The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, Baronet online

curst,
They rose in ill from bad to worse and

worst,
In spite of errors — I dare not say more,
For Duncan Targe lays hand on his clay-
more.
In spite of all, however humors vary,
There is a talisman in that word Mary,
That unto Scottish bosoms all and some
Is found the genuine open sesamum !
In history, ballad, poetry, or novel,
It charms alike the castle and the hovel,
Even you — forgive me — who, demure

and shy,
Gorge not each bait nor stir at every fly,
Must rise to this, else in her ancient

reign
The Rose of Scotland has survived in



&{>e ©eatfj of IBtoltrar.

[1828.]

Up rose the sun o'er moor and mead ;
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede ;
Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed,

Careered 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 stancher steed,
A peerless archer, Percy Rede ;

And right dear friends were they.

The chase engrossed 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 harbored 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 — i

That e'er it left the string !
And ill betide the faithless yew !
The stag bounds scathless o'er the dew,
And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true

Has drenched 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 sound,
And whoop and hollow ring around,
And o'er his couch the stag may bound,

But Keeldar sleeps forever.

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise ;
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death — but still



526



scorrs poetical works.



His aspect hath expression drear
Of grief and wonder mixed with fear,
Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.

But he that bent the fatal bow
Can well the sum 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,
1 The hand that took my life away,

Dear master, was it thine ?

' And if it be, the shaft be blessed
Which sure some erring aim addressed,
Since in your service prized, caressed,

I in your service die ;
And you may have a fleeter hound
To match the dun-deer's merry bound,
But by your couch will 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,
4 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 tides which 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.



5Tf)c jForag.

SET TO MUSIC BY JOHN WHITEFIELD,
MUS. DOC. CAM.

[I8 3 0.]

THE last of our steers on the board has

been spread.
And the last tiask of wine in our goblet is

red j
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 mixed glances with

ours
For a space must be dim, as they gaze

from the towers,
And strive to distinguish through 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 veiled

with a cloud ;
'T is 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 march through the

darkness 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 !



En8crtptt0tt

FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE REV. GEORGE
SCOTT.

[1830.]

To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale
Tells the brief moral of its tragic tale.
Art thou a parent ? Reverence this bier,
The parents' fondest hopes lie buried here.
Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start,
With opening talents and a generous heart ;
Fair hopes and flattering prospects all

thine own ?
Lo ! here their end — a monumental stone.
But let submission tame each sorrowing

thought,
Heaven crowned its champion ere the fight

was fought.



. APPENDIX



Sfubemle Bines.



JFrom Uttgtt.

[1782-1

IN awful ruins yEtna thunders nigh,
And sends in pitchy whirlwinds to the sky
Black clouds of smoke, which, still as they as-
pire,
From their dark sides there bursts the glowing

fire ;
At other times huge balls of fire are tossed,
That lick the stars, and in the smoke are lost :
Sometimes the mount, with vast convulsions

torn,
Emits huge rocks, which instantly are borne
With loud explosions to the starry skies,
The stones made liquid as the huge mass flies,
Then back again with greater weight recoils,
While iEtna thundering from the bottom boils.



©n a ®htm&er-&t0rm.
[1783-1
Loud 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

Thy arm directs those lightnings through the

sky.
Then let the good thy mighty name revere,
And hardened sinners thy just vengeance fear.



©n the letting Sun.

L1783O

Those evening clouds, that setting ray,
And beauteous tints, serve to display

Their great Creator's praise ;
Then let the short-lived thing called man,
Whose life 's comprised within a span,

To him his homage raise.

We often praise the evening clouds,

And tints so gay and bold,
But seldom think upon our God,

Who tinged these clouds with gold !



g>ongg from tfte l2obel&



From " Waverley."

[1814.I

&aint Sfotthm's Chair.

On Hallow-Mass Eve ere you boune ye to rest,
Ever beware that your couch be blessed ;
Sign it with cross and sain 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 sate in Saint Swithin's Chair,
The dew of the night has damped her hair :
Her cheek was pale, but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her
eye.

She muttered the spell of Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
When he stopped the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend and her promise plight.

He that dare sit on Saint 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.



â– u



530



APPENDIX.



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 !



JFlara fittacBwt's Song.

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,
It has frozen each heart and benumbed every

hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but reddened 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 re-
hearse,

Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse !

Be mute every string and be hushed every tone

That 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 uprearl
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is
nigh !

Kmfl <>f the strong, when that dawning shall

break

1 the harp of the aged remind you to wake ?
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers'

eye
l'.vit it routed each high chieftain to vanquish or

die.

• rung from the Kings who in Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengary, 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 Lochiel,
Place fhy targe on thy shoulder. and burnish

thy steel !
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's

bold swell,
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell !

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 fearless and

free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee !

Let the clan of gray Fingon, whose offspring

has given
Such heroes . to earth and such martyrs to

heaven,
Unite with the race of renowned 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 wronged Alpine and murdered

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 Callum-

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 frith, and the

lake !
'T is 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 mountain 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 cur-
rents of fire !

Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of
yore ! '

Or die like your sires, and endure it no more 1



From " Guy Mannering."
[1815.]

Efotst $ e, Wasiw He.

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.



SONGS FROM THE NOVELS.



531



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.



From " The Heart of Midlothian."
[1818.]
^routi fHatste.

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." '



From " The Bride of Lammermoor."

[1819.]

3Lucg ^shtcm's £ong.

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.



From " The Legend of Montrose.'

Ancient Garlic fHelotog.

Birds of omen dark and foul,
Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl,
Leave the sick man to his dream —
All night long he heard you scream.



Haste to cave and ruined tower,
Ivy tod or dingled-bower,
There to wink and mop, for, hark !
In the mid air sings the lark.

Hie to moorish gills and rocks,
Prowling wolf and wily fox, —
Hie 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 pilgrim on his way. —
Quench, kelpy ! quench, in bog and fen,
Thy 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, and deep,
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.



Wc\t ©rphan fflaia.

November's hail-cloud drifts away,

November's sun-beam 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, â–  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 widowed 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 whelmed my child.'

' Twelve times the year its course has borne,

The wandering maid replied ;
' Since fishers on Saint Bridget's morn

Drew nets on Campsie side.



532



APPENDIX.



' Saint Bridget sent no scaly spoil ;

An infant, well-nigh dead,
They saved and reared in want and toil,
' To beg from you her bread.'

That orphan maid the lady kissed,
1 My husband's looks you bear ;

Saint Bridget and her morn be blessed !
You are his widow's heir.'

They 've robed that maid, so poor and pale,

In silk and sandals rare ;
And pearls, for drops of frozen hail,

Are glistening in her hair.



From " Ivanhoe."
3The Barrfootrti JFrtar.

I 'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or

twain
To search Europe through from Byzantium to

Spain ;
But ne'er shall you find, should you search till

you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.

Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,
And is brought home at even-song pricked

through with a spear ;
I confess him in haste — for his lady desires
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,
But 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 marked 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

cornea
Hay profane the great chair or the porridge of

plunis ;
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the

Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.

\pected at night, and the pasty's made

hot.
They broach the brown ale and they fill the

black i><>t ;
And the good-wife would wish the good-man in

the mire,

lacked a aofl pillow, the Barefooted

.11.



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

briar,
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.



Kebecca's l^gmn.

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 astonished lands

The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands

Returned the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answered keen,
And Zion's daughters poured their lays,

With priest's and warrior's voice between.
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,

When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen

To temper the deceitful ray !
And O, 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.



JFuneral f&gmn.

Dust unto dust,
To this all must ;

The tenant hath resigned
The faded form
To waste and worm —

Corruption claims her kind.

Through paths unknown
Thy soul hath flown

To seek the realms of woe,
Where fiery pain
Shall purge the stain

Of actions done below.



SONGS FROM THE NOVELS.



533



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.



From " The Monastery:'
[1820.]

©n Eixtt'o Kite*.

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 so far and so

wide,
Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide.
' Who wakens my nestlings ? ' the raven he said,
* My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red !
For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal,
And I '11 have my share with the pike and the

eel.'

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
There 's a golden gleam on the distant height :
There 's a silver shower on the alders dank,
And the drooping willows that wave on the

bank.
I see the Abbey, both 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 ?

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 '11 laugh to see
How he gapes and glares with his eyes on thee !

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 passed,

' God's blessing on the warder, he locked the
bridge fast !

All that come to my cove are sunk,

Priest or layman, lover or monk.'



Landed — landed ! the black book hath won,
Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun !
Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be,
For seldom they land that go swimming with
me.



®o the $ufc s $rior.

Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride,
With your mule so fair and your mantle so wide ;
But ride you through valley or ride you 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 book from a dead woman's bier?
Sain you and save you, be wary and wise,
Ride back with the book, or you '11 pay for your
prize.

Back, back,

There 's death in the track !
In the name of my master, I bid thee bear back.

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 through

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 '11 meet thee again.

Men of good are bold as sackless,
Men of rude are wild and reckless.

Lie thou still

In the nook of the hill,
For those be before thee that wish thee ill.



iSortier BallatJ.



March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in
order ?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,

All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the
Border.
Many a banner spread
Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story.
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish
glory.

2.
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,



534



APPENDIX.



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.



From " The Pirate"
i8ti.]

ClauUc $alcro's $onfl.

Farewell to Northmaven,

Gray Hillswicke, 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 '11 give her

Bewildering strain ;
But there 's one who will never

Relieve them again.

O, were there an island,

Though ever so wild,
Where woman could smile, and

No man be beguiled —
Too tempting a snare

To poor mortals were given ;
And the hope would fix there

That should anchor in heaven.



$ong of IDarolti tyarfagcr.

Tin inn is rising dimly red,

Tin- wind is wailing low and dread ;

From his cliff the eagle sallies,

his darksome valleys
In the mist the ravens hover,

tlu- wild dogs from the cover,
inning, croaking, baying, yelling,
n his wild accents telling,
• Soon we feasl on dead and dying,

Fair haired II an -Id's flag is flying.'

\lanv a i real on air is streaming,
Mam a hclnx i darkly gleaming,
Many an arm tin a\r up rears,

ltd to law the wood of speai s.



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 scattered, 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 of the Slaughter,