 
 ability. 
 
 Note 41. 
 Stirling's towers, 
 
 Beleaguered by King Robertas powers ; 
 And they took term of truce. — P. 331. 
 
 When a long train of success, actively im- 
 l>roved by Robert Bruce, had made him mas- 
 ter of almost all Scotland, .Stirling Castle 
 continued to liold out. The care of the 
 blockade was committed by the king to his 
 
THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 
 
 753 
 
 brother Edward, who concluded a treaty 
 with Sir Philip Mowbray, the governor, that 
 he should surrender the fortress, if it were 
 not succored by the King of England before 
 St. John the Baptist's day. The King se- 
 verely blamed his brother for the impolicy of 
 a treaty, wliich gave time to the king of Eng- 
 land to advance to the relief of the castle, 
 with all his asseml)led forces, and obliged' 
 himself cither to meet them in battle with 
 an inferior force, or to retreat with dishonor. 
 " I,et all England come," answered the reck- 
 less Edward ; " we will fight them were they 
 more." The consequence was, of course 
 that each kingdom mustered its strength for 
 the exjxicted battle ; and as the space agreed 
 upon reached from Eent to Midsummer, full 
 time was allowed for that purpose. 
 
 Note 42. 
 And Cambria, but of laic subdued. 
 Sent forth her mountain multitude. — 
 
 I'- 332. 
 Edward the First, with tlie usual policy of 
 a conqueror, employed the V\ clsli. whom he 
 had subdued, to assist him in his Scottish 
 wars, for which their habits, as mountaineers, 
 particularly fitted them. Hut this policy 
 was not without its risks. Previous to the 
 battle of Falkirk, the Welsh quarrelled with 
 the English men-at-arms, and after bloodshed 
 on both parts, separated themselves from his 
 army, and the feud tetween them, at so dan- 
 gerous and critical a juncture, was reconciled 
 with difficulty. Edward H. followed his 
 father's example in this particular, and with 
 no tetter success. They could not te brought 
 to exert themselves in tlie cause of their 
 conquerors. But they had an indifferent re- 
 ward for their forbearance. Without arms, 
 and clad only in scanty dresses of linen cloth, 
 they appeared naked in the eyes even of the 
 Scottish peasantry ; and after the rout of 
 Bannockburn, were massacred by them in 
 great numlx?rs, as they retired in confusion 
 towards their own country. They were 
 under command of Sir Maurice de Berkeley. 
 
 Note 43. 
 And Connoght four^d from waste and wood 
 Her hundred tribes, whose scef'tre rude 
 
 Dark F.lh O'Connor sivay'd. — P. 332. 
 
 There is in the F<cdera an invitation to 
 Eth O'Connor, chief of tlie Irish of Con- 
 naught, setting forth that the king was about 
 to move against his Scottish rebels, and 
 therefore requesting the attendance of all the 
 force he could muster, either commanded by 
 himself in person, or by some nobleni.-in of 
 his race. These auxiliaries were to be com- 
 
 manded by Richard de Burgh, Earl of 
 Ulster. 
 
 Note 44. 
 
 The monarch rode along the van. P. 334. 
 
 The English vanguard, commanded by the 
 Earls of Gloucester and Hereford, came in 
 sight of the Scottish army upon the evening 
 of the 23d of June. Bruce was then riding 
 upon a httle palfrey in front of his foremost 
 line, putting his host in order. It was then 
 that the personal encounter took place be- 
 twixt him and Sir Henry de Bohun, a gal- 
 lant English knight, the issue of which had 
 a great effect upon the spirits of both 
 armies. 
 
 Note 45. 
 Responsive from the Scottish host, 
 Pipe-clang and bugle-sound were ioss'd 
 
 There is an old tradition, that the well- 
 known Scottish tune of " Hey, tutti, taitti," 
 was Bruce's march at the battle of Bannock- 
 burn. The late Mr. Kitson, no granter of 
 propositions, doubts whether the Scots had 
 any martial music, quotes Froissart's account 
 of each soldier in the host bearing a little 
 horn, on which, at the onset, they would 
 make such a horrible noise, as if all the 
 devils of hell had been among them. He 
 observes, that these horns are the only music 
 mentioned by Barbour, and concludes, that 
 it must remain a moot point whether Bruce's 
 army were cheered by the sound even of a 
 solitary hagitXpe:. — Historical Essay pre 
 fixed to Rit son's Scottish Songs. — It may be 
 olwerved in passing, that the Scottish of this 
 period certainly observed some musical ca- 
 dence, even in winding their horns, since 
 Bruce was at once recognized by his fol- 
 lowers from his mode of blowing. See Note 
 29, p. 750. But the tradition, true or false, 
 has been the me.ins of securing to Scotland 
 one of the finest lyrics in the language, the 
 celebrated war-song of Burns, — '• Scots, wha 
 hae wi' Wallace bled." 
 
 Note 46. 
 See where yon bare-foot Abbott stands, 
 And blesses them with lifted hands. — 
 
 " Maurice, abbot of Inchaffray, placing 
 himself on an eminence, celebrated mass in 
 sight of the Scottish army. He then p,issed 
 along the front bare-footed, and bearing a 
 crucifix in his hands, and exhorting the 
 .Scots, in few and forcible words, to combat 
 for their rights and their liberty. The .'^cots 
 kneeled down. ' 'I'hey yield,' cried Edward ; 
 ' see, they implore mercy.' — ' They do,' an- 
 
754 
 
 APPEND IX. 
 
 swered Ingelram de Umfraville, ' but not 
 ours. On that field they will be victori- 
 ous, or die." '' — Annals of Scotland, vol. ii. 
 p. 47. 
 
 Note 47. 
 Forth, Marshal, on the peasant foe ! 
 We'll tame the terrors of their how. 
 And cnl the bow-string loose ! — 
 
 P- 337- 
 The English archers commenced the attack 
 with their usual bravery and dexterity. Hut 
 against a force, whose importance he had 
 learned by fatal experience, Hruce was pro- 
 vided. A small but select body of cavalry 
 were detached from the right, under com- 
 mand of Sir Roix;rt Reith. 'J'hey rounded, 
 as I conceive, the marsh called Milton tog, 
 and, keeping the firm ground, charged the 
 left flank and rear of the English archers. 
 As the bowmen had no spears nor long wea- 
 pons fit to defend tliemselves against horse, 
 they were instantly thrown into disorder, 
 and spread through the whole English army 
 a confusion from which they never fairly 
 recovered. 
 
 Although the success of this manoeuvre 
 was evident, it is very remarkable that the 
 Scottish generals do not appear to have 
 profited by the lesson. Almost every subse- 
 quent battle which they lost against Eng- 
 land, was decided by the archers, to whom 
 the close and compact array of tlie Scottish 
 phalanx afforded an exposed and unresisting 
 mark. The bloody battle of Halidoun-hill, 
 fought scarcely tv/enty years afterwards, was 
 so completely gained by the archers, that the 
 English are said to have lost only one 
 knight, one esquire, and a few foot-soldiers. 
 At the battle of Neville's Cross, in 1346, 
 where David II. was defeated and made 
 prisoner, John de Graham, oteerving the 
 loss which the Scots sustained from the 
 English bowmen, offered to charge and dis- 
 perse them, if a hundred men-at-arms were 
 put under his command. " But, to confess 
 the truth," says Fordun, " he could not pro- 
 cure a single horseman for the service pro- 
 posed." Of such little use is experience in 
 war, where its results are opposed by habit 
 or prejudice. 
 
 Note 4S. 
 Each braggart churl could boast before, 
 Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore ! — 
 
 P- 337- 
 Roger Ascham quotes a similar Scottish 
 proverb, " whereby they give the whole praise 
 of shooting honestly to Englishmen, saying 
 thus, ' that every English archer beareth 
 under his girdle twenty-four Scottes.' In- 
 
 deed Toxophilus says before, and truly, of 
 the Scottish nation, ' The Scottes surely be 
 good men of warre in theyre owne feates as 
 can be ; but as for shootinge, they can neither 
 use it to any profile, nor yet challenge it for 
 any praise.' " — Works of Ascham, edited by 
 Bennct, 4to, p. 110. 
 
 It is said, 1 trust incorrectly, by an ancient 
 English historian, that the " good Lord 
 James of Douglas," dreaded the superiority 
 of the English archers so much, that when 
 he made any of them prisoner, he gave him 
 the option of losing the forefinger of his 
 right hand, or his right eye, either six.'cies of 
 n)utilation rendering him incapable to use 
 the bow. I have mislaid the reference to 
 this singular passage. 
 
 Note 49. 
 
 Doum .' down .' in he ad Ion 1; fffcrthroriv. 
 Horseman and horse, the foremost t;o. — 
 
 'P-337- 
 It is generally alleged by historians, that 
 the English men-at-arms fell into the hidden 
 snare which Hruce had prepared for them, 
 Barbour does not mention the circumstance. 
 According to his account, Randolph, seeing 
 the slaughter made by the cavalry on the 
 right wing among the archers, advanced 
 courageously against the main body of the 
 English, and entered into close combat with 
 them. Douglas and Stuart, who commanded 
 the Scottish centre, led their division also to 
 the charge, and the battle, becoming general 
 along the whole line, was obstinately main- 
 tained on both sides for a long space of 
 time ; the .Scottish archers doing great exe- 
 cution among the iLnglish men-at-arms, after 
 the lx)wmen of England were dispersed. 
 
 Note 50. 
 And steeds that shriek in agony. — 
 
 P- 337- 
 I have been told that this line requires an 
 explanatory note ; and, indeed, those who 
 witness the silent patience with which horses 
 submit to the most cruel usage, may te }->er- 
 mitted to doubt, that in moments of sudden 
 and intolerable anguish, they utter a most 
 melancholy cry. Lord Erskine. in a speech 
 made in the House of Lords, upon a bill for 
 enforcing humanity towards animals, noticed 
 this remarkable fact, in language whicli I 
 will not mutilate by attempting to repeat it. 
 It was my fortune, upon one occasion, to 
 hear a horse, in a moment of agony, utter a 
 thrilling scream, which I still consider the 
 most melancholy sound I ever heard. 
 
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 755 
 
 Note 51. 
 Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee 
 
 Isfirin as Ailsa Rock : 
 Rusk on with Highland sword and targe, 
 I with my Carrick spearmen charge. — 
 
 P. 338- 
 When the engagement between the main 
 bodies had lasted some time, Bruce made a 
 decisive movement by bringing up tlie Scot- 
 tish reserve. It is traditionally said, that at 
 this crisis, he addressed the Lord of the Isles 
 in a phrase used as a motto by some of his 
 descendants, " My trust is constant in thee." 
 Barbour intimates that the reserve " assem- 
 bled on one field," that is. on the same line 
 with the i^cottish forces already engaged, 
 which leads Lord Hailes to conjecture that 
 the Scottish ranks must have been much 
 thinned by slaughter, since, in that circum- 
 scribed ground there was room for the re- 
 serve to fall into the line. But the advance 
 of the Scottish cavalry must have contributed 
 
 a good deal to form the vacancy occupied by 
 the reserve. 
 
 Note 52. 
 To arms they flew, — axe, club, or spear, — 
 And mimic ensigns high they rear. — 
 
 P- 339- 
 
 The followers of the Scottish camp ob- 
 served, from the Gillies' Hill in the rear, the 
 impression produced upon the English army 
 by the bringing up of the Scottish reserve, 
 and prompted by the enthusiasm of the mo- 
 ment, or the desire of plunder, assumed, in 
 a tumultuary manner, such arms as they 
 found nearest, fastened sheets to tent-poles 
 and lances, and showed themselves like a 
 new army advancing to battle. 
 
 The unexpected apparition, of what seemed 
 a new army, completed the confusion which 
 already prevailed among the English, who 
 fled in every direction, and were pursued 
 with immense slaughter. 
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 Note i. 
 The peasant, at his labor blithe, 
 Plies the hook'd staff and shorten''d scythe. 
 — P- 343- 
 
 The reaper in Flanders carries in his left 
 hand a stick with an iron hook, with which 
 he collects as much grain as he can cut at 
 one sweep with a short scythe, which he 
 holds in his right hand. They carry on this 
 double process with great spirit and dex- 
 terity. 
 
 Note 2. 
 Pale Brussels.' then what thoughts were 
 
 thine. — V. 345. 
 
 It was affirmed by the prisoners of war, 
 that Bonaparte had promised his army, in 
 case of victory^ twenty-four hours' plunder 
 of the city of Brussels. 
 
 Note 3. 
 " On .' On .' " was still his stern exclaim. — 
 
 P.345- 
 The characteristic obstinacy of Napoleon 
 was never more fully displayed than in what 
 we may be permitted to hope will prove the 
 last of his fields. He would listen to no ad- 
 vice, and allow of no obstacles. An eye-wit- 
 
 ness has given the following account of his 
 demeanor towards the end of the action : — 
 
 '•It was near seven o'clock; Bonaparte, 
 who till then had remained upon the ridge 
 of the hill whence he could best behold what 
 passed, contemplated with a stern counte- 
 nance the scene of this horrible slaughter. 
 The more that obstacles seemed to multiply, 
 the more his obstinacy seemed to increase. 
 He became indignant at these unforeseen 
 difficulties ; and, far from fearing to push to 
 extremities an army whose confidence in him 
 was boundless, he ceased not to pour down 
 fresh troops, and to give orders to march 
 forward — to charge with the bayonet — to 
 carry by storm. He was repeatedly informed 
 from different points, that the day went 
 against him, and that the troops seemed to 
 be disordered ; to which he only replied, — 
 ' En avant ! En avant ! ' 
 
 " One general sent to inform the Emperor 
 that he was in a position which he could not 
 maintain, because it was commanded by a 
 battery, and requested to know, at the same 
 time, in what way he should protect his 
 division from the murderous fire of the Eng- 
 lish artillery. 'Let him storm the battery,' 
 replied Bonaparte, and turned his back on 
 the aide-de-camp who brought the message." 
 
756 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 — •Relation de la Bataille de Mont- St. -J can. 
 Par uti Tcmoin Oculaire. Paris, 1S15, 
 8vo, p. 51. 
 
 Note 4. 
 The fate their leader shunned to share. — 
 
 P- 345- 
 It has been reported that Bonaparte 
 charged at the head of his guards, at the last 
 period of this dreadful conriict. This, how- 
 ever, is not accurate. He came down indeed 
 to a hollow part of the high road, leading to 
 Charleroi, within less than a quarter of a 
 mile of the farm of La Haye Sainte, one of 
 the points most fiercely disputed. Here 
 he harangued the guards, and informed them 
 that his preceding opxirations had destroyed 
 the British infantry and cavalry, and that 
 they had only to support the fire of the ar- 
 tillery, which they were to attack with the 
 bayonet. This exhortation was received 
 with shouts of Vive I Empciciir, which were 
 heard over all our line, and led to an idea 
 that Napoleon was charging in person. But 
 the guards were led on by Ney ; nor did 
 Bonaparte approach nearer the scene of 
 action than the spot already mentioned, 
 which the rising banks on each side rendered 
 secure from all such balls as did not come in 
 a straight line. He witnessed the earlier 
 part of the battle from places yet more re- 
 mote, particularly from an observatory which 
 had been placed there by the King of the 
 Netherlands, some weeks before, for the pur- 
 pose of surveying the country.* It is not 
 meant to infer from these particulars that 
 Napoleon showed, on that memorable occa- 
 sion, the least deficiency in personal courage ; 
 on the contrary, he evinced the greatest com- 
 posure and presence of mind during the 
 whole action. But it is no less true that 
 report has erred in ascribing to him any 
 desperate efforts of valor for recovery of the 
 battle ; and it is remarkable, that during 
 the whole carnage, none of his suite were 
 either killed or wounded, whereas scarcely 
 one of the Duke of Wellington's personal 
 attendants escaped unhurt. 
 
 Note 5. 
 England shall tell the/ighf. — P. 345. 
 In riding up to a regiment which was hard 
 pressed,! the Duke called to the men, " Sol- 
 
 * The mistakes concerning this observatory 
 have been mutual. The English supposed it 
 was erected for the use of Honaparte : and a 
 p'rench writer affirms it was constructed by the 
 Duke of Wellington. 
 
 t The 95th. The Puke's words were, " Stand 
 fast, 95th — wliat will they say in England ? " 
 
 diers, we must never be beat, — what wni 
 they say in England ? " It is needless to 
 say how this appeal was answered. 
 
 Note 6. 
 As flies the smith his clanging trade. — 
 
 P. 346. 
 A private soldier of the 95th regiment 
 compared the sound which took place im- 
 mediately upon the British cavalry mingling 
 with those of the enemy, to " a thousand 
 tinkers at it'ork mending pots and kettles:^ 
 
 Note 7. 
 The British shock of ler'eird steel. — P. 346. 
 
 No persuasion or authority could prevail 
 upon the French troops to stand the shock 
 of the bayonet. The Imperial Guards, in 
 particular, hardly stood till the British were 
 within thirty yards of them, although the 
 French author, already quoted, has put into 
 their mouths the magnanimous sentiment, 
 " The Guards never yield — they die." The 
 same author has covered the plateau, or emi- 
 nence, of .St. Jean, which formed the British 
 position, with redoubts and retrenchments 
 which never had an existence. As the nar- 
 rative, which is in many respects curious, 
 was written by an eye-witness, he was prob- 
 ably deceived by the appearance of a road 
 and a ditch which run along part of the hill. 
 It may be also mentioned, in criticising this 
 work, that the writer mentions the Chateau 
 of Hougomont to have been carried by the 
 French, although it was resolutely and suc- 
 cessfully defended during the whole action. 
 'I'he enemy, indeed, possessed themselves of 
 the wood by which it is surrounded, and at 
 length set hre to the house itself ; but the 
 British (a detachment of the Guards, under 
 the command of Colonel Macdonnell, and 
 afterwards of Colonel Home) made good the 
 garden, and thus preserved, by their desper- 
 ate resistance, the post which covered the 
 return of the Duke of Wellington's right 
 Hank. 
 
 Note S. 
 What bright careers 'twas thine to close. — 
 
 P. 348. 
 
 Sir Thomas Picton, Sir William Ponsonby, 
 Sir William de Lancy, and numberless gal- 
 lant oflicers. 
 
 Note 9. 
 Laurels from the hand of Death. — P. 34S 
 
 Colonel .Sir William de Lancey had mar- 
 ried the beautiful Miss Hall, daughter of Sir 
 James Hall, Bart., only two months before 
 the Battle of Waterloo. 
 
GLENFINLAS. 
 
 757 
 
 Note io. 
 Gallant Miller' s failing eye. — 
 
 P. 348. 
 Colonel Miller of the Guards, son of Sir 
 William iMiller, Lord Glenlee, when lying 
 mortally wounded in ttie attack on the Bois 
 de Bossu, desired to see once more the colors 
 of his regiment. They were waved about 
 his head, and he died declaring that he was 
 satisfied. 
 
 Note ii. 
 And Cameron, in the shock of steel. — 
 
 P. 348. 
 Colonel Cameron of Fassiefcrn, fell at 
 
 Quatre Bras, June 16, 1815, heading a charge 
 of the 92d Highlanders. 
 
 Note 12. 
 
 And generous Gordon. — P. 34S. 
 
 "Colonel the Honorable .Sir Alexander 
 
 Gordon "—brother to the Earl of Aberdeen 
 
 —who fell by the side of the Duke in the 
 
 heat of the action. 
 
 Note 13. 
 Fair Hougomont. — P. 348. 
 " Hougomont " — a chateau with a garden 
 and woixl round it. A post of great impor- 
 tance, valiantly held by the Guards durine 
 the battle. 
 
 GLENFINLAS. 
 
 Note i. 
 How blazed Lord Ronald^ s beltaiu-trce. — 
 
 P. 3SS. 
 The fires lighted by the Highlanders on 
 the 1st of May, in compliance with the cus- 
 tom derived from the Pagan times, are 
 termed The Beltane-tree. It is a festival 
 celebrated with various superstitious rites, 
 both in the north of Scotland and in Wales. 
 
 Note 2. 
 The seer's prophetic spirit found. — P. 388. 
 I can only describe the second sight, by 
 adopting Dr. Johnson's definition, who calls 
 it " An impression, either by the mind upon 
 the eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by 
 which things distant and future are perceived 
 and seen as if they were present.'" To 
 which I would only add, that the spectral 
 appearances, thus presented, usually presage 
 misfortune ; that the faculty is painful to 
 tliose who suppose they possess it ; and that 
 they usually acquire it while tliemselves 
 under tlie pressure of melancholy. 
 
 Note 3. 
 Will good St. Oran's rule prevail. — P. 3S9. 
 St. Oran was a friend and follower of St. 
 Columba, and was buried at Icolmkill. His 
 pretensions to be a saint were rather dubious. 
 According to the legend, he consented to be 
 buried alive, in order to propitiate certain 
 demons of the soil, who obstructed the at- 
 tempts of Columba to build a chapel. Co- 
 lumba caused the body of his friend to be 
 dug up, after three days had elapsed ; when 
 
 Oran, to the horror and scandal of the assist- 
 ants, declared that there was neither a God, 
 a judgment, nor a future state I He had no 
 time to make further discoveries, for Co- 
 lumba caused the earth once more to be 
 shovelled over him with the utmost despatch. 
 The chapel, however, and the cemetery, was 
 called Relig Ouran ; and, in memory of his 
 rigid celibacy, no female was admitted to 
 pay her devotions, or be buried in that place. 
 This is the rule alluded to in the poem. 
 
 Note 4. 
 Attd thrice St. F Ulan' s powerful prayer. — 
 
 P. 391. 
 St. Fillan has given his name to many 
 chapels, holy fountains, etc., in Scotland. 
 He was, according to Camerarius. an Abbot 
 of Pittenween, in Fife ; from which situa- 
 tion he retired, and died a hermit in the 
 wilds of (ilenurchy, a.d. 649. While en- 
 gaged in transcribing the Scriptures, his left 
 hand was observed to send forth such a 
 splendor, as to afford light to that with 
 which he wrote ; a miracle which saved many 
 candles to the convent, as St. Fillan used to 
 spend whole nights in that exercise. The 
 9th of January was dedicated to this saint, 
 who gave his name to KilfiUan, in Renfrew, 
 and St. Phileans, or Forgend, in Fife. L.es- 
 ley, lib. 7, tells us. that Robert the Bruce 
 was possessed of Fillan's miraculous and 
 luminous arm, which he enclosed in a silver 
 shrine, and had it carried at the head of his 
 army. Previous to the battle of Bannock- 
 burn, the king's chaplain, a man of little 
 faith, abstracted the relic, aud deposited it 
 
758 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 in a place of security, lest it should fall into 
 the hands of the English. But, lo ! while 
 Robert was addressing his prayers to the 
 empty casket, it was observed to open and 
 shut suddenly ; and, on inspection, the saint 
 was found to have himself deposited his arm 
 in the shrine as an assurance of victory. 
 Such is the tale of Lesley. Hut though 
 Bruce little needed that the arm of St. 
 Fillan should assist his own, he dedicated to 
 him, in gratitude, a priory at Killin, upon 
 Loch Tay. 
 
 In the Scots Magazine for July, 1802, there 
 is a copy of a very curious crown grant, dated 
 nth July, 1487, by which James III. confirms, 
 
 to Malice Doire, an inhabitant of Strath- 
 fillan, in Perthshire, the peaceable exercise 
 and enjoyment of a relic of St. Fillan, being 
 apparently the head of a pastoral staff called 
 the Quegrich, which he and his predecessors 
 are said to have possessed since the days of 
 Robert Bruce. As the Quegrich was used to 
 cure diseases, this document is probably the 
 most ancient patent ever granted for a quack 
 medicine. The ingenious correspondent, by 
 whom it is furnished, farther observes, that 
 additional particulars, concerning .St. Fillan, 
 are to be found in Bellenden'.s Boece, Book 
 4, folio ccxiii., and in Pennant's Tour in 
 Scotland, 1772, pp. n, 15. < 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 Note i. 
 battle of ancram moor. — p. 392. 
 Lord Evers, and Sir Brian Latoun, dur- 
 ing the year 1 544, committed the most 
 dreadful ravages upon the .Scottish frontiers, 
 compelling most of the inhabitants, and es- 
 ]5ecially the men of Liddesdale, to take assur- 
 ance under the King of England. Upon the 
 17th November, in that year, the sum total of 
 their depredations stood thus, in the bloody 
 ledger of Lord Evers : — 
 
 Towns, towers, barnekynes, paryshe churches, 
 bastill houses, burned and destroyed 192 
 
 Scots slain 403 
 
 Prisoners taken 816 
 
 Nolt (cattle) 10,386 
 
 Shape 12,492 
 
 Nags and geldings .... 121/) 
 
 Gayt ....... 200 
 
 Boils of com 850 
 
 Insight gear, etc. (furniture), an incalculable 
 quantity. 
 
 MuRDiNS State Papers, vol. i., p. 51. 
 For these services Sir Ralph Evers was 
 made a Lord of Parliament. .See a strain of 
 exulting congratulation upon his promotion 
 poured forth by .some contemporary minstrel, 
 in vol. I., p. 417, Scottish Minstrelsy. 
 
 The King of England had promised to 
 these two barons a feudal grant of the coun- 
 try, which they had thus reduced to a desert ; 
 upon hearing which, .Archibald Douglas, the 
 seventh earl of .Angus, is said to have sworn 
 to write the deed of investiture upon their 
 skins, with sharp pens and bloody ink, in 
 resentment for their having defaced the tombs 
 of his ancestors at Melrose. — Gouscrokt. 
 In 1545, Lord Evers and Latoun again en- 
 
 tered Scotland, with an army consisting of 
 3,000 mercenaries, 1,500 English Borderers, 
 and 700 a.ssured Scottish men, chiefly Arm- 
 strongs, Turnbulls, and other broken clans. 
 In this second incursion, the English gener- 
 als even exceeded their former cruelty. Evers 
 burned the tower of Broomhouse, with its 
 lady (a noble and aged woman, says Lesley), 
 and her whole family. The English pene- 
 trated as far as Melrose, which they had 
 destroyed last year, and which they now 
 again pillaged. As they returned towards 
 Jedburgh, they were followed by .Angus at 
 the head of 1,000 horse, who was shortly after 
 joined by tlie famous Norman Lesley, with a 
 body of Fife men. The English being prob- 
 ably unwilling to cross the Teviot while the 
 Scots hung upon their rear, halted upon 
 Ancram Moor, above the village of that 
 name; and the .'Scottish general was delib- 
 erating whether to advance or retire, when 
 Sir Walter .Scott * of Buccleuch came up at 
 
 * The Editor has found no instance upon rec- 
 ord of this family having taken assiimnce with 
 England. Hence, they usually suffered dread- 
 fully from the English forays. In August, 1544 
 (the year preceding the battle), the whole lands 
 belonging to Huccleuch, in West Teviotdale, 
 were harried by Evers ; the outworks, or barm- 
 kin, of the Tower of Branxholm burned, eight 
 Scots slain, thirty made prisoners, and an im- 
 mense prey of horses, cattle, and sheep carried 
 off. The lands upon Kale Water, belonging to 
 the same chieftain, were also plundered, and 
 much siioil obtained ; thirty .Scots slain, and the 
 Moss Tower (a. fortress near Eskford) smoked 
 Tery sore. Thus Buccleuch had a long account 
 to settle at Ancram Moor. — Mukdin's State 
 Papers, pp. 45, 46. 
 
THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 759 
 
 full speed with a small but chosen body of 
 his retainers, the rest of whom were near at 
 hand. By the advice of this experienced 
 warrior (to whose conduct Pitscottie and 
 Buchanan ascrilse the success of the engage- 
 ment), Angus withdrew from the height which 
 he occupied, and drew up his forces behind 
 it, upon a piece of low, flat ground called Pan- 
 ier-heugh or, Paniel-heugh. The spare horses 
 being sent to an eminence in their rear, ap 
 peared to the English to be the main body of 
 the .'^cots in the act of flight. Under this 
 persuasion, Evers and Latoun hurried pre- 
 cipitately forward, and having ascended the 
 hill, which their foes had abandoned, were no 
 less dismayed than astonished to find tlie 
 phalanx of Scottish sijearmen drawn up in 
 firm array upon the flat ground below. The 
 Scots, in their turn, became the assailants. 
 A heron, roused from the marshes by the 
 tumult, soared away betwixt the encountering 
 armies. "O!" exclaimed Angus, "that 1 
 had here my wliite goss-hawk, that we migiit 
 all yoke at once!" — Godscroft. The 
 English, breathless and fatigued, having the 
 setting sun and wind full in their faces, were 
 unable to withstand tlie resolute and des- 
 perate charge of the Scottish lances. No 
 sooner had they begun to waver, than their 
 own allies, the assured Borderers, who had 
 been waiting tlie event, threw aside their 
 red crosses, and joining their countrymen, 
 made a most merciless slaughter among the 
 English fugitives, the pursuers calling upon 
 each other to " remember Broomliouse ! " — 
 Lesley, p. 478. 
 
 In tiie battle fell Lord Evers, and his son, 
 together with -Sir Brian Latoun, and 800 
 Englishmen, many of whom were persons of 
 rank. A thousand prisoners were taken. 
 Among these was a patriotic alderman of 
 London, Read by name, wlio, having con- 
 tumaciously refused to pay his portion of 
 a benevolence, demanded from the city by 
 Henry V'lII., was sent by royal authority to 
 serve against the Scots. These, at settling 
 his ransom, he found still more exorbitant 
 in their exactions than the monarch. — Red- 
 path's Border History, p. --^(1%. 
 
 Evers was much regretted by King Henry, 
 who swore to avenge his death upon Angus, 
 against wliom he conceived himself to have 
 particular grounds of resentment, on account 
 of favors received by the earl at his hands. 
 The answer of Angus was worthy of a Doug- 
 las, " Is our brother-in-law offended," * said 
 he, " that 1, as a good Scotsman, have 
 avenged my ravaged country, and the de- 
 faced tombs of my ancestors, upon Ralph 
 
 * Angus had married the widow of James IV., 
 sister to King Henry Vlil. 
 
 Evers ? They were better men than he, and 
 I was bound to do no less. And will he take 
 my life for that ? Little knows King Henry 
 the skirts of Kirnetable t 1 can keep my- 
 self there against all his English host." — 
 Godscroft. 
 
 Such was the noted battle of Ancram 
 Moor. Tlie spot on which it was fought is 
 called Lilyard's Edge, from an Amazonian 
 Scottish woman of that name, who is re- 
 ported, by tradition, to have distinguished 
 herself in the same manner as Squire Wither- 
 ington. \ The old people point out her 
 monument, now broken and defaced. The 
 inscription is said to have been legible with- 
 in this century, and to liave run thus : — 
 
 " Fair maiden Lylliard lies under this stane, 
 Little was her stature, but great was her fame : 
 Upon the English loans .she laid mony thumps, 
 And, when her legs were cutted off, she fought 
 upon her stumps." 
 
 Vide Account 0/ the Parish cf Melrose. 
 It appears, from a passage in Stowe, that 
 an ancestor of Lord Evers held also a grant 
 of Scottish lands from an English monarch. 
 '• I have seen," says the historian, " under the 
 broad-seale of the said King Edward I., a 
 manor called Ketnes, in the county of For- 
 fare, in Scotland, and neere the furthest part 
 of the same nation northward, given to John 
 Ure and his heires, ancestor to the Lord Ure 
 tliat now is, for his service done in these 
 partes, with market, etc., dated at Lanercost, 
 the 2oth day of October, anno regis 34." 
 Stowe's Annals, p. 210. This grant, like 
 that of Henry, must have been dangerous to 
 the receiver. 
 
 Note 2. 
 
 A coi'ering on her wrist. — P. 395. 
 There is an old and well-known Irish tra- 
 dition that the Ixidies of certain spirits and 
 devils are scorchingly hot, so that they leave 
 upon anything Ihey touch an impress as if 
 of red-hot iron. It is related of one of Me- 
 lancthon's relations, that a devil seized hold 
 of her hand, which bore the mark of a burn 
 to her dying day. The incident in the poem 
 is of a similar nature — the ghost's hands 
 " scorch'd like a fiery brand," leaving a burn, 
 ing impress on the table and the ladys wrist. 
 .Another class of fiends are reported to be 
 icy cold, and to freeze the skin of any one 
 with whom they come in contact. 
 
 Note 3. 
 That nun who ne'er beholdstheday.—'?. 395. 
 The circumstances of the nun, " who never 
 
 t Kirnetable, now called Oinitable, is a 
 mountainous tract at the head of Douglasdale. 
 J See Cheiy Chase. 
 
•jbo 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 saw the day," is not entirely imaginary. 
 About fifty years ago, an unfortunate female 
 wanderer took up her residence in a dark 
 vault, among the ruins of Dryburgh Abh)ey, 
 which, during the day, she never quitted. 
 When night fell, she issued from this mis- 
 erable habitation, and went to the house of 
 Mr. Haliburton of Newmains. tlie Editor's 
 great-grandfather, or to that of Mr. Erskine 
 of Sheilfield, two gentlemen of the neighbor- 
 hood. From their charity she obtained such 
 necessaries as she could be prevailed upon 
 to accept. At twelve, each night, she lighted 
 her candle, and returned to her vault, assur- 
 ing her friendly neighl)ors, that, during her 
 absence, her habitation was arranged by a 
 spirit, to whom sl»e gave tiie uncontli name 
 of Fat li/>s : describing him as a little man. 
 Wearing heavy iron shoes, with which he 
 trampled the clay floor of the vault, to dis- 
 
 pel the damps. This circumstance caused 
 lier to be regarded, by the well-informed, with 
 compassion, as deranged in her understand- 
 ing ; and, by tlie vulgar, with some degree 
 of terror. The cause of her adopting this 
 extraordinary mode of life she would never 
 ex])lain. It was, however, lielieved to have 
 been occasioned by a vow, that, during the 
 absence of a man to wiiom she was attached, 
 she would never look upon the sun. Her 
 lover never returned. He fell during the 
 civil war of 1745-6, and she never more 
 would tehold the light of day. 
 
 'i"he vault, or rather dungeon, in which 
 this unfortunate woman lived and died, passes 
 still by the name of tlic supernatural Ix-ing. 
 with which its gloom was tenanted hy her 
 disturted imagination, and few of the 
 neighboring jieasants dare enter it by night. 
 — Note of 180-!. 
 
 CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 Note 
 
 sound the prysc .' — P. 397. 
 
 Pryse. — The note blown at the death of 
 the game. — In Caledonia olim frcqucns erat 
 sylvestris quidani bos, nunc vera rarior, qui, 
 colore candidissimo,jubain dcnsam ct dcmis- 
 sam, instar leonis j^estat, irticulentus ac ferns 
 all liu}na)io f^encre ahltorrens,iit quircunque 
 homines vclmanihus contrcctarint, -'cl Italiltt 
 pcrflavcrint, ah its multos post dies otmiino 
 abstiniicrunt. Ad hoc tanta audacia huic 
 bovi indita erat, nl non solum irritatus equi- 
 tes furenicr prosterneret, sed ne tantillum 
 laccssitus onines froniiscue homines corni- 
 hus ac ungulis peicret ; ac canum, qui afud 
 nos fcrocissinii sunt, impetus plane con- 
 temncret. Ejus carnes cartilaginosfc, sed 
 saporis suavissimi. Erat is olini per illam 
 vastissimam CaledonicB sylvani frcqucns, sed 
 huniana int^luvie j am assumptus tribus tan- 
 tum locis est reliquus, Strivilingii, Cutnbcr- 
 naldice, et KincarnicB. — Leslie us Scotiai 
 Descriptio, p. 13. 
 
 Note 2. 
 Stern Claud replied. — P. 398. 
 Lord Claud Hamilton, second son of the 
 Duke of Chatelherault, and commendator 
 of the .Abbey of Paisley, acted a distinguished 
 part during the troubles of Queen Mary's 
 reign, and remained unalterably attached 
 to the cause of that unfortunate princess. 
 
 He led the van of her army at the fatal 
 battle of Langside, and was one of the com- 
 manders at the Raid of Stirling, which had 
 so nearly given complete success to the 
 Queen's faction. He was ancestor Af the 
 present Marquis of Abercorn. 
 
 Note 3. 
 Woodhousclee. — P. 39S. 
 This barony, stretching along the banks 
 of the Esk, near Auchendinny, belonged to 
 Botlnvellhaugh, in right of his wife. The 
 ruins of the mansion, from which she was 
 expelled in the brutal manner which occa- 
 sioned her death, are still to be seen in a 
 hollow glen teside the river. Popular re- 
 port tenants them with the restless ghost 
 of the Lady Botlnvellhaugh : whom, however, 
 it confounds with L.'idy .Xnne Bothwell. 
 whose Lament is so popular. This spectre 
 is so tenacious of her rights, that, a part of 
 the stones of the ancient edifice having teen 
 employed in building or repairing the pres- 
 ent Woodhouselee, slie has deemed it a part 
 of her privilege to haunt that house also; 
 and, even of very late years, has excited 
 considerable disturbance and terror among 
 the domestics. This is a more remarkable 
 vindication of the rights of ghosts as the 
 present Woodhouselee. which gives his title 
 to the Honorable .Alexander P'raser Tytler, 
 a senator of the College of Justice, is situated 
 
CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 761 
 
 on the slope of the Pentland hills, distant at 
 least four miles from her projx;r abode. She 
 always apjxiars in white, and with iier child 
 in her arms. 
 
 Note 4. 
 Drives to the leap his jaded steed. — P. 39S. 
 Birrel informs us, that Holhwellhaugh, 
 being closely pursued, " alter that spur and 
 wand had failed him, he drew forth his dag- 
 ger, and strocke his horse behind, whilk 
 caused the horse to leaj) a very brode stanke 
 [i.e., ditch], by whilk means he escapit, and 
 gat away from all the rest of the horses." 
 — Bikkel's Diary, p. 18. 
 
 Note 5. 
 From the wild Border's humbled side. — 
 
 P. 398. 
 
 Murray's death took place shortly after 
 
 an e.xjXKlition to the Borders ; which is thus 
 
 commemorated by the author of the Elegy : — 
 
 " So having stabhscht all things in this sort, 
 'I'liLiddisdaill again hu did resort, 
 Throw Kwisdail, Eskdail, and all the daills 
 
 rode he. 
 And also lay three nights in Cannabic, 
 Wliair na prince lay thir hundred yeiris 
 
 before, 
 Nae thief durst stir, they did him feir sa sair; 
 And, that they suUl na mair thair tliift allege, 
 Threescore and tweU he bn^ht of thame in 
 
 pledge. 
 Syne wardit thame, whilk maid the rest keep 
 
 ordour; 
 Then mycht the rasch-bus keep ky on the 
 
 Border." 
 
 Scottish Poems, ibth century, p. 232. 
 
 Note 6. 
 With hackbut bent. — P. 398. 
 
 Hackbuck bent — Gun cock'd. The car- 
 bine, with which the Regent was shot, is pre- 
 served at Hamilton Palace. It is a brass 
 piece, of a middling length, very small in the 
 bore, and, what is rather e.xtraordinary, ap- 
 pears to have Ix^n rifled or indented in the 
 barrel. It had a matchlock, for which a 
 modern firelock has been injudiciously sub- 
 stituted. 
 
 Note 7. 
 
 The wild Macfarlane' s plaided clan. — 
 P. 398. 
 
 This clan of I^nnox Highlanders were at- 
 tached to the Regent Murray. Holinshed, | 
 speaking of the battle of I.angside. says, " In j 
 this batyle the vallancie of an Heiland gen- 
 tleman, named Macfarlane, stood the Re- I 
 gent's part in great steede : for, in the hottest I 
 brunte of the fighte, he came up with two ! 
 hundred of his f riendes and countrymen, and 
 so manfully gave in upon the tlankes of the 1 
 
 Queen's people, that he was a great cause of 
 the disordering of them. This Macfarlane 
 had been lately before, as I have heard, con- 
 demned to die, for some outrage by him 
 committed, and obtayning pardon through 
 suyte of the Countess of Murray, he recom- 
 pensed that clemencie by this jiiece of ser- 
 vice now at this batayle." Calderwood's ac- 
 count is less favorable to the Macfarlanes. 
 He states that " Macfarlane, with his High- 
 landmen, Hed from the wing where they were 
 set. The Lord Lindsay, who stood nearest 
 to them in the Regent's battle, said, ' Let 
 them go I 1 shall till their place better ; ' and 
 so, stei)ping forward, with a company of fresh 
 men, charged the enemy, whose spears were 
 now spent, with long weapons, so that they 
 were driven back by force, being before 
 almost overthrown by the avaunt-guard and 
 harquebusiers, and so were turned to flight." 
 — C.\ldi-;k\v<><ji)'s MS. a/ud Keith, p. 
 4S0. Melville mentions the flight of the van- 
 guard, but states it to have been commanded 
 by Morton, and conijHJsed chiefly of com- 
 moners of the barony of Renfrew. 
 
 Note S. 
 Glcncairn and stout Parkhead were nigh. 
 -P. 398. 
 The Earl of Glencairn was a steady ad- 
 herent of the Regent. George Douglas of 
 Parkhead was a natural brother of the Earl 
 of Morton, whose horse was killed by the 
 same ball by which Murray fell. 
 
 Note 9. 
 
 haggard Lindcsa^s iron eye, 
 
 That saw fair Mary weep in vain. — P. 398. 
 Lord Lindsay of the Byres was the most 
 ferocious and brutal of the Regent's faction, 
 and, as such, was employed to extort Mary's 
 signature to the deed of resignation pre- 
 sented to her in l.ochleven castle. He dis- 
 charged his commission with the most savage 
 rigor ; and it is even said, that when the 
 weeping captive, in the act of signing, averted 
 her eyes from the fatal deed, he pinched her 
 arm with the grasp of his iron glove. 
 
 Note 10. 
 So close the minions crowded nigh. — P. 399. 
 Not only had the Regent notice of the in- 
 tended attempt upon his life, but even of tlie 
 very house from which it was threatened. 
 With that infatuation at which men wonder, 
 after such events have happened, he deemed 
 it would be a sufficient precaution to ride 
 briskly past the dangerous spot. But even 
 this was prevented by the crowd ; so that 
 Bothwellhaugh had time to take deliberate 
 aim. — Si'OTTiswooDEjp. 233. Buchanan. 
 
762 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 THE GRAY BROTHER. 
 
 Note i. 
 By blast of bugle free. — P. 401. 
 The barony of Pennycuik, the property 
 of Sir George Clerk, Bart., is held by a sin- 
 gular tenure ; the proprietor being bound to 
 sit upon a large rocky fragment called tlie 
 IJuckstane, and wind tliree blasts of a horn, 
 when the King shall come to hunt on the 
 Borough Muir, near Edinburgh. Hence 
 tile family have adopted as their crest a 
 demi-forester proper, winding a horn, with 
 tiie motto, Free for a Blast. The beautiful 
 mansion-house of Pennycuik is much ad- 
 mired, both on account of the architecture 
 and surrounding scenery. 
 
 Note 2. 
 
 To Atichendinny' s hazel shade. — P. 401. 
 
 Auchendinny, situated upon the Eskc be- 
 low Pennycuik, the present residence of the 
 ingenious H. Mackenzie, Esq., author of the 
 Man of Feeling, etc. Edition 1803. 
 
 Note 3. 
 Melville'' s beechy grove. — P. 401. 
 Melville Castle, the seat of the Right 
 Honorable Lord Melville, to whom it gives 
 the title of Viscount, is delightfully situated 
 upon the Eske, near Lasswade. 
 
 Note 4. 
 Roslin's rocky glen. — P. 401. 
 The ruins of Roslin Castle, the baronial 
 residence of the ancient family of St. Clair. 
 The Gothic chapel, wliich is still in teau- 
 tiful preservation, with the romantic and 
 woody dell in which they are situated, belong 
 to the Right Honorable the Earl of Rosslyn, 
 
 the representative of the former Lords of 
 Roslin. 
 
 Note 5. 
 Dalkeith, ivhick all the Virtues love. — 
 
 P. 401. 
 Tlie village and Castle of Dalkeith be- 
 longed of old to the famous Earl of Morton, 
 but is now the residence of ti\e noble family 
 of Buccleuch. The park extends along the 
 Eske, which is there joined by its sister 
 stream of the same name. 
 
 Note 6. 
 Classic Haivthornden. — 401. 
 
 Hawthornden, the residence of the poet 
 Drunimond. ,-\ house of more modern date 
 is enclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the 
 ancient castle, and overhangs a tremendous 
 precipice upon the banks of the Eske, per- 
 forated by winding caves, which in former 
 times were a refuge to the oppressed patriots 
 of Scotland. Here Drummond received Ben 
 Jonson, who journeyed from London on foot 
 in order to visit him. The beauty of this 
 striking scene has been much injured of 
 late years by the indiscriminate use of the 
 axe. The traveller now looks in vain for the 
 leafy bower, 
 
 " Where Jonson sat in Drummond's social 
 shade." 
 
 Upon the whole, tracing the Eske from 
 its source till it joins the sea at Mussel- 
 burgh, no stream in Scotland can boast such 
 a varied succession of the most beautiful 
 scenery — 1S03. . . . The beautiful scenery 
 of Hawthornden has, since the above note 
 was written, recovered all its former orna- 
 ment of wood — 1S33. 
 
 Note: P. 459. 
 Sir Walter Scott, while engaged in writing 
 " Woodstock," noted in his journal, under 
 date of March 24, 1826, that John Ballan- 
 tyne was "clamorous for a motto." He 
 adds : " It is foolish to encourage people to 
 expect mottoes and such like decoraments. 
 You have no success in finding them, and 
 there is a disgrace in wanting them. It is 
 like being in the habit of showing feats of 
 strength, which you at length gain praise by 
 accomplishing, while sowe shame occurs in 
 failure," 
 
 It was while correcting the proof-sheets c*. 
 " The Antiquary," that he was first led to 
 adorn the chapters of his works with original 
 verse. Lockhart thus described the occasion 
 of it : — 
 
 " On one occasion he happened to ask 
 John Ballantyne, who was sitting by him, to 
 hunt for a particular passage in Beaumont 
 and Fletcher. John did as he was bid, but 
 did not succeed in discovering the lines. 
 ' Hang it, Johnnie ! ' cried .'-^cott, ' I i)elieve I 
 can make a motto sooner than you will find 
 one.' He did so accordingly, and from tb-jV 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 763 
 
 hour, whenever memory failed to suggest an 
 appropriate epigraph, he had recourse to the 
 inexhaustible mines of ' Old Play ' or ' Old 
 Ballad,' to which we owe some of the most 
 exquisite verses that ever flowed from his 
 pen." 
 
 " Each blank in faithless memory void 
 The poet's glowing thought supplied." 
 
 When, in 1822, Constable was compiling 
 a volume of the poetry contained in Scott's 
 Novels, Tales, and Romances the author 
 wrote him : — 
 
 " It is odd to say, but nevertheless quite 
 certain, that I do not know whether some of 
 the things are original or not, and I wish 
 you would devise some way of stating this 
 in the title." 
 
 Constable finally adopted an explanatory 
 note or advertisement written by Scott him- 
 self, which ran : — 
 
 '' We believe by far the greater part of the 
 poetry interspersed through these novels to 
 be original compositions by the author. At 
 the same time, the reader will find passages 
 which are quoted from other authors, and 
 very probably detect more of these than our 
 more limited reading has enabled us tr> 
 
 ascertain. Indeed, it is our opinion that 
 some of the following poetry is neither en 
 tirely original nor altogether borrowed ; but 
 consists, in some instances, of passages from 
 other writers, which the author has not hesi- 
 tated to alter considerably, or to adapt the 
 quotation more explicitly and aptly to the 
 matter in hand." 
 
 A glimpse of Scott in the very act of fur- 
 nishing one of these extemporized mottoes 
 is given in Lockhart's Life. It was one day 
 in December, 1831, while visiting Mr. Cadell 
 in Edinburgh, and saddening his friends by 
 his strange apathy and unwonted silence, 
 the effects of his malady, Ballantyne re- 
 minded him that a motto was wanted for 
 one of the chapters of " Count Robert of 
 Paris." '' He looked out for a moment at 
 the gloomy weather," says Lockhart, and 
 penned the lines beginning, " The storm 
 increases, 'tis no sunny shower," which he 
 entitled, " The Deluge." (See p. 536). 
 
 Many of Scott's quotations have been lo- 
 cated, and those that are undoubtedly the 
 work of another author are omitted from 
 this edition. Whenever there is room for 
 doubt, quotations are inserted. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 A CAT of yore (or else nid il^lson lied), 472. 
 
 Admire not that I gain'd the prize, 5S0. 
 
 Ah! county Guy, the hour is nigh, 515. 
 
 A grain of dust, 526. 
 
 A Hawick gill of mountain dew, 506. 
 
 Ah, poor L(>uise ! the livelong day, 531. 
 
 Alas! Alas! 4S5. 
 
 Allen-a-Oale has no fagot for burning, 227. 
 
 All is prepared — the chambers of the mine, 5J7. 
 
 All joy was bereft me the day that you left me, 
 
 430. 
 All your ancient customs, 50J. 
 Amid these aisles, where once his precepts 
 
 show'd, 433. 
 A mightier wizard far than I, 485. 
 A mirthful man he was — the snows of age, 534. 
 And be he safe restored ere evening set, 472. 
 And did you not hear of a mirth befell, 444. 
 And long ere dinner-time I have, 529. 
 And ne'er but once, my son, he says, 539. 
 And some for safety took the dreadful leap, 515. 
 And so 'twill be when I am gone, 529. 
 And what tho' winter will pinch severe, 461. 
 And when Love's torch hath set the heart in 
 
 flame, 491. 
 "And whither would you lead me then?" 244. 
 And you shall deal the funeral dole, 499. 
 An hour with thee ! — When earliest day, 527. 
 Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun, 4S0. 
 Approach the chamber, look upon his bed, 4S2. 
 A priest, ye cry, a priest ! Lame shepherds they, 
 
 488. 
 Arouse the tiger of Hyrcanian deserts, 482. 
 Arthur's Seat shall be my bed, 475. 
 Ask thy heart, whose secret cell, 485. 
 As lords their laborers' hire delay, 519. 
 Assist me, ye friends of Old Books and Old Wine, 
 
 512. 
 As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, 
 
 468. 
 As, to the Autumn breeze's bugle-sound, 476. 
 A tale of sorrow, for vour eyes may weep, 538. 
 At school 1 knew him — a sharp-witted youth, 
 
 489. 
 Ave Maria'. Maiden mild! 150. 
 "A weary lot is thine, fair maid," 226. 
 A weary month has wander'd o'er, 449. 
 Av ! and I taught thee the word and the spell, 
 
 484. 
 Ay ! mark the matron well ; and laugh not, Harry, 
 
 509. 
 Ay, sir, the clouted shoe hath ofttimes craft in't, 
 
 509. 
 Ay, this is he who wears the wreath of bays, 53S> 
 
 "Be brave," she cried, "you yet may be our 
 guest, 459. 
 
 "Behold the Tiber!" the vain Roman cried, 
 
 53I- 
 Be patient, be patient ; for Patience hath power, 
 
 501. 
 Between the foaming jaws of the white torrent, 
 
 537- 
 Bilb<w;'s the word, 51 1. 
 Bingo, why, Bingo! hey, boy, - here, sir, here, 
 
 510. 
 Birds of omen dark and foul, 477. 
 Bold knights and fair dames, to ray harp give an 
 
 ear, 411. 
 Bring the bowl which you boast, 527 
 But follow, follow me, 44S. 
 By pathless march, by greenwood tree, 527. 
 By spigot and barrel, 508. 
 
 By this good light, a wench of matchless mettle I 
 „ 5". 
 By ties mysterious link'd, our fated race, 4S6. 
 
 Can she not spoak ? 514. 
 
 C^auld is my bed, lx>rd Arcliibald, 475. 
 
 Champion, famed for warlike toil, 500. 
 
 Chance will not do the work. — Chance sends the 
 
 breeze, 511. 
 Changeful in shape, yet mightiest still, 4S5. 
 Cockledemoy ! fxVi. 
 
 Come forth, old man — Thy daughter's side, 528. 
 Come hither, young one — Mark me ! Thou art 
 
 now, 510. 
 Come, let me have thy counsel, for I need it, 
 
 5'7- 
 Complain not of me, child of clay, 486. 
 Credit me, friend, it hath been ever thus, 511. 
 Cry the wild war-note, let the cliampions pass, 
 
 538. 
 
 Daring youth ! for thee it is well, 485. 
 
 L~)ark Ahriman, whom Irak still, 523. 
 
 Dark and eerie was the night, 475. 
 
 " Dear John — I some time ago wrote to inform 
 
 his," 519. 
 Death finds us mid our playthings — snatches us, 
 
 511. 
 Deeds are done on earth, 528. 
 " Devorgoil, thy bright moon waneth," 602. 
 Dinas Emlinn, lament ; for the moment is nigh, 
 
 427- 
 Dire was his thought who first in poison steep d, 
 
 471. 
 Donald Caird can lilt and sing, 473. 
 Dust unto dust, 481. 
 Dwellers of the mountain, rise, 496. 
 
 Embi-km of England's ancient faith, 447. 
 Enchantress, farewell, who so oft liast decoy'd 
 me, 505. 
 
 76s 
 
766 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Fair is the damsel, passing fair, 531. 
 False love, and hast thou play'd nie this, 445. 
 Far as the eye could reach no tree was seen, 471. 
 Fare thee well, thou Holly green ! 487. 
 Farewell! farewell ! the voice you hear, 499. 
 Farewell, merry maidens, to song and to laugh, 
 
 498. 
 Farewell to Mackenneth, great Earl of the 
 
 North, 448. 
 Farewell to Northmaven, 495. 
 Farewell to the land where the clouds love to 
 
 rest, 472. 
 Far in the bosom of the deep, 441. 
 Father never started hair, 608. 
 Fathoms deep beneath the wave, 495. 
 For all our men were very very merry, 519. 
 For leagues along the watery way, 496. 
 " For O my sweet William was forester true," 
 
 '57- 
 For the Colne, 533. 
 Fortune, you say, flies from us — She but circles, 
 
 461. 
 Frederick leaves the land of France, 414. 
 From heavy dreams fair Helen rose, 403. 
 From Ross, where the clouds on Benlomond are 
 
 sleeping, 470. 
 From the brown crest of Newark its summons 
 
 extending, 453. 
 From the touch of the tip, 508. 
 " From thy Pomeranian throne," 360. 
 Full in the midst a mighty pile arose, 515. 
 
 (JAZE not upon the stars, fond sage, 477. 
 
 f 'lentle sir, 523. 
 
 Give me a morsel on the greensward rather, 491. 
 
 C'live me the joy that sickens not the heart, 535. 
 
 (jive us good voyage, gentle stream — we stun 
 
 not, 51 1. 
 Give way — give way — I must and will have 
 
 justice, 510. 
 Glowing with love, on fire for fame, 452. 
 (jod protect brave Alexander, 458. 
 Good even, good fair moon, good even to thee, 
 
 474- 
 Good evening. Sir Priest, and so late as you ride, 
 
 4S3. 
 Go sit old Cheviot's crest below, 542. 
 
 Haii. to the Chief who in triumph advances, 137. 
 
 Jfail to thy cold and clouded beam, 211. 
 
 Hark! the bells summon, and the bugle calls, 
 
 493- 
 Hark to the insult loud, the bitter sneer, 504. 
 " Hawk and osprey screamed for joy," 362. 
 Health to the chieftain from his clansman true, 
 
 441. 
 Hear what Highland Nora said, 457. 
 Heaven knows its time ; the bullet has its billet, 
 
 Heighho, I can't say no, 529. 
 
 He is gone on the mountain, 146. 
 
 He mounted himself on a coal black steed, 491. 
 
 Here come we to our close — for that which fol- 
 lows, 518. 
 
 Here, hand me down the statute — read the arti- 
 cles, 516. 
 
 Here lies the volume thou boldly hast sought, 
 4S5. 
 
 Here's a weapon now, 535. 
 
 Here's neither want of appetite nor mouths, 513. 
 
 Here is a father now, 476. 
 
 Here stands the victim ; — there the proud be- 
 trayer, 493. 
 
 Here we have one head, 528. 
 
 Here, youth, thy foot unbrace, 536. 
 
 He strikes no coin, 'tis true, but coins new 
 phrases, 489. 
 
 He walk'd and wrought, poor soul ! What then. 
 
 53"- 
 He was a fellow in a peasant's garb, 514. 
 He was a man, 492. 
 
 He was a son of Egypt, as he told me, 516. 
 Hey for cavaliers, ho for cavaliers, 474. 
 Hie away, hie away, 445. 
 High deeds achieved of knightly fame, 478. 
 High feasting was there there — the gilded roofs, 
 
 5'5- 
 High o'er the eastern steep the sun is beaming, 
 
 493- 
 His talk was of another world — his bodements, 
 
 . 53S- 
 Hither we come, 622. 
 Hold fast thy truth, young soldier. — Gentle 
 
 maiden, 517. 
 However, Madame Caradori, 535. 
 How fares the man on whom good men would 
 
 look, 512. 
 " Hurra, hurra! our watch is done ! " 2S2. 
 
 I AM as free as Nature first made man, 5 id. 
 
 I asked of my harp, " Who hath injured thy 
 
 chords," 522. 
 I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, 
 
 426. 
 I fear the devil worst when gown and cassock, 
 
 5'5- 
 I found them winding of Marcello's corpse, 482. 
 I glance like the wildfire thro' country and town, 
 
 474. 
 I grow vaporish and odd, 530. 
 I knew Anselmo. He was shrewd and prudent, 
 
 459- 
 "111 fares the bark with tackle riven," 364. 
 I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or 
 
 twain, 478. 
 I'll walk on tiptoe; arm mv eye with caution, 
 
 489. 
 I loll in my chair, 529. 
 I'm Madge of the country, I'm Madge of the 
 
 town, 475. 
 I'm not a King nor nae sic thing, 529. 
 In awful ruins .-Etna thunders nigh, 424. 
 Indifferent, but indifferent — pshaw! he doth it 
 
 not, 4S9. 
 In Madoc's tent the clarion sounds, 522. 
 In respect that your Grace has commission'd a 
 
 Kraken, 443. 
 In some breasts passion lies conceal'd and silent, 
 
 491. 
 In the bonny cells of Bedlam, 475. 
 In the wide pile, by others heeded not, 471. 
 In the wild storm, 490. 
 
 In yon lone vale his early youth was bred, 488. 
 I see thee yet, fair France — thou favor'd land, 
 
 5,6. 
 I strive like the vessel in the tide-way, 504. 
 It chanced that Cupid on a season, 453. 
 It comes — it wrings me in my parting hour, 517. 
 It is and is not — 'tis the thing I sought for, 491. 
 It is not texts will do it. Church artillerj', 490. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 767 
 
 It is the bonny butcher lad, 474. 
 
 It sticks like a pistol half out of its holster, 535. 
 
 It's useless to murmur and pout, 529. 
 
 It was a little naughty page, 542. 
 
 It was an English ladye bright, 42. 
 
 It was a ship, and a ship of fame, 502. 
 
 It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound 
 
 for Palestine, 452. 
 I was a wild and wayward boy, 241. 
 I was one, 534. 
 
 Joy to the victors ! the sons of old Aspen, 663. 
 
 Kneel with me — swear it — 'tis not in words I 
 :rust, 490. 
 
 Ladies and knights, and arms, and love's fair 
 
 flame, 471. 
 Land of the Gael, thy glory has flown! 533. 
 Late, when the Autumn evening fell, 444. 
 Let the proud salmon gorge the feathered hook, 
 
 510. 
 I^t those go see who will — I like it not, 461. 
 Life ebbs from such old age, unmark'd and 
 
 silent, 4'x). 
 Life hath its May ; and all is mirthful then, 490. 
 Life, with you, 460. 
 Lochornie and Lochornie moss, 535. 
 Look not thou on beauty's charming, 476. 
 I^ok on my girdle — on this thread of gold, 486. 
 Look round thee, young Astolpho: Here's the 
 
 place, 471. 
 Lord William "was bom in gilded bower, 357. 
 Loud o'er my head though awful thunders roll, 
 
 424. 
 Loughrea is a blackguard place, 529. 
 Love wakes and weeps, 499. 
 
 MacLeod's wizard flag from the gray castle 
 
 sallies, 473. 
 Maiden, whose sorrows wail the Living Dead, 
 
 4S6. 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 487. 
 Many a fathom dark and deep, 4S4. 
 Marr\', come up, sir, with your gentle blood, 512. 
 Measurers of good and evil, vj3. 
 Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 482. 
 Merry it is in the good greenwood, 154. 
 Mid these wild scenes Enchantment waves her 
 
 hand, 526. 
 Mortal warp and mortal woof, 485. 
 Mother darksome. Mother dread, 497. 
 Must we then sheathe our still victorious sword, 
 
 526. 
 My banes are buried in yon kirk-yard, 475. 
 My dog and I we have a trick, 532. 
 My hawk is tired of perch and hood, 177. 
 My hounds may a' rin masterless, 462. 
 My tongue pads slowly under this new language, 
 
 528. 
 My wayward fate I needs must plain, 433. 
 
 Nay, dally not with time, the wise man's treas- 
 ure, 488. 
 
 Nay, hear me, brother — I am elder, wiser, 490. 
 
 Nay, if she love me not, I care not for her, 461. 
 
 Nay, I'll hold touch : — the game shall be played 
 out, 492. 
 
 Nav, let me have the friends who eat my victuals, 
 '488. 
 
 Nay, smile not, Lady, when I speak of witcfv 
 
 craft, 567. 
 Nearest of blood should still be next in love, 517. 
 Necessity — thou best of peacemakers, 514. 
 Night and morning were at meeting, 450. 
 No after friendships e'er can raise, 535. 
 No human quality is so well wove, 516. 
 November's hail-cloud drifts away, 477. 
 " Not faster yonder rowers' might," 133. 
 Not serve two masters? — Here's a youth will 
 
 try it, 492. 
 No, sir, — I will not pledge ; — I'm one of those, 
 
 S'4. 
 Now all ye ladies of fair Scotland, 52?. 
 Now bid the steeple rock — she comes, slic 
 
 comes! 493. 
 Now, Billy Bewick, keep good lieart, 476. 
 Now, by Our Lady, Sheriff, 'tis hard reckoning, 
 
 489. 
 Now change the scene and let the trumpets 
 
 sound, 526. 
 Now choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth and 
 
 honor, 489. 
 Now have you reft me from my staff, my guide, 
 
 491. 
 Now, hoist the anchor, mates, and let the siils, 
 
 5M- 
 Now let us sit in conclave. That these weeds, 
 
 488. 
 Now on my faith this gear is all entangled, ^-ya. 
 Now Scot and English are agreed, 509. 
 
 O AY ! the Monks, the Monks, they did the mis- 
 chief, 48S. 
 
 O Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, 502. 
 
 O, Brignall's banks arc wild and fair, 223. 
 
 O, dread was the time, and more dreadful the 
 omen, 440. 
 
 Of all the birds on bush or tree, 492. 
 
 O for a glance of that gay Muse's eye, 462. 
 
 O for the voice of tliat wild horn, 470. 
 
 Of yore, in old England, it was not thought good, 
 520. 
 
 Oh fear not, fear not, good Lord John, 523. 
 
 O hone a rie' ! O hone a rie' ! 388. 
 
 O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight, 454. 
 
 Oh you would be a vestal moid, I warrant, 517. 
 
 O, I do know him, 'tis the mouldy lemon, Sf>> 
 
 O, I'm come to the Low Country, 530. 
 
 O, Lady, twine no wreath for me, 239. 
 
 O Land of Cakes ! said the Northern bard, 529. 
 
 O listen, listen, ladies gay! 44. 
 
 O lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 430. 
 
 O, low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, 
 429. 
 
 O, maid of isia, from the cliff, 505. 
 
 Once again, — but how changed since my waiw 
 d'rings began, 455. 
 
 On Ettrick Forest's mountains dim, 504. 
 
 On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere yon boime ye to rest, 
 
 445- 
 On the lea-beam lies the land, boys, 518. 
 " O open the door, some pity to show," 429. 
 O, sadly shines the morning sun, 522. 
 O, say not, my love, with that mortified air, 437. 
 O sleep ye sound. Sir James, she said, 474. 
 O tell me. Harper, wherefore flow, 438. 
 Our counsels waver like the unsteady bark, 517. 
 Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule, 171. 
 Our work is over — over now, 475. 
 
768 
 
 INDEX Or FIJiST LINES. 
 
 Over the mountains, and under the waves, 504. 
 O, who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild .■' 
 
 423- 
 O, will ye hear a myrthful bourd ? 542. 
 O, will you hear a knightly tale of old Bohemian 
 
 day? 418. 
 O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, 96. 
 
 Paintbrs show Cupid blind — Hath Hymen 
 
 eyes? 516. 
 Parental love, my friend, has power o'er wisdom, 
 
 504. 
 " Patience waits the destined day," 380. 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 456. 
 Plain, as her native dignity of mind, 476. 
 Poor sinners whom the snake deceives, 502. 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood, 475. 
 
 "Quake to your foundations deep," 286. 
 
 Rash adventurer, bear thee back I 282. 
 
 Rash thy deed, 485. 
 
 Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, 428. 
 
 Remorse — she ne'er forsakes us, 460. 
 
 Rescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your captive, 
 
 516. 
 Ring out the merry bell, the bride approaches, 
 
 522. 
 Robm Rover, 502. 
 Rove not from pole to pole ; the man lives here, 
 
 511. 
 
 St. Magnus control thee, that martyr of treason, 
 
 499- 
 Say not my art is fraud — all live by seeming, 
 
 482. 
 See the treasures Merlin piled, 283. 
 See yonder woman, whom our swains revere, 503. 
 She comes ! She comes ! in all the charms of 
 
 youth, 537. 
 She does no work by halves, yon raving ocean, 
 < 503- . „ , 
 
 ' She may be fair, he sang, " but yet," 364. 
 She who sits by haunted well, 501. 
 Since here we are set in array round the table, 
 
 431- 
 Soft spread the southern summer night, 450. 
 So good bye, Mrs. Brown, 529. 
 Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 131. 
 Soldier, wake — the day is peeping, 52 1 . 
 Some better bard shall sing in feudal state, 515. 
 Son of a witch, 528. 
 " Son of Honor, theme of story," 285. 
 So sung the old Bard, in the grief of his heart, 
 
 448. 
 So there ends the tale, 535. 
 Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 462. 
 So, while thq Goose, of whom the fable told, 
 
 460. 
 " Speak not of niceness when there's chance of 
 
 wTeck,'' 515. 
 Staffa, sprung from high Macdonald, 440. 
 Stem eagle of the far north-west, 494. 
 Stem was the law which bade its votaries leave, 
 
 482. 
 Still in his dead hand clench'd remain the 
 
 strings, 460. 
 Strange ape of man ! who loathes thee while he 
 
 scorns thee, 537. 
 " Summer eve is gone and past," 238. 
 
 Sweet shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, 
 664. 
 
 Take these flowers which, purple waving, 425. 
 
 Take thou no scorn, 487. 
 
 Tell me not of it, friend — when the young weep, 
 
 , 459- 
 Tell me not of it — I could ne'er abide, 534. 
 That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 47. 
 That's right, friend — drive the gaitlings back. 
 
 The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, 392. 
 The course of human life is changeful still, 514. 
 The deadliest snakes are those which twined 
 
 'mongst flowers, 528. 
 The Druid Urien had daughters seven, 369. 
 The elfin knight sate on the brae, 474. 
 The forest of Glenmore is drear, 426. 
 The (jordon then his bugle blew, 514. 
 The heath this night must be my bed, 148. 
 The hearth in hall was black and dead, 476. 
 The herring loves the mern- moon-light, 458. 
 The hottest horse will oft be co.jl, 481. 
 The hour is nigh : now hearts beat high, 53 r. 
 The king call'd down his merry men all, 523. 
 The knight's to the mountain, 445. 
 The last of our steers on our board has been 
 
 spread, 536. 
 The L/ord Abbot had a soul, 459. 
 The monk must arise when the matins ring, 476. 
 The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the 
 
 brae, 457. 
 The news has flown frae mouth to' mouth, 505. 
 Then in my gown of sober gray, 489. 
 Then she stretch'd out her lily hand, 475. 
 The parties met. The wily, wordy Greek, 537. 
 The Pope he was saying the high, high mass, 
 
 400. 
 There are times, 531. 
 There came tliree merry men from south, west, 
 
 and north, 481. 
 There is mist on the «nonntain, and night on the 
 
 vale, 446. 
 There must be goveiament in all society, 517. 
 There's a bloodhound ranging Tinwald Wood, 
 
 '*74- 
 There's something in that ancient superstition, 
 
 4S8. 
 There was shaking of hands, and sorrow of heart, 
 
 503- 
 The sacred tapers' lights are gone, 490. 
 These be the adept's doctrines — every element, 
 
 534- 
 These were wild times — tlie antipodes of ours, 
 
 537- 
 The sky is clouded, Gaspard, 491. 
 The sound of Rokeby's woods 1 hear, 243. 
 The storm increases • — 'tis no sunny shower, 536. 
 The sun is rising dimly red, 495. 
 The sun upon the lake is low, 574. 
 The sun upon the Weirdlaw hill, 468. 
 The tears I shed must ever fall ! 527. 
 "The toils are pitch'd, and the stakes are set," 
 
 .58. 
 The violet in her green-wood bower, 425. 
 The way is long, my children, long and rough, 
 
 538. 
 The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn, 408. 
 The wind blew keen frae north and east, 503. 
 The wisest sovereigns err like private men, 493. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST IINES. 
 
 769 
 
 They saw that city welcoming the Rhine, 534. 
 Things needful we have thought on ; but the 
 
 thing, 509. 
 This is a gentle trader, and a prudent, 503. 
 This is a lecturer so skill'd in policy, 516. 
 This is a love-meeting ? See the maiden mourns, 
 ^. 5.14- 
 This is He, 402. 
 This is no pilgrim's morning — yon gray mist, 
 
 502. 
 This is rare news thou tell'st me, my good fellow, 
 
 493- 
 Tlus is some creature of the elements, 514. 
 This is the Prince of Leeches; fever, plague. 
 
 This is the time — heaven's maiden-sentinel, 511. 
 
 This is the very barnyard, 510. 
 
 This, Sir, is one among the Seignory, 509. 
 
 This superb successor, 536. 
 
 This way lies safety and a sure retreat, 512. 
 
 Thou liast -each secret of the household, Francis, 
 
 490. 
 This is the day when the fairy kind, 485. 
 Those evening clouds, that setting ray, 424. 
 Though right be aft put down by strength, 439. 
 Thou, so needful, vet so dread, 500. 
 Thou, that over billows dark, 501. 
 Thou who seek'st my fountain lone, 487. 
 Thrice to the holly brake, 484. 
 Thro' the kirkyard, 474. 
 Thy craven fear my truth accused, 4S4. 
 Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright, 461. 
 Thy time is not yet out — the devil thou servest, 
 
 .,.. 5'7- , 
 
 'lis a challenge. Sir, is it not? 514. 
 ' Tis a weary life this, 491. 
 
 'Tis not alone the scene — the'man, Anselmo, 502. 
 Tis not her sense — for sure, in that, 526. 
 'Tis strange that, in the dark sulphureous mine, 
 , . S37- 
 Tis the black ban-dog of our jail. Pray look on 
 
 him, 515. 
 'Tis when the wound is stiffening with the cold, 
 
 489. 
 'Tis sweet to hear expiring Summer's sigh, 433. 
 Toll, toll the bell, 535. 
 Too much rest is rust, 522. 
 To horse ! to horse ! the standard flies, 425. 
 To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se 
 
 who spoke, 600. 
 To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale, 535. 
 True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank, 382. 
 Trust me, each state must have its policies, 482. 
 'Twas All-souls' eve, and Surrey's heart beat 
 
 high, 43. 
 'Twas a Marechal of France, and he fain would 
 
 honor gain, 437. 
 'Twas near the fair city of Benevent, 524. 
 'Twas time and griefs, 461. 
 "Twas when among our linden-trees, 416. 
 'Twas when fleet Snowball's head was woxen 
 
 gray, 510. 
 Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 454. 
 
 Up in the air, 474. 
 
 Uprose the sun o'er moor and mead, 530. 
 
 Vain man, thou may'st esteem thy love as fair, 
 
 537- 
 Viewless Essence, thin and bare, 532. 
 
 Wakek, lords and ladies gay, 431. 
 
 Want you a man, 535. 
 
 Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, 454. 
 
 We are not worse at once — the course of evil, 
 
 512. 
 We do that in our zeal, 528. 
 We know not when we sleep nor when we wake, 
 
 S34. 
 Welcome, grave Stranger, to our green retreats, 
 
 434- 
 We'll keep our customs; — what is law itself. 
 
 n 
 
 Well, then, our course is chosen ; spread the sail, 
 
 49J. 
 Well, well, at worst 'tis neither theft nor coinage, 
 
 460, 
 We love the shrill trumpet, we love the drum's 
 
 rattle, 577. 
 We meet, as men see phantoms in a dream, 514. 
 We meet as shadows in the land of drcims, 517. 
 Were ever two such loving friends ! 530. 
 Were every hair upon his head a life, 526. 
 Wert thou like me in life's low vale, 478. 
 What brave chief shall head the forces, 523. 
 What did ye wi' the bridal ring — bridal ring — 
 
 bridal ring ? 474. 
 What ho, my jovial mates ! come on ! we'll 
 
 frolic it, 503. 
 Wliat makes the troopers' frozen courage muster, 
 
 672. 
 What, man, ne'er lack a draught, when the full 
 
 can, 493. 
 What sheeted ghost is wandering through the 
 
 storm? 518. 
 What stir, what turmoil have we for the nones? 
 
 492. 
 Wheel the wild dance, 451. 
 When beauty leads the lion in her toils, 526. 
 " Whence the brooch of burning gold," 299. 
 When fruitful Clydesdale's apple bowers, 539. 
 When I hae a saxpence under my thumb, 490. 
 When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 480. 
 When princely Hamilton's abode, 396. 
 When Princes meet, astrologers may mark it, 517. 
 When seven years more were come and gone, 385. 
 When seven years were come and gane, 384. 
 When the gledd's in the blue cloud, 474. 
 When the heathen trumpet's clang, 468. 
 When the lone pilgrim views afar, 469. 
 When the tempest's at the loudest, 587. 
 When with Poetry- dealing, 521. 
 Wherefore come ye not to court? 5091 
 Where is he? Has the deep earth swallowed 
 
 him? 538. 
 Where shall the lover rest, 75. 
 Whet the bright steel, 479. 
 While the dawn on the mountain was misty and 
 
 gray, 242. 
 Wlio is he? — One that for the lack of land, 459. 
 Why, now I have Dame Fortune by the forelock, 
 
 477- 
 " Why sit'st thou bv that ruin'd luill," 458. 
 Why, then, we will have bellowing of beeves, 
 
 5'3- 
 " Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?' 455. 
 Will you hear of a Spanish I jdy, 53S. 
 Within that awful volume lies, 4S4. 
 Within the bounds of Annandale, 531. 
 Without a ruin, broken, tangled, cumbrous, 
 
 537- 
 
770 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 " Woe to the vanquish'd ! " was stern Brenno's 
 
 word, 472. 
 Woman's faith, and woman's trust, 521. 
 
 Ves, it is she whose eyes looked on thy child- 
 hood, 491. 
 
 Ves! I love Justice well — as well as you do, 
 460. 
 
 Yes, life hath left him — every busy thought, 489. 
 
 Yes, thou mayst sigh, 532. 
 
 Von patch of greensward, 528. 
 
 You call it an ill angel — it may be so, 489. ] 
 
 You call this education, do you not? 488. 
 Young men will love thee more fair and more 
 
 fast, 445. ] 
 
 Your suppliant, by name, 508. ] 
 
 Youth of tlie dark eye, wherefore didst thou caH'< 
 
 me? 484. \ 
 
 You shall have no worse prison than my chamx 
 
 ber, 514. 1 
 
 You talk of Gayety and Innocence, 526. 1 
 
 Youth ! thou wear St to manhood now, 490- ' 
 
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