Poets Corner The Lay of the Last Minstrel by Sir Walter Scott Canto Sixth. I Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath neer within him burnd, As home his footsteps he hath turnd, 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, unhonord, and unsung. II 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 eer 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 Yarrows stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my witherd cheek: Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The Bard may draw his parting groan. III Not scornd 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 prepard, Battle and banquet both they shard. 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. IV Me lists not at this tide declare The splendor of the spousal rite, How musterd in the chapel fair Both maid and matron, squire and knight; Me lists not tell of owches rare, Of mantles green, and braided hair, And kirtles furrd with miniver; What plumage wavd the altar round, How spurs and ringing chainlets sound; And hard it were for bard to speak The changeful hue of Margarets cheek-- That lovely hue which comes and flies As awe and shame alternate rise! V Some bards have sung the Ladye high Chapel or altar came not nigh; Nor durst the rites of spousal grace, So much she feard each holy place. False slanders these: I trust right well She wrought not by forbidden spell; For mighty words and signs have power Oer 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 embroiderd and entwind, Guarded with gold, with ermine lind; A merlin sat upon her wrist Held by a leash of silken twist. VI 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, Marshalld the rank of every guest; Pages, with ready blade, were there, The mighty meal to carve and share: Oer capon, heron-shew, and crane, And princely peacock s gilded train, And oer the boar-head, garnishd brave, And cygnet from St. Marys wave; Oer ptarmigan and venison The priest had spoke his benison. Then rose the riot and the din, Above, beneath, without, within! For, from the lofty balcony, Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery: Their clanging bowls old warriors quaffd Loudly they spoke, and loudly laughd; Whisperd young knights, in tone more mild, To ladies fair, and ladies smild. The hooded hawks, high perchd on beam The clamor joind with whistling scream And flappd their wings, and shook their bells In concert with the stag-hounds yells Round go the flasks of ruddy wine, From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine; Their tasks the busy sewers ply, And all is mirth and revelry. VII The Goblin Page, omitting still No opportunity of ill, Strove now, while blood ran hot and high, To rouse debate and jealousy; Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein: By nature fierce, and warm with wine, And now in humor highly crossd 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 pages say 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 drenchd in blood, His bosom gord with many a wound, Was by a woodmans lyme-dog found; Unknown the manner of his death, Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath; But ever from that time, twas said, That Dickon wore a Cologne blade. VIII The dwarf, who feard his masters eye Might his foul treachery espie, Now sought the castle buttery, Where many a yeoman, bold and free, Revelld as merrily and well As those that sat in lordly selle. Watt Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes And he, as by his breeding bound, To Howards 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, Foamd forth in floods the nut-brown ale While shout the riders every one; Such day of mirth neer cheerd their clan, Since old Buccleuch the name did gain When in the cleuch the buck was taen. IX The wily page, with vengeful thought Remember d him of Tinlinns 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 cheerd his wife; Then, shunning still his powerful arm, At unawares he wrought him harm; From trencher stole his choicest cheer, Dashd from his lips his can of beer; Then, to his knee sly creeping on, With bodkin pierced him to the bone: The venomd wound, and festering joint, Long after rued that bodkins point. The startled yeoman swore and spurnd, And board and flagons overturnd. Riot and clamor wild began Back to the hall the Urchin ran; Took in a darkling nook his post, And grinnd, and mutterd, Lost! lost! lost! X By this, the Dame, lest farther fray Should mar the concord of the day. Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay. And first stept forth old Albert Graeme, The Minstrel of that ancient name: Was none who struck the harp so well Within the Land Debateable; Well friended, too his hardy kin, Whoever lost, were sure to win; They sought the beeves that made their broth, In Scotland and in England both. In homely guise, as nature bade His simple song the Borderer said. XI Albert Graeme. It was an English ladye bright, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And she would marry a Scottish knight, For Love will still be lord of all. Blithely they saw the rising sun When he shone fair on Carlisle wall; But they were sad ere day was done, Though Love was still the lord of all. Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall 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 loves arms she fell, For Love was still the lord of all! XII He piercd 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! XIII As ended Alberts simple lay, Arose a bard of loftier port; For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay, Renownd in haughty Henrys court: There rung thy harp, unrivalld long, Fitztraver of the silver song! The gentle Surrey loved his lyre-- Who has not heard of Surreys fame? His was the heros soul of fire, And his the bards immortal name, And his was love, exalted high By all the glow of chivalry. XIV They sought, together, climes afar, And oft, within some olive grove, When even came with twinkling star, They sung of Surreys absent love His step the Italian peasant stayd, And deemd that spirits from on high, Round where some hermit saint was laid, Were breathing heavenly melody; So sweet did harp and voice combine To praise the name of Geraldine. XV Fitztraver! O what tongue may say The pangs thy faithful bosom knew, When Surrey, of the deathless lay Ungrateful Tudors sentence slew? Regardless of the tyrants frown, His harp calld wrath and vengeance down. He left, for Naworths iron towers, Windsors green glades, and courtly bowers And faithful to his patrons name, With Howard still Fitztraver came Lord Williams foremost favorite he, And chief of all his minstrelsy. XVI Fitztraver Twas All-souls eve, and Surreys heart beat high; He heard the midnight bell with anxious start, Which told the mystic hour, approaching nigh, When wise Cornelius promisd, by his art, To show to him the ladye of his heart Albeit betwixt them roard 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 lovd, And still she thought of him. XVII Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye, To which the wizard led the gallant Knight, Save that before a mirror, huge and high, A hallowd 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 departing man. XVIII But soon, within that mirror huge and high, Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam; And forms upon its breast the Earl gan spy Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish dream; Till, slow arranging, and defind, they seem To form a lordly and a lofty room, Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam, Placd by a couch of Agras silken loom, And part by moonshine pale, And part was hid in gloom. XIX Fair all the pageant: but how passing fair The slender form which lay on couch of Ind! Oer her white bosom strayd her hazel hair; Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pind; All in her night-robe loose she lay reclind, And pensive read from tablet eburnine Some strain that seemd her inmost soul to find: That favord strain was Surreys rapturd line, That fair and lovely form, The Lady Geraldine. XX Slow rolld the clouds upon the lovely form, And swept the .goodly vision all away-- So royal envy rolld the murky storm Oer my beloved Masters glorious day. Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant! Heaven repay On thee, and on thy childrens latest line, The wild caprice of thy despotic sway, The gory bridal bed, the plunderd shrine, The murderd Surreys blood, The tears of Geraldine! XXI Both Scots, and Southern chiefs, prolong Applauses of Fitztravers song; These hated Henrys 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 born where restless seas Howl round the storm-swept Orcades; Where erst St. Clairs held princely sway Oer isle and islet, strait and bay;-- Still nods their palace to its fall, Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall! Thence oft he markd fierce Pentland rave, As if grim Odin rode her wave: And watchd the while, with visage pale, And throbbing heart, the struggling sail; For all of wonderful and wild Had rapture for the lonely child. XXII And much of wild and wonderful In these rude isles might fancy cull; For thither came. in times afar, Stern Lochlins sons of roving war. The Norsemen, traind to spoil and blood, Skilld to prepare the ravens 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 told his wondrous tale; And many a Runic column high Had witnessd grim idolatry. And thus had Harold in his youth Learnd many a Sagas rhyme uncouth-- Of that Sea-Snake, tremendous curld, Whose monstrous circle girds the world; Of those dread Maids, whose hideous yell Maddens the battles bloody swell; Of Chief, who, guided through the gloom By the pale death-lights of the tomb, Ransackd the graves of warriors old, Their falchions wrenchd from corpses hold, Wakd the deaf tomb with wars alarms, And bade the dead arise to arms! With war and wonder all on flame, To Roslins bowers young Harold came, Where, by sweet glen and greenwood tree, He learnd a milder minstrelsy; Yet something of the Northern spell Mixd with the softer numbers well. XXIII 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 barge, ye gallant crew! And gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. The blackening wave is edgd with white: To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch: Why cross the gloomy firth today? Tis not because Lord Lindesays 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 filld by Rosabelle. Oer Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; Twas broader than the watch-fires light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glard on Roslins castled rock, It ruddied all the copse wood glen; Twas seen from Drydens groves of oak And seen from cavernd Hawthorn-den. Seemd all on fire that chapel proud, Where Roslins chiefs uncoffind lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathd in his iron panoply. Seemd all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar s pale; Shone every plllar foliage bound, And glimmerd all the dead mens mail. Blazd battlement and pinnet high, Blazd every rose-carved buttress fair-- So still they blaze when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St. Clair. There are twenty of Roslins barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold-- But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle! And each St. Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. XXIV So sweet was Harolds piteous lay, Scarce markd the guests the darkend hall, Though, long before the sinking day, A wondrous shade involvd them all: It was not eddying mist or fog, Draind 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 neighbours face, Could scarce his own stretchd hand behold. A secret horror checkd the feast, And chilld 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, mutterd, Found! found! found! XXV Then sudden,through the darkend air, A flash of lightning came; So broad, so bright, so red the glare, The castle seemd on flame. Glancd every rafter of the hall, Glancd every shield upon the wall; Each trophied beam, each sculpturd stone, Were instant seen, and instant gone; Full through the guests bedazzled band Resistless flashd the levin-brand, And filld the hall with smoldering smoke, As on the elvish page it broke. It broke, with thunder long and loud, Dismayd the brave, appalld 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! 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 prayd and shook, And terror dimmd each lofty look. But none of all the astonishd train Was so dismayd as Deloraine His blood did freeze, his brain did burn, Twas feard his mind would neer return; For he was speechless, ghastly, wan, Like him of whom the story ran Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man. At length, by fits, he darkly told. With broken hint, and shuddering cold, That he had seen, right certainly. A shape with amice wrappd around, With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, Like pilgrim from beyond the sea; And knew--but how it matterd 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 Michaels restless sprite. Then each, to ease his troubled breast, To some blessd saint his prayers addressd: 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 Michaels soul. While vows were taen, and prayers were prayd, Tis said the noble dame, dismayd, Renouncd, for aye, dark magics aid. XXVIII Nought of the bridal will I tell, Which after in short space befell; Nor how brave sons and daughters fair Blessd Teviots Flower, and Cranstouns 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. XXIX With naked foot, and sackcloth vest, And arms enfolded on his breast, Did every pilgrim go; The standers-by might hear uneath, Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath, Through all the lengthend 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 altars hallowd 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 garnishd niche around, Stern saints and torturd martyrs frownd. XXX And slow up the dim aisle afar, With sable cowl and scapular, And snow-white stoles, in order due, The holy Fathers, two and two, In long procession came; Taper and host, and book they bare, And holy banner, flourishd fair With the Redeemers name. Above the prostrate pilgrim band The mitred Abbot stretchd his hand And blessd them as they kneeld With holy cross he signd them all, And prayd they might be sage in hall, And fortunate in field. Then mass was sung, and prayers were said, And solemn requiem for the dead; And bells tolld out their mighty peal, For the departed spirits weal; And ever in the office close The hymn of intercession rose; And far the echoing aisles prolong The awful burthen of the song,-- Dies Iræ, Dies Illa, Solvet Sæclum in Favilla,-- While the pealing organ rung. Were it meet with sacred strain To close my lay, so light and vain, Thus the holy Fathers sung: XXXI Hymn for the Dead That day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away, What power shall be the sinners 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 sinners stay, Though heaven and earth shall pass away! Hushd 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 Newarks tower, Arose the Minstrels lowly bower; A simple hut; but there was seen The little garden hedged with green, The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. There shelterd wanderers, by the blaze, Oft heard the tale of other days; For much he lovd to ope his door, And give the aid he beggd before. So passd the winters day; but still, When summer smild on sweet Bowhill, And Julys eve, with balmy breath, Wavd the blue-bells on Newark heath; When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw, And corn was green on Carterhaugh, And flourishd, broad, Blackandros oak, The aged Harpers 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 rolld along, Bore burden to the Minstrels song.
Posted on: Sun, 01 Dec 2013 18:51:24 +0000
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