Walter Scott

“ With the Chief's birth begins our care; Our harp must soothe the infant heir, Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace His earliest feat of field or chase; In peace, in war, our rank we keep, We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep, Nor leave him till we pour our verse— A doleful tribute!—o'er his hearse. Then let me share his captive lot; It is my right,—deny it not!' 'Little we reck,' said John of Brent, 'We Southern men, of long descent; Nor wot we how a name—a word— Makes clansmen vassals to a lord: Yet kind my noble landlord's part,— God bless the house of Beaudesert! ”

“ Each valley, each sequestered glen, Mustered 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 the rendezvous they stood By hundreds prompt for blows and blood, Each trained to arms since life began, Owning no tie but to his clan, No oath but by his chieftain's hand, No law but Roderick Dhu's command. XXV. That summer morn had Roderick Dhu Surveyed the skirts of Benvenue, And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath, To view the frontiers of Menteith. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 resigned Than yonder oak might give the wind; The graceful foliage storms may reeve, 'Fine noble stem they cannot grieve. ”

“ Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy; 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. ”

“ But Ellen's lovely face and mien Ill 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 flashed;—she paused and sighed:— 'O what have I to do with pride!— Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife, A suppliant for a father's life, I crave an audience of the King. ”

“ And—beat for jubilee the drum!— A maid and minstrel with him come.' Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarred, Was entering now the Court of Guard, A harper with him, and, in plaid All muffled close, a mountain maid, Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. 'What news?' they roared:—' I only know, 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. ”

“ For thee shall none a requiem say?— For thee, who loved the minstrel's lay, For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay, The shelter of her exiled line, E'en in this prison-house of thine, I'll wail for Alpine's honored Pine! 'What groans shall yonder valleys fill! What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill! What tears of burning rage shall thrill, When mourns thy tribe thy battles done, Thy fall before the race was won, Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun! There breathes not clansman of thy line, But would have given his life for thine. O, woe for Alpine's honoured Pine! ”

“ Can I not mountain maiden spy, But she must bear the Douglas eye? Can I not view a Highland brand, But it must match the Douglas hand? Can I not frame a fevered dream, But still the Douglas is the theme? I'll dream no more,—by manly mind Not even in sleep is will resigned. My midnight orisons said o'er, I'll turn to rest, and dream no more.' His midnight orisons he told, A prayer with every bead of gold, Consigned to heaven his cares and woes, And sunk in undisturbed repose, Until the heath-cock shrilly crew, And morning dawned on Benvenue. ”

“ The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, The helpless females scream for fear And yells for rage the mountaineer. 'T was then, as by the outcry riven, Poured down at once the lowering heaven: A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast, Her billows reared their snowy crest. Well for the swimmer swelled they high, To mar the Highland marksman's eye; For round him showered, mid rain and hail, The vengeful arrows of the Gael. 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 ”

“ There mayst 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 woful 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 torch's ray Supplies the excluded beams of day, Lies Duncan on his lowly bier, And o'er him streams his widow's tear. ”

“ Another peculiarity of Scott's poetry which made powerfully for its popularity, was its spirited meter. People were weary of the heroic couplet, and turned eagerly to these hurried verses, that went on their way with the sharp tramp of moss-troopers, and heated the blood like a drum. The meters of Coleridge, subtle, delicate, and poignant, had been passed by with indifference—had not been heard perhaps, for lack of ears trained to hear; but Scott's metrical effects were such as a child could appreciate, and a soldier could carry in his head. ”

“ 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, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary. 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. ”

“ If courtly spy hath harbored here, What may we for the Douglas fear? What for this island, deemed of old Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold? If neither spy nor foe, I pray What yet may jealous Roderick say?— Nay, wave not thy disdainful head! Bethink thee of the discord dread That kindled when at Beltane game Thou least the dance with Malcolm Graeme; Still, though thy sire the peace renewed 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 ”

“ Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
375 Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what they ne'er might see again;
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed.
XV
Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,
380 That on the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide
Had death so often dashed aside;
For, trained abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.
385 He practiced every pass and ward,
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;
While less expert, though stronger far,
The Gael maintained unequal war. ”

“ The fouler grew his goblin hue, The darker grew the cave. She crossed him thrice, that lady bold; He rose beneath her hand The fairest knight on Scottish mould, Her brother, Ethert Brand! Merry it is in good greenwood, When the mavis and merle are singing, But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray, When all the bells were ringing. XVI. Just as the minstrel sounds were stayed, A stranger climbed the steepy glade; His martial step, his stately mien, His hunting-suit of Lincoln green, His eagle glance, remembrance claims— 'Tis Snowdoun's Knight, 'tis James Fitz-James. ”

“ The meanest serf in Roderick's clan Had not been bribed, by love or fear, Unknown to him to guide thee here.' XVII. 'Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, Since it is worthy care from thee; Yet life I hold but idle breath When love or honor's weighed with death. 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. ”

“ Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake, Upon them with the lance!"— The horsemen dashed among the rout, As deer break through the broom; Their steeds are stout, their swords are out, They soon make lightsome room. Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne— Where, where was Roderick then! One blast upon his bugle-horn Were worth a thousand men. And refluent through the pass of fear The battle's tide was poured; Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear, Vanished the mountain-sword. ”

“ I love to hear of worthy foes. When move they on?' 'To-morrow's noon Will see them here for battle boune.' 'Then shall it see a meeting stern! But, for the place,—say, couldst thou learn Nought of the friendly clans of Earn? Strengthened by them, we well might bide The battle on Benledi's side. Thou couldst not?—well! Clan-Alpine's men Shall man the Trosachs' shaggy glen; Within Loch Katrine's gorge we'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? ”

“ But O! that very blade of steel More mercy for a foe would feel: I grant him liberal, to fling Among his clan the wealth they bring, When back by lake and glen they wind, And in the Lowland leave behind, Where once some pleasant hamlet stood, A mass of ashes slaked with blood. The hand that for my father fought I honor, as his daughter ought; But can I clasp it reeking red From peasants slaughtered in their shed? No! wildly while his virtues gleam, They make his passions darker seem, And flash along his spirit high, Like lightning o'er the midnight sky. ”

“ 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 scanned, For her dear form, his mother's band, The islet far behind her lay, And she had landed in the bay. XXII. Some feelings are to mortals given With less of earth in them than heaven; And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek It would not stain an angel's cheek, 'Tis that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head! ”

“ Old men upon the verge of life Blessed him who stayed the civil strife; And mothers held their babes on high, The self-devoted Chief to spy, Triumphant over wrongs and ire, To whom the prattlers owed a sire. Even the rough soldier's heart was moved; As if behind some bier beloved, With trailing arms and drooping head, The Douglas up the hill he led, And at the Castle's battled verge, With sighs resigned his honoured 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. ”

“ His clotted locks he backward threw, Across his brow his hand he drew, From blood and mist to clear his sight, Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright! But hate and fury ill supplied The stream of life's exhausted tide, And all too late the advantage came, To turn the odds of deadly game; For, while the dagger gleamed on high, Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye. Down came the blow! but in the heath The erring blade found bloodless sheath. The struggling foe may now unclasp The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp; Unwounded from the dreadful close, But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. ”

“ 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 gathered heath, And spread his plaid upon the wreath ”

“ XXV. Of stature fair, and slender frame, But firmly knit, was Malcolm Graeme. The belted plaid and tartan hose Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose; His flaxen hair, of sunny hue, Curled closely round his bonnet blue. Trained to the chase, his eagle eye The ptarmigan in snow could spy; Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath, He knew, through Lennox and Menteith; Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe When Malcolm bent his sounding bow, And scarce that doe, though winged with fear, Outstripped in speed the mountaineer: Right up Ben Lomond could he press, And not a sob his toil confess. ”