Imágenes de páginas

winds go,

Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons He saw the wreck his rashness wrought; sweep

Reckless of life, he desperate fought, To break the Scottish circle deep

And fell on Flodden plain : That fought around their king.

And well in death his trusty brand, But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Firm clenched within his manly hand, Though charging knights like whirl- Beseemed the monarch slain.

But oh! how changed since yon blithe Though billmen ply the ghastly blow,

night!Unbroken was the ring;

Gladly I turn me from the sight The stubborn spearmen still made good Unto my tale again. Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood Short is my tale :-Fitz-Eustace' care The instant that he fell.

A pierced and mangled body bare No thought was there of dastard flight; To moated Lichfield's lofty pile ; Linked in the serried phalanx tight, And there, beneath the southern aisle, Groom fought like noble, squire like A tomb with Gothic sculpture fair knight,

Did long Lord Marmion's image bear.– As fearlessly and well,

Now vainly for its site you look ; Till utter darkness closed her wing 'T was levelled when fanatic Brook O'er their thin host and wounded king. The fair cathedral stormed and took. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint Led back from strife his shattered bands ;

Chad, And from the charge they drew, A guerdon meet the spoiler had !-As mountain-waves from wasted lands There erst was martial Marmion found Sweep back to ocean blue.

His feet upon a couchant hound, Then did their loss his foemen know; His hands to heaven upraised; Their king, their lords, their mightiest And all around, on scutcheon rich, low,

And tablet carved, and fretted niche, They melted from the field, as snow, His arms and feats were blazed. When streams are swoln and south winds And yet, though all was carved so fair blow,

And priests for Marmion breathed th: Dissolves in silent dew,

prayer, Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, The last Lord Marmion lay not there. While many a broken band

From Ettrick woods a peasant swain Disordered through her currents dash, Followed his lord to Flodden plain,-. To gain the Scottish land;

One of those flowers whom plaintive la To town and tower, to down and dale, In Scotland mourns as “wede away : To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,

Sore wounded, Sibyl's Cross he spied, And raise the universal wail.

And dragged him to its foot, and died Tradition, legend, tune, and song

Close by the noble Marmion's side, Shall many an age that wail prolong ; The spoilers stripped and gashed the Still from the sire the son shall hear

slain, Of the stern strife and carnage drear And thus their corpses were mista en: Of Flodden's fatal field,

And thus in the proud baron's tomb Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear The lowly woodsman took the room. And broken was her shield !

Less easy task it were to show Day dawns upon the mountain's side.- Lord Marmion's nameless grave and low There, Scotland ! lay thy bravest pride, They dug his grave e'en where he lay, Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one; But every mark is gone : The sad survivors all are gone.

Time's wasting hand has done away View not that corpse mistrustfully, The simple Cross of Sibyl Grey, Defaced and mangled though it be ;

And broke her font of stone; Nor to yon Border castle high

But yet from out the little hill Look northward with upbraiding eye; Oozes the slender springlet still. Nor cherish hope in vain

Oft halts the stranger there. That. journeying far on foreign strand, For thence may best his curious eye The Royal Pilgrim to his land

The memorable field descry ; May yet return again.

And shepherd boys repair

eek the water-flag and rush,

rest them by the hazel bush, nd plait their garlands fair, dream they sit upon the grave t holds the bones of Marmion

brave.en thou shalt find the little hill, h thy heart commune and be still. rer in temptation strong u left'st the right path for the wrong, very devious step thus trod I led thee further from the road, ad thou to speak presumptuous doom noble Marmion's lowly tomb ; say, “ He died a gallant knight, thsword in hand, for England's

right." ► not rhyme to that dull elf o cannot image to himself ut all through Flodden's dismal night Iton was foremost in the fight, it when brave Surrey's steed was

slain 'as Wilton mounted him again ; ras Wilton's brand that deepest hewed id the spearmen's stubborn wood : named by Holinshed or Hall, was the living soul of all; at, after fight, his faith made plain, won his rank and lands again, d charged his old paternal shield, ith bearings won on Flodden Field. r sing I to that simple maid whom it must in terms be said at king and kinsmen did agree bless fair Clara's constancy ; ho cannot, unless I relate, int to her mind the bridal's state, at Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, vre. Sands, and Denny, passed the joke; at bluff King Hal the curtain drew, ad Katherine's hand the stocking

threw; ad afterwards, for many a day, at it was held enough to say, blessing to a wedded pair, Love they like Wilton and like Clare!” November, 1806---January, 1808.

February 23, 1808. OLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE

O'ER OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not break

ing; ream 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, or 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 champ

ing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done ;

While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillé. Sleep! the deer is in his den ;

Sleep! thy bounds 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 reveillé.

From The Lady of the Lake, 1810.



Hail to the Chief who in triumph ad

vances ! Honored and blessed be the ever-green

Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that

glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our

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 again. “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho!

ieroe !" Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the


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.

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to

fade; When the whirlwind has stripped every

leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in

her shade.
Moored in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ;

Menteith and Breadalbane, then

Echo bis praise again, “ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho!

ieroe !" Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen

Fruin, And Bannochar's groans to our slogan

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 again, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho!


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!

From The Lady of the Lily.


Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the

Highlands ! Stretch to your oars for the ever-green

Pine ! O that the rosebud that graces yon is

lands Were wreathed in a garland around

him to twine !
O that some seedling gem,

Worthy such noble stem
Honored and blessed in their shadow

might grow !
Loud should Clan-Alpine then

Ring from her deepmost glen,
• Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho!
From The Lady of the Lake.


HARP of the North, farewell! The la

grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade &

scending; In twilight copse the glow-worm light

her spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the coren

wending. Resume thy wizard elm ! the fountad

lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder min

strelsy ; Thy numbers sweet with nature's velki

blending, With distant echo from the fold as

lea, And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hur

of housing bee. Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstre

Yet, once again, forgive my feet

sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life

long way, Through secret woes the world ha

never known, When on the weary night dantel

wearier day, And bitterer was the grief derourel

alone.-That I o’erlive such woes, Enchantres

is thine own. Hark! as my lingering footsteps slop


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 !

Some spirit of the Air has waked thy

string! "is now a seraph bold, with touch of

fire, 'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic

wing. Leceding 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, 't is silent all !--Enchantress,

fare thee well! Conclusion of The Lady of the Lake.

BRIGNALL BANKS During the composition of Rokeby Scott wrote bo Morritt: ** There are two or three Songs, and particularly one in Praise of Brignall Banks, which I trust you will like-because, entre nous, I like them myself One of them is a little dashing banditti song, called and entitled Allen-aDale." 0, 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 :
0, Brigpall 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 shalt thou speed,

As blithe as Queen of May.”
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 't is at peep of light ;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night."

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 burnished brand and musketoon

So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold dragoon,

That lists the tuck of drum."
“ I list no more the tuck of drum,

No rnore the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,

My comrades take the spear.
And 0, though Brignall banks be fair,

And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare

Would reign my Queen of May ! * 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,
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,

And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen."

From Rokeby, 1813.

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

ning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the

winning. Come, read me my riddle ! come, heark

en 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 kni nt, Though his spur be as sharp and his

blade be as bright;

[blocks in formation]

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.

From Guy Mannering.

HiE away, hie away,

Over bank and over brae,
Where the copsewood 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,
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green,
Over bank and over brae,
Hie away, hie away.

From Waverley, 1814.
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,


JOCK O' HAZELDEAN “WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie ?

Why weep ye by the tide ?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

And ye sall be his bride :
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock o' Hazeldean. “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 battle keen ”-
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock o' Hazeldean.

« AnteriorContinuar »