"My soul that fluttering hastens to be free, Would yet a train of thoughts impart to thee, But strives in vain!-the chilling ice of death Congeals my blood, and chokes the stream of breath:
Resign'd she quits her comfortless abode,
To course that long, unknown, eternal road.
O sacred Source of ever-living light!
Conduct the weary wanderer in her flight!
Direct her onward to that peaceful shore,
Where peril, pain, and death, are felt no more!
"When thou some tale of hapless love shalt
hear,
That steals from pity's eye the melting tear, Of two chaste hearts, by mutual passion join'd,
To absence, sorrow, and despair, consign'd; Oh! then, to swell the tides of social woe, That heal th' afflicted bosom they o'erflow, While Memory dictates, this sad shipwreck tell,
And what distress thy wretched friend befel! Then, while in streams of soft compassion drown'd,
With pitying sighs their hapless lot deplore,
And led them trembling from the fatal shore.
120. The Last Minstrel.
(From the Lay of the Last Minstrel.)
THE way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed 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 well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He carolled, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caressed,
High-placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour'd, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay;
The swains lament, and maidens weep around; Old times were changed, old manners gone, While lisping children, touch'd with infant A stranger fill'd the Stuart's throne; [tear; The bigots of the iron time
With wonder gaze, and drop th' unconscious
Oh! then this moral bid their souls retain,
All thoughts of happiness on earth are vain."
The last faint accents trembled on his
tongue,
That now inactive to the palate clung;
His bosom heaves a mortal groan-he dies!
And shades eternal sink upon his eyes!
As thus defac'd in death Palemon lay,
Arion gaz'd upon the lifeless clay;
Transfix'd he stood, with awful terror fill'd,
While down his cheek the silent drops distill'd.
Oh, ill-star'd vot'ry of unspotted truth!
Untimely perish'd in the bloom of youth,
Should e'er thy friend arrive on Albion's land
He will obey, though painful, thy command;
His tongue the dreadful story shall display,
And all the horrors of this dismal day!
Disastrous day! what ruin hast thou bred!
What anguish to the living and the dead!
How hast thou left the widow all forlorn,
And ever doom'd the orphan child to mourn,
Through life's sad journey hopeless to com-
plain!
Can sacred justice these events ordain?
But, O my soul! avoid that wondrous maze,
Where, reason, lost in endless error, strays!
As through this thorny vale of life we run,
Great Cause of all effects," thy will be done!"
Now had the Grecians on the beach ar-
To aid the helpless few who yet surviv'd:
While passing they behold the waves o'erspread
With shatter'd rafts and corses of the dead,
Three still alive, benumb'd and faint they find,
In mournful silence on a rock reclin'd.
The generous natives, mov'd with social pain,
The feeble strangers in their arms sustain ;
Had call'd his harmless art a crime.
A wandering Harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp, a king had loved to hear.
He passed 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 passed,
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft rolled back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The duchess* marked 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 :
Anne, duchess of Buccleugh and Monmouth, representative of the ancient lords of Buccleugh, and widow of the unfortunate James, duke of Monmouth, who was beheaded in 1685.
† Francis Scott, earl of Buccleugh, father of the duchess.
Walter, earl of Buccleugh, grandfather of the duchess, and a celebrated warrior.
And how, full many a tale he knew, Of the old warriors of Buccleugh; 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 obtained,
The aged minstrel audience gained.
But, when he reached 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 recal 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 played it to King Charles the Good,
When he kept court in Holyrood;
And much he wished, yet feared, to try
The long forgotten melody.
Amid the strings his fingers strayed,
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 lightened up his faded eye,
With all a poet's ecstasy!
In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along :
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot :
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank, in faithless memory void,
'The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And, while his harp responsive rung,
"Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.
121. Melrose Abbey, and the Charm of the Wizard, Michael Scott. From the Same. I.
Ir thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moon-light;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined 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 ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!
Short halt did Deloraine make there;
Little recked he of the scene so fair.
With dagger's hilt on the wicket strong,
He struck full loud, and struck full long.
The porter hurried to the gate-
"Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?"
From Branksome I," the warrior cried;
And straight the wicket open'd wide;
For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood,
To fence the rights of fair Melrose;
And lands and livings, many a rood,
Had gifted the shrine for their soul's repose.
III.
Bold Deloraine his errand said;
The porter bent his humble head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod,
And noiseless step, the path he trode:
The arched cloisters, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride;
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,
He entered 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 stiffened limbs he reared;
A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin lock and floating beard.
And strangely on the knight looked he,
And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide; "And dar'st 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 i
Wouldst thou thy every future year
In ceaseless prayer and penance drie,
Yet wait thy latter end with fear-
Then, daring warrior, follow me ""
VI.
"Penance, father, will I none;
Prayer know I hardly one;
* Aventayle, visor of the helmet.
For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,
Save to patter an Ave Mary,
When I ride on a border foray;
Other prayer can I none;
So speed me my errand, and let me begone.”—
VII.
Again on the knight looked the churchman old,
And again he sighed heavily;
For he had himself been a warrior bold,
And fought in Spain and Italy,
And he thought on the days that were long
since by,
[was high:-
When his limbs were strong and his courage
Now, slow and faint, he led the way,
Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay;
The pillared arches were over their head,
And beneath their feet were the bones of the
Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright,
Glistened with the dew of night;
Nor herb, nor floweret, glistened there,
But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.
The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,
Then into the night he looked forth;
And red and bright the streamers light
Were dancing in the glowing north,
So had he seen, in fair Castile,
The youth in glittering squadrons start;
Sudden the flying jennet wheel,
And hurl the unexpected dart.
He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright,
That spirits were riding the northern light.
IX.
By a steel-clench'd postern door,
They entered now the chancel tall;
The darkened roof rose high aloof
On pillars, lofty, and light, and small;
The key-stone, that locked each ribbed aisle,
Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ;
The corbells were carved grotesque and
grim;
And the pillars with clustered shafts so trim,
With base and with capital flourished around,
Seemed 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,
And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale!
O fading honors of the dead!
O high ambition, lowly laid!
XI.
The moon on the east oriel shone,
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
By foliaged tracery combined;
*Corbells, the projections from which the arches #pring, usually cut in a fantastic face, or mask.
Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand
"Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand,
In many a freakish knot, had twined;
Then framed a spell, when the work was done,
And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
The silver light, so pale and faint,
Showed 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-beam kissed the holy pane,
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.
XII.
They sate them down on a marble stone,
A Scottish monarch slept below;
Thus spoke the monk, in solemn tone :-
"I was not always a man of woe;
For Paynim countries I have trod,
And fought beneath the Cross of God;
Now, strange to mine eyes thine arms appear,
And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear,
XIII.
"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 that cleft Eildon hills in three,
And bridled the Tweed with a curb of
stone:
But to speak them were a deadly sin;
And for having but thought them my heart
A treble penance must be done. [within.,
XIV.
"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.
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"It was a night of woe and dread,
When Michael in the tomb I laid!
Strange sounds along the chancel past,
The banners waved without a blast."-
Still spoke the monk, when the bell tolled One!
"I tell you, that a braver man
Than William of Deloraine, good at need,"
Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed;
Yet somewhat was he chilled with dread,
And his hair did bristle upon his head.
XVII.
"Lo, warrior! now, the Cross of Red
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Within it burns a wondrous light,
To chase the spirits that love the night:
That lamp shall burn unquenchably,
Until the eternal doom shall be."-
Slow mov'd 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 withered
The grave's huge portal to expand.
With beating heart to the task he went ;
His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent;
With bar of iron heaved amain,
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 night and the priest withdrew,
With wavering steps and dizzy brain,
They hardly might the postern gain.
"Tis said, as through the aisles they passed, They heard strange noises on the blast;
Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain. And through the cloister-galleries small,
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,
Streamed 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,
Showed the monk's cowl, and visage pale,
Danced on the dark-brow'd warrior's mail,
And kissed his waving plume.
XIX.
Before their eyes the wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver rolled,
He seemed some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapped him round,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea:
His left hand held his Book of Might;
A silver cross was in his right;
The lamp was placed beside his knee :
High and majestic was his look,
At which the fellest fiends had shook,
And all unruffled was his face :-
They trusted his soul had gotten grace.
XX.
Often had William of Deloraine
Rode through the battle's bloody plain,
And trampled down the warriors slain,
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.
§ 122. Force of Love. From the Same,
I.
AND said I that my limbs were old;
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor withered heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love?
How could I to the dearest theme,
That ever warmed a minstrel's dream,
So foul, so false, a recreant prove!
How could I name love's very name,
Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!
II.
In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
123. The Twa Corbies.
And neither known remorse or awe;
Yet now remorse and awe he own'd;
His breath came thick, his head swam round,As I was walking all alane,
When this strange scene of death he saw. I heard twa corbies making a mane,
(From the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.)
WALTER SCOTT
The tane unto the t'other say,
"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?
"In behint yon auld fail* dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And nae body kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild fowl hame,
His lady is ta'en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
"Ye'll sit on his white hause bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue een:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,
We'll theekt our nest when it grows bare.
"Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane:
O'er his white bane when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."
$124. Young Benjie. From the Same. Or a' the fair maids o' fair Scotland,
The fairest was Marjorie;
And young Benjie was her ae true love,
And a dear true love was he.
And wow! but they were lovers dear,
And loved fu' constantlie;
But ay the mair when they fell out,
The sairer was their plea.
And they hae quarrelled on a day,
Till Marjorie's heart grew wae,
And she said she'd chuse another luve,
And let young Benjie gae.
And he was stout, and proud-hearted,
And thought o't bitterlie,
And he 's ga'en by the wan moon-light,
To meet his Marjorie.
"O open, open, my true love,
O open and let me in!"
"I dare na open, young Benjie,
My three brothers are within."
"Ye lied, ye lied, ye bonny burd,
Sae loud's I hear ye lie;
As I came by the Lowden banks,
They bade gude e'en to me.
"But fare ye weel, my ae fause love,
That I hae loved sae lang!
It sets ye chuse another love,
And let young Benjie gang."
Then Marjorie turned her round about,
The tear blinding her ee,
"I dare na, dare na, let thee in,
But I'll come down to thee."
Then saft she smiled, and said to him,
"O what ill hae I done?"
He took her in his armis twa,
And threw her o'er the linn.
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The stream was strang, the maid was stout,
And laith laith to be dang,*
But, ere she wan the Lowden banks,
Her fair color was wan.
Then up bespak her eldest brother,
"O see na ye what I see?"
And out then spak her second brother,
"It's our sister Marjorie !"
Out then spak her eldest brother,
"O how shall we her ken ?"
And out then spak her youngest brother,
"There's a honey-mark on her chin."
Then they've ta'en up the comely corpse,
And laid it on the ground-
"O wha has killed our ae sister,
And how can he be found?
"The night it is her low lykewake,
The morn her burial day,
And we maun watch at mirk midnight,
And hear what she will say ?"
Wi' doors ajar, and candle light,
And torches burning clear,
The streikit corpse, till still midnight
They waked, but naething hear.
About the middle o' the night,
The cocks began to craw,
And at the dead hour o' the night,
The corpse began to thraw.
"O wha has done thee wrang, sister,
Or dared the deadly sin?
Wha was sae stout, and feared nae dout,
As thraw ye o'er the linn ?"
"Young Benjie was the first ae man,
I laid my love upon;
He was sae stout and proud-hearted,
He threw me o'er the linn."
"Sall we young Benjie head, sister,
Sall we young Benjie hang,
Or, sall we pike out his twa gray een,
And punish him e'er he gang ?"
"Ye mauna Benjie head, brothers,
Ye mauna Benjie hang,
But ye maun pike out his twa gray een,
And punish him e'er he gang.
"Tie a green gravat round his neck,
And lead him out and in,
And the best ae servant about your house, To wait young Benjie on.
"And ay, at every seven years' end,
Ye'll tak him to the linn;
For that's the penance he maun drie,
To scuggt his deadly sin."
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125. Introduction to Canto Secona of Marmion. WALTER SCOTT.
WHEN, musing on companions gone,
We doubly feel ourselves alone,
Dang-defeated.
† Scugg-shelter or expiate.
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